Swapping Euros for Zloties (De Euros a Zloties)

It might be terribly clichéd to say this, but one of my favourite things about living in Europe is being so close to so many different places, languages and cultures. Here in Barcelona, I can jump in the car and in two hours everything is in French.

A few of weeks ago we decided to go a little further afield (three hours in the plane) and took a quick trip to Poland.

During winter, the only direct flights to Poland from Barcelona are to Warsaw. I hadn’t planned on visiting Poland’s capital (we wanted to head straight to Krakow) but seeing as we had to fly in and out of there, we decided we’d spend a couple of nights. I’m glad we did.

I found it fascinating. Warsaw was almost totally obliterated by the Nazi’s during their occupation of the city in World War 2 - only about 10% of its buildings were left standing.

Being on the Soviet side of the Iron Curtain after that war (and obviously with an urgent need to build and build quick), Warsaw was reconstructed in good communist fashion: row after row of those broad, foreboding, Lego-looking blocks of flats so popular in the “Eastern Bloc” (as we called it when I went to school).  These days this communist legacy is feverously being interspersed with modern skyscrapers that would not look out of place in Sydney’s CBD.

The sensationally Stalinist Palace of Culture and Science (1955). For decades Warsaw's tallest building.

Post-war "communist blocks" are quickly giving way to modern skyscrapers in Warsaw's centre

And that’s what grabbed my attention: although I was standing in the centre of a city that dated back a millennium, just about everything around was an echo of only the last 70 years. It was a stark reminder of the horror of war.

Another such reminder we found in a little non-descript parking lot just off John Paul II Street, a post-war boulevard that cuts right through the centre of town. The back wall of this car park is all that remains of the wall that bricked in Warsaw’s Jews during the Nazi occupation.

According to a plaque fixed to the wall, at one point 450 000 people were crammed into the Warsaw Ghetto. One hundred thousand of them would die there from hunger and disease, 300 000 others would be sent to the gas chambers of Treblinka. It was chilling to stand there.

There is a Stare Miasto (Old Town) in Warsaw. It has a stunning market-square, cobbled streets lined with fairytale buildings, a castle and a wonderful city wall. The Stare Miastro and the confusingly named Nowe Miasto (New Town), just outside the wall, are a beautiful glimpse into old Warsaw and well worth a visit (we had a couple of great meals there too), but they also are less than 70 years old. They're a faithful reconstruction of the very same area before the War, rebuilt using the rubble that was left behind and done so well that it is actually a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The beautiful Market Square in Warsaw Old Town. All totally rebuilt after the wall

This is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It's not actually in the Old Town, but I wanted to include it mainly for
what is behind the guards. Look closely and you'll see yellow tubes just behind the feet of each guard. They're heaters.
It was so cold the poor buggers would freeze without them! 

A quick 30-minute flight from Warsaw is Krakow. We wanted to visit Krakow for two reasons: 1) it’s magnificent World Heritage-listed Old Town, which was thankfully spared the bombs and dynamite during WW2 and 2) it’s proximity to something far less appealing.

The Stare Miasto lived up to the hype. The Market Square is one of the most beautiful squares I have seen. It dates back to the 13^th century and is lined with more fairytale 14^th and 15^th century buildings (although I was horrified to see that in one of them there is a Hard Rock Café and another a Zara).  

Krakow’s Old Town is a lot bigger than Warsaw’s and it was great to see that it's not all just for tourists (although there is a lot of that). The stunning University Quarter is still full of students and professors and throughout the Old Town we found bakeries, bars, cafes and even a Polish fast-ish food joint (in which I had some sensational goulash with dumplings) where Polish was still by far the dominant language being spoken.

The early 14th century St Florian's Gate - part of the old city wall (most of which is now gone)

Outside of the old town, we visited the Wawel Castle area, a wonderful fortified precinct high on a hill overlooking the Vistula River and the place where Krakow began a thousand years ago, Kazimierz, the Jewish quarter before WW2 and just over the river from that, Podgórze, where Oskar (Schindler’s List) Schindler’s factory is still standing. To be honest, it’s just a bland industrial building, but we wanted to see it and stand within the walls of a place where such good was done during such bad times.

The Cathedral inside the Wawel Castle precinct

Part of Wawel Castle

Which brings us to talk about a place that’s an incongruously pretty, hour-long drive from Krakow, through quaint villages of neat and brightly coloured homes: the Nazi death camps of Auschwitz.

