Having lived on the Costa del Sol for the past 5 years, I often get what I call the ‘Brits abroad guilt’. Let me explain. I don’t speak great Spanish; the majority of my friends are English and I work for an English company. Even my banking gets done in English!
It’s quite easy to forget sometimes that I do actually live in Spain (complete with real, functioning Spanish people!) When I remember this, I start to feel a huge pang of guilt rushing through my body. I had a bad case of the guilt yesterday when I attended my local feria in San Pedro.
It’s amazing. The whole town turns into what can only be described as a bloody great big party. Beer and tinto de verano flow by the gallons and there is more food then Rik Waller could ever dream off. The music is so loud that you can’t talk to anybody, you just have to dance like a fool and smile (something that comes easily to me) at anybody and everybody, because that’s just the done thing.
After a few cheeky drinks, I felt confident enough to go and talk to the very cute Spanish boy I had had my eye on since I had arrived at the shindig. Who would have believed it? It turned out that, after a couple of beers, three glasses of tinto and a shot or two, my Spanish isn’t so shabby after all!
Well, anyway, I get ferried off by (I can’t remember his name so for arguments sake)lets call him Pablo) and get introduced to his whole family – his grandma and grandad included, both of whom were in their eighties and shaking their artificial hips like there was no tomorrow. Obviously, olive oil does the trick for them. I also met Pablo’s mother, father and little sister, a level of joviality that would never have occurred in the UK. Firstly, we could never have a party in the street because the government wouldn’t allow it due to way-too stringent Heath and Safety restrictions. After all, somebody might slip up on a plastic cup, you never know. Noise levels of ferias are certainly above those permitted at home and all too often, Brits on booze can often equal the odd stabbing, a broken nose or two and a massive increase to A&E admittance. Everybody’s so happy here in Spain so there is no need to fight. The only accident I witnessed was a drunk English man falling off his chair – most amusing.
The moral of this very long winded story is – move to Spain. You don’t have to speak Spanish all the time – but it’s a bit like the fairy liquid advert, a little goes a long way. If you make a little effort, you meet great people and have a better, happier life for it!
They say the grass isn’t always greener on the other side – but it might be for you and you will never know if you don’t try.
