Spanish life is not always likeable but it is compellingly loveable.
Christopher Howse: A Pilgrim in Spain
Spain
- I took another - longer - look at Pontevedra's new Gastroespacio yesterday and was disappointed to see that the only bow in the direction of international cuisine was a couple of Japanese-type items on one stall. But there was a smoked hake sandwich on offer from - would you believe - the Hake Stall (La Merluzateca), and I'll be trying that today, when I pick up the bottle of Godello wine I bought but couldn't pay for as they didn't take credit cards.
- Which reminds me . . . I was musing the other day about the quantities of seafood consumed in Pontevedra alone during the 2 summer months. Indeed, in just one street of nothing but tapas bars. It's a vast amount, of course, and it can't possibly come all from our local waters. Though the bar owners might be reluctant to admit that the prawns, for example, came from Vietnam or Brazil. And the 'fresh' squid came from the freezer. But some of us can easily tell.
- The Pontevedra council says it won't comply with the shopkeepers' petition about opening a lane on O Burgo bridge and have confirmed there'll be no access to it for 'pilgrims' (or anyone else) until 'at least October'.
- One of the groups playing during our myriad summer fiestas is called Taburete. This means 'Stool' in Spanish but is probably not what they'd want to be called in English.
- I'm not sure what they are but Pontevedra is blessed with 2 'escape rooms'. The problem is said to be that, once you've succeeded in escaping, there's little point returning. So, no repeat business. The only solution is to keep opening new ones. Perhaps on the sites of all the local shops which are being Amazonised.
- Back to food . . . A friend has told me of a restaurant in Galicia called Australia and asked whether their speciality is kangaroo meat. Perhaps someone in La Coruña could check it out.
- If you based your entire understanding of the UK economy on the evening news, you could be left with the impression that Dover is Britain’s biggest port, that a no-deal Brexit will cause tailbacks everywhere and that the car industry is by far the UK’s most important employer. In fact, Dover is the 9th biggest UK port, accounting for only 5% of freight tonnage. Britain’s biggest port is Grimsby and Immingham and car manufacturing accounts for a mere 0.7% of UK economic output.
- There's a new menace at the world's loveliest spots: Look for their arms. That is the first giveaway. You’ll likely be behind these people, admiring the same view or vista, but only you’ll be doing so with your eyes. You’ll notice that their arms are not hanging by their side but instead are bent at the elbow, raised to their chest, holding a smartphone. They are filming everything before them. Yes, as if the rise of the selfie was not offensive enough to the world of travel, a new menace has spawned: that of the “filmie”.
- It's not just the young who have problems with the 'courting'/dating mores of the social media age. See the article below for the amusing - but pathos-ridden - account of a middle-aged woman's tribulations. And for some more new words for the type of people you'll meet. Or possibly won't.
- The new (and unknown) White House Press Secretary, Stephanie Grisham, was asked if Ffart ever lied. “No,” she replied without hesitation. “I don’t think they’re lies. . . . I think the president communicates in a way that some people, especially the media, aren’t necessarily comfortable with." So, that clears that up. The poor man is simply misunderstood.
- Words of the Day:
- Poner
- Al forfait: 'When buying or selling a set of things or services, agreeing in advance a global price'. On an estimate for my annual car service.
- I searched Pontevedra, Galicia, Spain along with my name yesterday and was taken to a site called https://dategious.club/gratis-pagan-dating-uk.html. Or, rather, I was first taken to a porn site and the latter emerged when I exited this, displaying - inexplicably - my write-up of my first camino in 2009. It's a funny old world.
The new rules of dating: I was ghosted, orbited and benched at 51
Recently divorced and looking for love, one woman discovers to her horror how things have changed
I have recently separated from my husband and, at 51, find myself in unfamiliar dating territory that bears no resemblance to the courting rituals of my twenties and thirties. At least then I knew where I was.
In the Nineties, when we met, my ex-husband used to call me and take me out to a restaurant. He always rang when he said he would. It all seemed so uncomplicated. Yet now, after 16 years of marriage and four children, the rules of the game are entirely different. Tall, brunette and clinging on to my figure (just), I look good for my age, friends tell me, and after my separation they encourage me to “get out there” on social media. Apparently that’s where dating happens these days.
The fact is that I was already on Instagram, but only to monitor my teenage children’s activity. I hadn’t posted so much as a picture, but after pressure from friends I update my profile. I happen to notice a man’s name on my followers list. Until that point I haven’t even realised I had any followers. I can’t believe my eyes — it is him, the man who had ended my marriage (we had an affair) and told me he wanted nothing more to do with me, yet here he is, following me on Instagram.
And so begins my new life as a middle-aged social-media dater, frenziedly posting to get his attention, gathering interest from long-lost admirers and new ones along the way, and navigating the infuriating world of “ghosters” and “orbiters”. Neither of those terms meant a thing, of course, until I googled why a promising new partner would show a great deal of interest, then vanish without so much as a text explaining why, only to reappear much later on my Instagram. So I text and call the object of my affection just to make sure he isn’t ill. I even turn up at his house to make sure that he is OK, but in the end I have to concede. I have been ghosted. After a long silence — nine months to be precise — there he is, orbiting me again on Instagram, occasionally liking my posts of Sunday walks with the kids and family lunches, but refusing to respond to my messages suggesting that we meet. I feel like a teenager, my love life dependent on the number of likes I get and each one sending me into a fit of euphoria that spirals into insanity. I spend the rest of the day asking myself, “Does he or does he not like me?”
Social-media influencers were dismayed by Instagram’s decision this summer to remove the visible “like” counts in six countries, including Australia and New Zealand, after a trial in Canada. The idea was that removing this public popularity contest enhanced a user’s self-esteem. I approved of this wholeheartedly because it isn’t just the Love Island generation who are suffering in the miserable pursuit of likes — it is sad, single fiftysomethings like me.
I know I should block him, but I am crazy about this man. I post filtered, flattering pictures of me from years ago, captioning them so that they look recent. It takes up all my time. The worst thing is they are catching the attention of my exes, who are coming out of the woodwork and romantically reminiscing in the comments section. One remembers unbuttoning that dress I’m wearing. I give him a sound telling-off for the benefit of my orbiter and instantly block him. He’s made me look cheap in front of this one elusive man I really want. Still no word.
Then, out of the blue, after I post some amusing caption saying that I’m learning to scuba dive (an interest I took up to impress him), he pops up in my private messages and asks: “Did you get your diving qualification?”
Yes! I punch the air. I didn’t, but what counts is that I’ve got him. I write back long, chatty paragraphs, telling him about my life since we last saw each other, asking how he’s doing, then I bite the bullet and suggest lunch. Silence. He logs out, keeping me on this merry-go-round, waiting for titbits of attention. This is hell. Did I mention I’m 51?
I’ve become reliant on those likes, giving me hope that a longed-for relationship might be a possibility, although removing them would have saved me half a year of heartache, and a traumatic conclusion over a weekend three weeks ago that has left me reeling. My orbiting, “breadcrumbing” (stringing me along), “benching” (keeping his options open) love interest finally started showing proper signs of commitment after testing the water for three months. He asked me out on a date. He’d moved on to the social media practice of “zombie-ing” — coming back from the metaphorical dead to reclaim me — and going farther than mere liking.
Over the course of a week our date was planned for a Saturday evening, during which time I booked the hairdresser and myriad beauty treatments. My ex-husband lives near by, so I couldn’t risk returning home to get changed; my glam hair and make-up would have instantly given the game away. So I bought an expensive outfit and dumped what I was wearing in a bin. I had put elaborate 24-hour childcare plans in place because I wanted to prepare for the possibility of staying overnight.
The reason for my investment is that this man was my great love affair throughout much of 2018 before he disappeared without a word. Now he was back, albeit tentatively, circling my Instagram posts, but that was enough for me to believe that my long-held vision of moving in together and merging our families was a possibility. We had arranged to meet at 7pm in the town he’d moved to when he vanished from my life. It was 4.30pm and I was midway through my waxing session when I realised he hadn’t come back to me with an exact venue as he said he would. Alarm bells should have rung. We hadn’t actually had a phone conversation since mid-August 2018; my phone calls to him after that went unanswered.
Nonetheless, after running up huge credit card debts on preparations for our big reunion, I went through the motions of going ahead with the part of the plan that was firmed up. I boarded the train at 6pm at Paddington, getting increasingly anxious that he wasn’t responding.
Worse, I realised he’d checked out of Instagram and hadn’t logged in for 24 hours. The horror struck me that he had ghosted me again. Forlornly I sat on the train, dressed to the nines, feeling like an utter fool. Why hadn’t I learnt my lesson?
Meanwhile an old flame had reconnected with me on Twitter. Unlike my ghosting, orbiting, hot-and-cold suitor, this one is old-school and we have form. It all starts with me tweeting him when I see him on TV.
He instantly messages me and sets a date. It’s refreshing to have him name the day, time and venue, all very keen and definite, no vagueness. We meet in a swanky London club, and I quickly establish that he has never married and has no children. We are worlds apart. He is like a spoilt boy, rude to the waiter and insisting we schedule in more dates, although I’ve got long school summer holidays coming up and can’t just dash off to his villa in the south of France. “Bring the children along too,” he says.
The chemistry between us is still there and it’s exciting, even though he is now silver-haired. He WhatsApps me, tweets and sends Instagrams, refusing to take no for an answer when I explain that I can’t just drop everything. “If you leave now you’ll be at Waterloo in an hour, we’ll have lunch at the Shard and you’ll be back for the school pick-up.” Really? Just planning this will take a day.
When he does lure me away for a night (a school night) at his private members’ club in London, for the benefit of my children and ex-husband it requires an elaborate cover story about going on a school mums’ spa night. Overnight childcare plans and printed schedules are put in place, with their sports kit and snacks all set out for the next morning.
Then, a few hours into the date, the horror! I’ve forgotten to disable the family-location tracker that links all our phones. It’s not long before my ex texts me to say: “So you didn’t tell me you were spending a night with [so-and-so]. I’ll change the divorce papers to adultery on your part.” He had called the club to ask which member had checked me in.
I get an Uber, having made my excuses to my date. He texts me all the way home. Incandescent, but at least he hasn’t ghosted me. As incompatible as we are, at least he is a distraction from the angst-inducing ghosting/orbiting spiral I’m still caught up in.
Two days later and my ghoster still hasn’t surfaced, even though he was always monitoring his children’s posts. It is pure cowardice. He is hiding behind the wall that is social media. He knows that my dozens of anxious messages will be waiting for him. Or he will have expected me to block him, which I won’t. I won’t let him get away with his behaviour that easily. I post a montage of pictures of nights out that I’ve had with girlfriends and caption it: “When your Saturday night plans inexplicably fall through, it’s amazing what other invitations crop up.”
I feel a hot glow of triumph. However, I still post the most flattering summer holiday picture I can find, knowing he will see it. My 11-year-old daughter helps me to crop it and modify the colour to a bluey hue, and heart in mouth, I wait. And wait. And wait . . .
IF YOU STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS . . .
Ghosted
When all contact is inexplicably stopped
Orbiting
When your love interest “likes” your pictures; they’re circling you
Benched
You’re on the reserves list
Bread-crumbed
Just enough contact to keep you interested . . .
Zombied
They’re back from the dead!
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