The contrast of these villages to Óswięcim, the town around which the Auschwitz camps are located, could not be starker, or more fitting according to G. It’s a shabby, industrial place with little character and situated by a major railway junction - one of the reasons why it was a perfect location for the camps.  Ominously, a single railway line branches out from the junction and runs alongside the road, accompanying you to the first camp.

We took a tour from Krakow, which included a guided tour through both the Auschwitz I and Auschwitz-Birkenau camps. The guide was a very proud Pole who was obviously distressed about what had happened in his country probably more than twice his life ago. It was quite powerful to listen to him. You don’t have to, but I’d recommend visiting Auschwitz with a guide.

I’m nervous that anything I say about Auschwitz will sound puerile or clichéd. It’s a ghastly and disturbing place obviously, not so much for what it looks like (at first glance, Auschwitz I doesn’t actually look all that bad, the 25-times bigger Auschwitz-Birkenau is another matter entirely) but for what went on there and of course its very reason for being.

The main entrance to Auschwitz I camp with the famous and terribly cynical "Work brings freedom" motto written above it in German.

Auschwitz II - Auschwitz-Birkenau

We’ve all seen documentaries and films or read books about the Holocaust, so there’s no need to go into the details. I’ll just say that despite the difficulty of the visit, we were both very glad we went. It felt right to visit a place where such evil happened, both in memory of the victims and to more immediately acknowledge what went on there by actually standing in the same spaces. 

For this reason I was really happy to see a lot of school groups there and from all over Europe too. I must admit though (in an obvious sign I'm becoming a grumpy old man) they were bloody annoying at times...

Reading back over this post, I’m worried I’ve portrayed Poland as just about memories of war and its horrors. Apologies to my Polish friends as there’s obviously much more to the country than that. I hope some of the photos I’ve included here at least hint at that.

To the doctor! (¡Al medico!)

A Catalan tarjeta sanitaria (health service card)

The other day I went to the doctor in Spain for the first time.

It started off similar to what one would expect in Australia: up to the reception desk to announce oneself, give over the tarjeta sanitaria (health service card), get ushered into the sala de espera (waiting room). From here though, things started to deviate from my normal experience.

As in Australia, Catalan GP surgeries are run by private doctors or campanies who charge the public health system for their services. But you wouldn’t guess that from the look of my local surgery.

It was very clean, tidy and pretty modern, but exuded that typically continental-European public building ambience: austere, heavily utilitarian, devoid of creature comforts like magazines or pictures on the walls and everything- walls, seats, floor - a cool pale blue.

On entering the waiting area, an etiquette quickly became evident. In Spain, when you go into a shop or even get into an elevator, people tend to greet each other, with a “hola” or a “buenas dias”.

It turns out it’s pretty much the same at the doctor’s. And as in a shop or a lift, it’s the new entry who must start this off, which I was quickly prompted to do by the other patients looking me right in the eye as I walked in.

Back in Australia or London, I seem to remember always wanting to avoid eye contact with other patients at the doctor’s – and the feeling seemed mutual. Maybe us anglosajones feel that illness is a very private thing and we are a little embarrassed to be out in public (?) It seems that's not the case with Spaniards.

Not long after giving my greeting and taking a seat, the doctor came out and called my name. Brilliant, I thought, it’s my turn already. But as soon as I said “sí”, she called out another name, and then another. Turns out she was telling us our place in the order of things. I was after the person she named after me, who was after the person she named after them.

This roll call, along with all that eye contact, made me realise that the etiquette of the doctor’s surgery in Spain (or at least Cataluña) is pretty much the same as that of the market, which I wrote about some time back: it’s all about everyone being secure that everyone else knows their place in the queue!

After a while, my first and second queue-mates came and went. I stopped reading the newspaper (on my phone) and anxiously waited for the doctor to emerge once again and call my name. But she didn’t. I was confused. What do I do? Do I get up and walk into the consulting room or do I wait?

As I contemplated this dilemma, my name boomed out of the consulting room, in a tone that could only be described as slightly annoyed. Obviously, it was the former.

This was the first taste of what was to be my last lesson in visiting a Spanish GP: “bedside manner”- it’s all very much straight-down-to-business. I don’t remember a smile or even a “what seems to be the problem?”.  I was just shot a look that seemed to say, “start talking”.  

What followed was lot of banging on the computer keyboard as I rattled off my reason for the visit and, without the raising of even one eye from the computer screen, the barking of questions back at me.  I was a little taken aback.

It was all strikingly akin to scenes depicting visits to the doctor I’d seen in Spanish films, which I never quite believed.  I remember asking a Spanish friend about those depictions once and he told me “it’s always been like that here”. I didn’t quite believe him either. I owe him an apology.

