The Brits make their debut

It’s barely been a month and we’re already craving a curry. Earlier in the day we were recommended a local Indian restaurant (I say local… it was at a certain plaza we had sworn we’d never subject ourselves to again.) Optimistic, we crawled into a tiny restaurant. I thought it all made for a more authentic experience but mother scanned the walls in distaste and then looked up in horror to see they had not yet taken down their Christmas decorations. My anxiety rose as mother said nothing for five minutes – always a worry. I can assure you that this restaurant was by no means a back-street shed. It also wasn’t Buckingham Palace. Unfortunately the majority of people who frequent this particular plaza are not Spanish… they are Brits.

A sudden howl of laughter from a few tables away and mother jumped out of her skin. Composure gathered, she sighed exceptionally loudly and rolled her eyes. She peered around the rest of the tables and her eyes fell upon a young man, clearly baked like a lobster under the sun and possibly downed one too many Heinekens. Contained within a party of four, his elbow was positioned frightfully close to his food, with his fist trying to support his drooping head, as he looked poor mother up and down throughout the evening.

Unimpressed with the food (it really wasn’t bad but Hove Actually has spoiled us for Indian cuisine), she tried to ‘darling’ her way into getting the shy waiter to heat up her wine. The worst thing that could happen in a restaurant? Mother being served cold red wine. Quite some time later the waiter returned with her glass of wine. “Nope. Still cold. That’s no warmer at all” she said under her breath as he slipped away.

As time went on and the hyenas ordered more Sangria, mother became more and more uncomfortable. Suddenly; “EVERYTHING IS WRONG, EVERYTHING IS HORRIBLE!” came out perhaps more loudly than planned and the Irish couple next to us giggled.  More surveying the other diners and she caught a glimpse of the man from the set of hyenas. Eyes bulging and face pale with shock; “a canary-coloured shirt to go with his strawberry-coloured face! I am revolted!”

So we managed to escape as quickly as possible, slightly plumper than we’d have liked. Healthy-diets start tomorrow, no more ‘plaza’ trips.

Mother’s quote of the day: "This is the most unsophisticated place I’ve ever been. We might as well be in bloody Benidorm!"

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo

Phonecall to Hove Fire Dept averted

Nearly featured on the local news when mother rushed into my room at 8am (?!) in a serious panic. “HONEY, WAKE UP THE TREES ARE ON FIRE COME QUICK!” I expected to step onto the balcony and be hit with heat from the forest fire. The adrenaline dropped as I glared into the distance to see two palm trees with glistening leaves. “What are we looking at, mother?”

“GET THE BINOCULARS!”

It was sunrise. There are two trees swaying in the breeze. There is no smoke. Unsurprisingly there are no other residents flapping about in a fluster on their balconies. Not even the homes directly in front of these trees.

“Right, that’s the sun. Thank you for waking me up.”

Brilliant.

Irish charm hits mother hard

Went to a plaza near home to watch the Arsenal – Brighton match (oops, how British). An Irish bar was the only feasible option for mother, obviously. Within seconds, literally, she had found an Irish waiter, introduced herself (and me, apparently) and learned his name. I should mention that Martin was quite possibly no older than 20. The transformation from intelligent PR agent to Sex and the City’s Samantha was quite impressive; purposely misunderstanding the poor guy’s accent so he had to repeat everything twice. I’ll give you one guess what we ordered...

Filled potato skins. Please feel free to chime in with your best leprechaun ‘poh-tay-toes’ here.

Happy with the result (football I mean, not potatoes) and we bumped into our neighbour we went out with the other night – also in the cheery football spirit. I’m not used to making friends this quickly; I’m quite comfortable being anti-social most of the time but who knew having a crazy lady along for the journey could be quite useful. Ah, not content with just one Irish waiter, mother works her magic on Luke… who has an even stronger Southern Irish accent. Had to whisk her off promptly before her knees gave way.