Don’t get me wrong, she was very thorough and she gave me quite a lot of time and barked lots of questions about lots of things at me. I certainly felt that I was getting good care.  

It’s just I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in the principal's office back at school!

Cacerolada

Click on the audio link above. If you think it sounds like a whole lot of pots and pans being banged together, you’d be right. I took it from my balcony on Tuesday night but you would have heard something pretty similar if you stepped out onto just about any balcony in Barcelona between 10 and 10:15 every night this week after that (this page is in Spanish but the video has some good scenes of the pot-banging).

It’s called a Cacerolada or Cacerolazo (cacerola is the Spanish word for a cooking pan). It’s a form of public protest very popular in much of the Spanish-speaking world – and has even reached a few other places, like Canada.

The residents of Barcelona were banging their pots and pans together in protest to the latest set-back in their fight for a referendum on independence from Spain. Here’s a post I wrote about the Catalan push for independence the other week.

A makeshift bilboard for the Sí Sí (Yes, Yes) camp

Since I wrote that post, the central government took the referendum to the Constitutional Court, which duly froze it.  In an attempt to keep his word but not break the law, the Catalan Premier, Artur Mas, called a “proceso participatorio” (participatory process) - a sort of unofficial referendum – in which the very same questions would be asked, on the very same day (today, November 9) but with a non-binding result and without the same Catalan government involvement that an official referendum would entail.

That didn’t satisfy anyone. The independistas felt betrayed as they were not getting the true referendum they were promised. The “unionists” thought it was even worse than the referendum as it would lack the democratic guarantees of an official vote.  The Catalans who want the derecho de decidir (right to vote) but who were planning to vote to stay with Spain saw the compromise as a farce in which the only people who would bother voting would be the independistas. And the central government argued that any vote would be illegal and took this one to the Constitutional Court too, which froze it on Tuesday.

And hence all the pot-banging this week.

I can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t a tactical error on the part of the central government to go back to the Constitutional Court as it has, at least temporarily, shifted the anger away from Artur Mas straight back onto them.

The independistas and others in favour of the derecho de decidir might not have been happy with the Premier’s compromise, but they are even more unhappy, or better said angry, firstly with the Spanish government for going back to the Constitutional Court and secondly with the Constitutional Court itself for, in their minds, trying to rob them of their democratic right to have their say.

The referendum countdown clock, as it looked today, the day of the vote

And in the end, the vote has gone ahead anyway (the first vote actually being cast in a Catalan polling place in Australia!). It’s looking like the turnout has been big too - more than two million of the six million people who could have voted. Not bad for an unofficial referendum in a county where voting is not compulsory. 

The result is pretty much not in doubt: a win for the first part of the question at least: “Do you want Cataluña to be it’s own State?” And probably for the second part of the question too: “Do you want that State to be independent?”

The ballot paper

As the result is not binding, even if that prediction proves true, I won’t be needing a visa to live here any time soon. But now that the question has been asked, what comes next is going to be very interesting. All eyes are on both the central and Catalan governments to see their next moves.

A final word on caceroladas.  I took part in one once. We were demonstrating in Madrid’s Plaza Chueca, the traditional heart of gay Madrid, against moves by the Town Hall to limit the city’s famous Gay Pride celebrations.

I’ve got to say it was a lot of fun and it is quite an effective manner to protest in the sense that it does get you noticed - a relentless banging on hundreds of pots and pans simply can't be ignored.  It wasn’t so successful in stopping the limitations though and these days Madrid’s Pride is sadly a shadow of its former self. But that's another story for another post.

Trick or treating with all the saints (Truco or trato con todos los santos)…

Last night was Halloween, or like they tend to say here Halowin. The H in Spanish is silent, it’s the G that gives a similar sound, although it comes from deeper in the throat.  So an English word that starts with an H can be quite difficult for Spaniards to say, leading them to often over-pronounce the H. It’s reminiscent, although not quite as extreme, as Manuel from Faulty Towers:

Now before you get up in arms at me for poking a little fun at Spaniards speaking English, I promise I’m doing it in the best humour. Besides, I’m acutely aware of my own accent when I speak Spanish – which is a bit of a shocker - so I know I’m in no position to throw stones.

But back to Halowin. It’s become quite a thing here in Spain, as judging by the photos my friends with kids have been putting up on Facebook, it has in Australia too. I don’t remember it being that way when I was a child.

Here though, the truco o trato of October 31^st is just a prelude to a much older tradition and holiday: the Día de Todos los Santos (All Saints' Day), which is today.

It’s probably the busiest day of the year for floristas (florists) and most certainly for cementarios (cemeteries). It is the day to take flowers to the graves of your loved ones, make sure all is nice and tidy and to stop for a little chat with the dearly departed.

It’s quite a sight: typically chaotic throngs coming and going and buying flowers at the myriad of flower stalls just outside the cemetery, most of which have sprung up just for the day. The stalls closest to the cemetery entrance seem the most official, becoming less so the further away you go until finally you find the dodgiest-looking venders flogging flowers of dubious origin, but much cheaper.

All ready for the big day - in Poblenou Cemetery

Just outside the cemetery gates, a less-fancy set-up (but a nice big smile)

I like Spanish cemeteries. They’re generally very well kept, filled with pencil pines and scattered with impressive, if sometimes somewhat chilling, sculptures and statues.  

The "Kiss of Death" sculpture in the Cementiri de Poblenou. 
Beautiful and someone chilling at the same time.

They’re also home to a style of internment I hadn’t seen in Anglo cemeteries: niches.
In Spain,in the cities at least, most of us live on top of each other in pisos (flats). And if you end up in a niche (which chances are you will), it's the same in death too.

As an aside, I wonder if any Almodóvar fans reading this think a couple of the photos above look a little familiar. If they do, it’s because I took them in Barcelona’s Cementiri de Montjuíc, scene of Rosa´s (Penelope Cruz) funeral in the wonderful film Todo Sobre Mi Madre (All About My Mother).

Montjuíc Cemetery is spectacular. It seems to have been carved into the steep slopes of Montjuíc, the mountain that pops up right next to the city and port, forming terrace after terrace of tombs and niches, linked by winding, pencil-pine lined roads and perilous sets of steps.

It is on one of these sets of steps that Manuela finally meets up with her long-lost, dying, transsexual ex-husband Lola in one of the climaxes of All About My Mother.  So Almódovar.

Manuela (Cecilia Roth) and Lola (Toni Cantó) in the Cementiri de Montjuíc during Rosa's funeral 
- from Pedro Almodóvar's All About My Mother

But the Día de Todos los Santos is not just about cemeteries; it is also, in typically Spanish style, about food. Just about every Spanish holiday is typified by some type of food - especially something dulce (sweet).

Depending on where you are in the country, the tradition can be different, but there is one that is somewhat common and rather perfect for the day: Huesos de Santos – literally Saints' Bones. They’re little marzipan treats that are meant to resemble the tibia bone. It's a little shocking but actually very fitting for Spain’s Catholic traditions, in which relicarios (relics - basically saints' bones and body bits) are extremely important.

The traditional marzipan treats for the day: "Saints' Bones"

Here in Cataluña there is another traditional treat – Panellets. They’re little pastries that are packed full of sugar, apparently originally designed to keep people going through the long night from All Saints' Day to All Souls' Day (November 2) during which the church bells would ring all night.

Panellets on display in the escaperate (shop window) of my local cake shop

The bells no longer go all night, thank goodness, but the Panellets, happily, live on.

A year in Barna already (Un año ya en Barna)

A year ago today we drove into a sunny, autumnal Barcelona, dog-in-tow, to start the next chapter of our lives. We were filled with mixed feelings. On the one hand, we were excited. This was the next big step for G in his career; we knew we were moving to a beautiful city; we were going to be living by the beach again; we already had some friends here waiting for us.

But on the other hand, just a day before we had said a sad goodbye to our friends and our life in Madrid. Seven years is more than enough time to develop meaningful relationships, both with people and places.

So how has this year been? Well if I’m honest, it’s been a little tough. Of course it’s never the same living somewhere as experiencing it as a tourist. But we knew that - it’s not the first (or the second) city we’ve moved to.

And it’s not like haven’t established a life here. We’ve embraced, with some relish, the substitution of Madrid’s (in)famous vida nocturna (night-life) for lovely Sunday lunches with friends on the beachfront and cocktails in stylish terrazas (roof-top bars).  I find myself savouring more than ever our walks along the tree-lined, architecturally rich grid-streets of the Eixample or through the narrow, crooked alleys and slanting buildings of the Gothic and Born districts. As I’ve mentioned previously, I’m left feeling privileged by my daily dog-walking ritual past the Sagrada Familia church. And G’s professional success over this last year fills me with pride and him with a sense of accomplishment.

No, the “problem” is not a lack of a life here, it’s that having so embraced our Spanish life back in Madrid, the move to Barcelona made us feel, quite unexpectedly, that we weren’t living in Spain any more!

Pic: assamblea.cat

Now that might sound a little crazy, but I’ve come to believe that what the Catalanistas like to say rings somewhat true: Cataluña is not Spain. Of course it is geo-politically, but culturally and socially it is quite different. And I don’t think that we were prepared for that.

So this is the reto (challenge) for our next year here: to really say goodbye to Madrid. To stop comparing our old home with our new one and just enjoy Barcelona for what it is: a shimmering jewel on the shores of the Mediterranean with stunning architecture, sensational weather and way of life and a culture that is its very own.

Cataluña or Catalunya?

The official Catalan flag - La Senyera (L) and the Catalan independence flag - La Estelada

This Saturday just gone was a “historic day” in Cataluña, according to just about every media source I read or tuned into. Of course, which sense of “historic” depended very much on the news source and, clearly, which side of the fence they sit on regarding Cataluña’s derecho a decidir (right to decide) its future within, or not, Spain.

You see, the Catalan President (Premier), Artur Mas, signed into law the Ley de Consultas – the law authorising a referendum in Cataluña on independence from Spain, that he plans to celebrate on November 9 this year.

The referendum countdown clock - installed in the Plaça St Jaume.
On the left it reads "Now is the Time"

The central government in Madrid has flatly refused the referendum on the grounds that it would be unconstitutional for Cataluña to vote unilaterally on independence. And indeed, today, the Consejo de Ministros (Spain’s Cabinet) are meeting with the sole purpose of taking the Catalan law to the Constitutional Court, which will paralyse it until a decision is made. A callejón sin salida (dead-end alley), as those opposed to the independence push say? Well, we’ll have to see.

You could say that symbolically, all the planets had aligned to bring us to Saturday’s “historic” event. On September 11, Cataluña celebrated its “national” day, La Diada”.  This day commemorates the fall of Barcelona in 1714 to the Franco-Spanish forces of the Bourbon king Felipe V at the end of the War of Spanish Succession.

The Catalans had chose the losing side in the war, but their defeat (and their resistance during the Siege of the city) ended up forging a stronger Catalan national identity - sort of like Gallipoli for Australians, I guess.

(As a side-note, I can’t help noticing that Spain’s new Bourbon king (yes Spain’s monarchs are still Bourbons) is Felipe VI… Spooky.)

One of the many huge billboards erected in the centre of Barcelona by the Town Hall,
celebrating the Tricentenary of the Siege of Barcelona. It reads "Live Free"

This year is the 300^th anniversary of the end of the Siege, and with the independista fervour generated over the last year and a bit by Artur Mas’s centre-right nationalist government (supported by their political opposites in just about any other matter except the push for independence, the left-wing republicans Esquerra Republicana) the turnout for the celebrations was massive – the biggest ever. 

1.6 million people, according to the police, converged on Barcelona. Dressed in red and yellow – the colours of the Catalan flag - they took up their positions on two of the city’s main arteries, the Gran Via and the Diagonal, forming a gigantic V for Vota (Vote) that stretched for 11 km. It was quite a sight. 

Part of the V. Pic: Josep Carpintero, Asemblea.cat. CC license

(For fairness, I should note that the central government put the figure at 480,000. Here in Spain though, you generally have the absurd situation where organisers of demonstrations dramatically over-estimate attendance and the government dramatically underestimates the same, so you usually have to go for a middle figure, although in this I’m tempted to go with the police.)

More of the V. Pic: Josep Carpintero, Asemblea.cat. CC license

All this was just a week out from Scotland’s referendum on independence from the UK. The vote was followed with bated breath here in Cataluña and the rest of Spain and although the result obviously disappointed the Catalan independistas, they quickly turned it around to celebrate the fact that the Scottish were at least given the opportunity to vote.

Towers symbolising voting urns set up at the apex of the V during la Diada

And this is where I think things get a bit messy for Madrid. You see it’s not nearly as simple as to say that all those who want the derecho a decidir actually want independence. Last week, when the Catalan Parliament passed the law for the referendum, it did so with the support of more than just the nationalist parties. Many Catalan’s just want to be allowed to have a say.

As an extranjero living in Barcelona, I feel strangely removed from what is going on around me. I’m aware that I can’t fully appreciate the fear and pain that many Spaniards feel at the possibility of a break-up of their country, nor understand the deep-seated sense of “difference” that Catalans feel to other Spaniards.  Also, I come from a country that has never suffered a civil war, as Spain did just 80 years ago, the memory of which I know must be having an impact on people’s opinions on this matter, but just how I cannot fully comprehend.

But I can’t help but wonder if Madrid’s emphatic “no” on exploring avenues for greater Catalan autonomy has not created a rod for its own back, helping to bring us to where we are now.  After all, it’s human nature to baulk at being told “no”. 

Add to that the seemingly un-ending economic crisis, earlier constitutional challenges against Cataluña led by the Party currently in power in Madrid, recent central government reforms that many in Cataluña see as attacks on their language and competences, and I can see where some of the fuel for the secessionist fire might be coming from.

Having said all that, I can understand that no government wants to be the one that oversees the break-up of their country – just look at the last-minute scramble David Cameron made up to Scotland when the polls started to give the advantage to the “Yes” camp in the Scottish vote.

Problem is, simple prohibition (even when based on sound legal arguments, as it seems to be here) seldom works. And Spain should know that better than most from it’s own recent history. Franco’s brutal oppression of any sign of (non-Spanish) nationalism did very little to quell people’s ambitions – if anything it made them stronger.

The laid-back Australian, and other myths (El australiano tranquilo y otros mitos)...

Mum has just been to visit us here in Barcelona.  It was a pretty long visit I suppose – six weeks  – but I actually got quite used to having her around the place.  The dog certainly loved having grandma here too, as his extended, sneaked-extra-snacks-girth is testament to. As for Giovanni, well the poor guy got some rest when Mum and I headed off to visit Paris and Pompeii...

During Mum’s stay, I was quickly reminded of a particular trait in us supposedly laid-back Australians, which then got me thinking about how living abroad for so long has led to a change in that “quality” in me. I’ll explain with examples.

A couple of days after Mum's arrival, my phone company, by error, restricted my overseas calling – not a small thing for an extranjero at any time, but pretty huge when Mum is visiting and needs to call home to check on the cat!  A couple of weeks later, the power company hit us with an extraordinarily large estimated power bill, for which they had sucked the money out of the bank before the bill had even arrived. And a little while after that, the phone company was at it again, this time an avería (fault) knocked out the phone and internet all together.

These events solicited exclamations of "disgraceful", "disgusting", "unbelievable" from Mum. Worse was to come when subsequent calls to said utility companies were met with apologies but a total inability to explain what went wrong or why. To Mum this was "inexplicable", "appalling" and "sheer incompetent customer service" (ouch).

And there was also the impatience. A few too many minutes seated in a café or restaurant or standing in a shop waiting to be served and I could feel the agitation rising as Mum's eyes darted around the place, looking to grab someone’s attention.

Now I realise that this makes Mum sound like a ferocious old dragon (sorry Mum); she really isn’t.  And anyway, it’s not just her. I was in Stockholm with my brother last year and he almost had a meltdown in a little bistro when told they had run out of his first two choices from the menu.

But these incidents did shock me: such impatience and indignation simply arising from everyday things not going quite as expected. Then I thought back to myself and what I was like when I first moved to Spain. I realised, back then, far from being shocked I would have most likely jointed in!

I remembered how often contact with a utility company or government department would leave me red-faced and fuming, spouting expletives that make Mum’s outbursts pale in comparison. Letters were written, hojas de reclamaciones (complaint forms) submitted, poor customer service agents berated.

My God, I thought, my whole family is a bunch of raving ratbags!

That’s not true of course (I promise). It’s just that in Australia we expect decent service and for things to get done correctly. And we tend to get rather annoyed when they don’t.

When I think about it, it’s probably an anglosaxjón thing. I remember in London, apart from service with-a-smile (which you’re pretty lucky to receive) and of course the Tube, people expected things to run smoothly too - and whoa-betide if they didn’t.

And I'm reminded of a dear friend from Los Angeles recounting to me his ire at the lack of action of the cabin crew to a group of drunken passengers on a recent flight from Ibiza to Madrid. I believe a letter was written to the airline.

So it’s me. I've changed. I must have become resigned to waiting a while to be served (without a smile) or rather regular utility company stuff-ups. I no longer move to indignation as a first port-of-call and I now notice when others do. I’m not so sure whether it's such a good thing (to accept things done a little shoddily), but hey, I think I’ve saved myself several strokes in the last few years.

Of course to Giovanni, who is as cool as a cucumber always, the apple still doesn’t fall that far from the tree. But remembering how I was and how I am now, I would say I’ve acclimatised exceedingly well.