I’m sure there’ll be more Irish tales to come

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo

Valencian oranges... I will never eat any other oranges

Mother nearly knocks out a local

11:00am: trip to the Saturday market at Playa Flamenca. The aroma of slow roasting pollo flowed through the bustle of market-goers and men shouting fruit deals at us in Spanish made it all the more authentic. Unfortunately, it wasn’t twenty minutes until mother decided a breather was needed (just an excuse to people-watch I think). We stopped at one of those café-on-wheels and I sent mother off with specific instructions to get a bottle of water and a hot dog to share. Three minutes later she returns with two sangrias. That’s all. Two sangrias. “I’m sorry darling, I know you said water but we simply can’t be in Spain and not have sangria!” Jolly mother and parched me.

13:00pm: leaving the market and we spot oranges the size of planets. Mother hovers for a little while, inspecting, then nods to the man. Man begins to place oranges in a bag but is hastily interrupted by a firm ‘stop’ hand in the air; “NO! No, I shall pick them!” and the poor man hands her the bag and bashfully backs away. I’m not sure mother’s adjusted to the go-with-the-flow Spanish lifestyle yet.

14:00pm: found ourselves heading for the outdoor mall… again. Just for essentials though… we are certainly not the typical holidaying Brits; landing on foreign ground and instantly searching for shopping centres and burgers.

We parked in the (free, clean and spacious) underground car park. Somehow, whilst in mid-conversation with me, mother manages to open her car door at the exact moment a poor unaware twenty-something girl walks between our car and the car next to us. A yelp. Then a gasp from mother as she splutters out apologies and ohmygod-areyouokay’s in English. Lovely Spanish girl smiles and reassures mother she’s alright (in Spanish). I let mother absorb the shame while I collapsed in fits. The next thing mother said was quite bizarre; “Dear me, I thought that car felt soft! It was actually a person!”

Mother now knows to look before whipping the car door open. May have to sacrifice the comedy for the safety of Spanish girls.

Lots of love from the pink-sunset-balcony,

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo

Monday 21st - Mother ventures out alone

15:00pm: managed to visit three supermarkets in one go. Never contemplated such an adventure in the UK – that’s literally hell on earth. Mother found a ‘Deluxe’ range and lingered there for quite some time… “OH MY GOD, fois gras darling!”

18:00pm: went back to our favourite boulevard and I left mother in Alcampo to get three items. Three.  I found a lovely spot by the water fountains to make a phonecall and people-watch. For nearly an hour. Yes, it took the experienced-grocery-shopper nearly an hour to find bread, pate and juice. She finally came bounding along with a shopping bag and a grin to tell me how she met a lovely Cuban woman who told her all about the Cuban war and Obama.

19:30pm: home and unpacking the three items (extended to about ten as mother’s adventurous side kicked in apparently – we now have a very obscure package containing what can only be described as miniature eels). I pull out a huge carton of juice; “Oh, that’s brave of you!” Mother whips round with a confused expression that quickly transforms into a look of sheer terror as her eyes fall upon the juice I’m holding, “What?! It’s orange juice, isn’t it?! Please don’t tell me that’s not orange juice!” Oh dear. I shouldn’t have left her to shop alone. Perhaps it’s too early? Have I thrown her in at the deep end? Surely orange juice isn’t too difficult? I suppose this carton did have a picture of an orange on it. Along with a large bunch of carrots and a couple of mangos. “Ah, yes, you haven’t quite nailed this one… you’ve picked up orange, mango and carrot juice.” Devastation hits and a loud, frustrated squeal is puffed out. “NO!! I DON’T WANT CARROTS IN MY JUICE!!! I JUST WANT ORANGE JUICE!” The full-blown tantrum was interrupted by my laughter as I inspected the juice further. The label reads ‘orange, mango and carrot juice’. Large, completely legible… and in English.

I shall be sure to assist mother in the grocery shopping for the next few months.

Adios,

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo