Janner Abroad

Over the past twelve months, I have been told on numerous occasions that nothing can truly prepare you for what lies ahead. However, no matter how many times somebody tells you that the future will never be what you expect it to, every time a pot hole appears, you still turn back bemused and ask yourself: Where did all that come from?! Despite the fact that as Erasmus students we have had countless meetings and endless amounts of yawn inducing advice, when I arrived in Spain to start my pinnacle year abroad, I still found myself aghast, confused and frightfully unprepared.

Having set my phone to Spanish, my facebook account to Spanish and had finally ploughed through a couple Harry Potter books translated into Spanish, I felt that when I arrived in the land of sangria and siestas, I would be feeling pretty confident about my language acquisition. The last time I was this wrong about something was when I thought fallatio was some kind of cheese. A few hours after arriving in Spain I found myself already reaching for the phrase book to plunder through the simplest of tasks such as asking where the bus station was, when the next train was due or more worryingly, how much something was. Rather than reeling off sentences I had learnt back in the days when my most distinct physical feature was acne that spread like damp, I stuttered and stumbled to the point where hand gestures became my best friend. However, I knew I had reached the peak of my humiliation when the Spanish ‘hombre’ looked at me with pity, tilted his head to the side and said, ‘Do you speak English?’ At this point I was not sure if he was asking me so that he could engage in an English conversation or to question my general ability to speak any language at all. The situation then became more demoralising when a 5 year old boy came screeching past speaking perfect Spanish. I’m aware that it was the little runt’s first language, but for how fast and eloquently he spoke, for all I knew he was discussing the BP oil crisis whilst picking his nose. I wish I could say the language barrier slowly started to come down during the first frightening hours of being in the place where rain apparently falls mainly on the plain but alas it got worse. For the next 72 hours my language inadequacy plunged me into numerous situations such as:

• Convincing a man I had got into the country without any form of identification. For some reason him asking for my documents did not register as him asking for my passport. (“No I don’t have any documents!” “I’m sorry what?!”)
• Having to physically point and yell over the counter at ‘English Breakfast Tea’ because my accent was (still is) a farce.
• Hanging up on landlords out of fright because apparently taking directions is just all too much.
• Noting down street names and directions so hideously incorrect, it causes us all to take a 30 minute detour and the landlady actually having to come find us in the city because, oddly, the apartment was not located at the cathedral.
• Looking at the hostel manager so blankly he eventually shakes his head and walks away probably muttering something about the ‘bloody English’.

Now that a couple months have passed I’ve found myself no longer worrying about language acquisition (as success is quite clearly futile) but rather dealing with the cultural differences. Before I arrived I was not at all aware of my ‘British-ness’ so to speak. Craving tea was normality, queuing in a proper manner was innate and a pint was a regular measurement when one asks for a beer. All such British character traits have now been rigorously tested. When I first ventured into a Cafe, in the world of bulls and matadors, to order my favourite beverage, not only did I appear to have asked for a cup of poison but it was also a peculiarity (apparently) to ask for cold milk with it. A few weeks prior, asking for a cup of tea was such a regular occurrence I did not think that I would have to list any sort of criteria whatsoever. Nevertheless, I found myself considering whether I wanted my tea hot or cold, green or brown and whether I even wanted cow juice along with it. By the time I was finished I felt like an old age pensioner experiencing Starbucks for the first time, not realising that coffee in the twenty first century now came in different varieties of size and flavour.

My inability to function in day to day scenarios does not stop there. On my first venture to a Spanish supermarket, I unknowingly affirmed to owning one of the store cards only to look up properly to find the shop assistant with her hand out, looking somewhat bewildered. To this, I could only respond with an awkward grimace and a shifty glance around the vicinity expecting a translator to pop up any minute to help me with such a predicament; needless to say nobody came to aid so I was left to blush in front of a queue of fellow shoppers venomously staring at me as I was quite clearly delaying their siesta. Thankfully, the poor woman at the cashier realised communication with me was fruitless so just carried on waving a bag at me and pointing at the price on the screen, being aware that the only way to get any sense out of me was treating me like a fridge had been repeatedly dropped on my head as a child. As a shuffled away with multiple English products in hand (finding Weetabix was a particular triumph) I realised that regardless of whether or not I had delayed their siesta, the venomous shoppers were still staring; but not just in the shop, oh no, but in the entire city.

Wherever I walk, no matter much I keep my head down, I have realised that staring is not the activity that is deemed as rude in England but is somewhat an art form in the land of flamenco and castanets. I’m still not sure if it is because I am walking around with a sign saying ‘Foreigner’, or because my hair is blonde as the sun or indeed because I still stroll around the city with a vacant stare that can only be achieved by being lost; either way, no matter how much I glare back I will still turn the corner and fervently look for something on my face, shoe, arse or anything that will justify the look of disconcertion. The fact of the matter is that with a new country and a new culture brings new morals and unspoken rules; a concept that people had warned me about but I apparently chose not to believe. Whilst an English gentleman may offer to buy me a drink in a bar, a Spanish gentleman would rather just order me a drink and watch me pay for it. Whilst it is normal to hold the door open for the person behind you in England, from my experience across the pond would rather watch the door hit you. And indeed, whilst English people diligently queue in silence, in other cultures, they would rather move straight past you regardless of whether you have waited twenty minutes.

However, despite the fact that I’ve ardently ranted about the very country I’ve inhabited for the past three months, curiously, I do not want this year to end. I still may be completely useless at attending classes, utterly hopeless at conjugating verbs and I may be frightfully and atrociously inept at adapting to a different culture (with the exception of appreciating siestas). But all this aside, I still grin like a maniac when I remember that I live in Spain and trust me, I realise I am one lucky puta de madre.

Graduation Tribulation

It is that time of year again when it seems like the whole world is graduating from university or completing some pinnacle point of their existence. Facebook statuses are inundated with congratulatory messages and proud photos are being posted of people posing with their newly acquired graduation caps. At times like these I always thought that I would begin to question where my very own degree is heading. I have just two years left which, to some, would seem a lot. But considering how disconcertingly fast the past 720 days have buggered off, I’m somewhat terrified at the prospect of my inexorable reality. I feel like I should be concerned about employability (the infuriating token word that constantly springs up at career talks) and about my decisions in life; do I want a full time career, do I want a family or do I even want to stay in England? I should be concerned about these things but alas I am not. Instead I find myself quibbling about how barbaric I will look in a graduation cap and indeed whether I will be able to afford that fifth pint of cider at the end of the night. It sometimes feels like I have no real perspective on what is truly important in life or any true concept of reality. Even when I experience deaths or dramatic rushes to A&E, I still find the most trivial matters are the matters that keep me awake at night. Forget worrying about heart disease, I’m still fuming about fanciful ‘issues’ that were the bane of my existence a whole 2 months ago.

When I began walking along the path that is my University education I thought that in two years I would have matured in ways I never thought possible; become human stilton if you will. I figured that I would have gained intellectual insight into the works of Shakespeare and authors I had previously never heard of. I imagined my Spanish would progress in leaps and bounds to the point where the subjunctive became as simple as trigonometry. (SOHCAHTOA right?!) However, much to my disappointment, rather than accumulating a vast amount of knowledge and anecdotes, I seem to have learnt what appears to be the most random list of ‘helpful’ facts and tips that have helped me along this trek that I call life. This list contains some of the following:

• The Queen drowning is now just an inconvenience rather than a national affair. She can drown as long as I don’t have to down my 6th drink in one
• The last King can always go fuck himself
• 5 past the hour is not late...it is early
• Arriving on the hour is just overtly keen
• The only number a one night stand wants is the one for a taxi firm in the morning to avoid the walk of shame
• You should count your blessings if the one night stand doesn’t stay. No matter how much one tries to eroticise them, panda eyes and Gollum throats in the morning do not scream sexy temptress
• High heels can only lead to dignity loss if combined with cobbles or copious amounts of wine
• Whilst the middle class will always be able to afford Jack Wills, they will never be able to afford a comb
• It is true; it’s know WHAT you know, it’s WHO you know
• No matter how much you try and justify it, people will always think an English degree is pointless
• To some extent, these people are correct
• It will take 3 years and many thousands of pounds to realise this fact
• The number 40 takes on a whole new meaning
• The number 69 remains the same but instead conjures up unwanted memories
• E and G aren’t the initials of somebody who inadvertently keeps walking in and out of the room
• The word ‘banter’ will let you get away with deplorable behaviour, malicious insults and perhaps murder
• Instead of actually buying the book, it is perfectly acceptable to accumulate £20 worth of fines in the library
• Just when you think you have a strong will, the phrase ‘Go onnnnn’ will make anybody crumble like a heavily eroded cliff face.

So, not quite the pearls of wisdom I was hoping to have gained. Worryingly enough, they predominantly focus around drinking, debauchery and generally being a bit of a slut. Nevertheless, I hope these hints and tips that I have learnt in the first two years of higher education will serve me well in my future or perhaps encourage me to make the most out of the last two years of university. I should strive to become a well rounded person who is wholesome, pure and thinks of others whilst accomplishing wonderful things in the world of literature. Or I can think: Fuck it, I have two years to be mature, to gain experience and generally accept that soon enough I will have responsibilities of my own. Instead I’ll worry about how I’ll fit the bulbous mound that is my head into a graduation cap. I’ll worry about the definition of a casual relationship and spend hours mulling over the ending of ‘Donny Darko’. Yes, definitely a much better use of my time.

Mr Oh So Wrong...but Oh So Right

I will put my hands up and admit that I am positively useless with the whole relationship lark. I fool myself into thinking that a relationship is what would complete my otherwise brilliant life. But when it comes to it, I find myself running away from Mr.Right and running towards Mr.Wrong but oh so Right. I think my problem is I’m torn between the words of monogamy and monotony as for me, the two actually come together. I see couples embarking on wonderful relationships where they seem content, happy and calm about their marital status. The idea of spending a lot of time with one individual is appealing to them and it is considered a normal feat to remain devoted to one person. I have tried this, I swear. I’ve met completely decent guys who in fact have openly admitted they would be quite happy ‘being with me’ yet as soon as those words leave their sentimental mouths I decide to completely dismantle the entire thing. My heart races, I feel a knot in my stomach and the idea of spending time with them starts to feel like an obligation rather than a pleasant addition to my life. Ultimately I go on to set my sights on somebody who wants the complete opposite of Mr Sentimental. Then, rather ironically, desire what had previously been offered with a commitment-phobic nymph.
After much soul searching (I say much, mostly drunken conversation where I have random epiphanies about my life) I came to a few rather depressing, yet realistic conclusions as to why I have a remarkable inability to form solid relationships.

1) I’m a relationship smoker. I like the kind of man who is basically a cigarette. His very being is like nicotine and the more and more you have of him, the more addictive he becomes. At the same time, he’s terrible for you. He won’t provide the commitment you desire but gives you such highs that for a long time you don’t care. Until metaphorical cancer hits (i.e. another woman/his own boredom) and ultimately kills you...not a pretty picture no, no.
2) I hate the guy who is too nice. Ridiculous I know. Attentiveness at the beginning is fantastic but after a while it starts to wear thin. The bouquets of flowers become another object to fill an already cluttered desk; the good-morning texts become as tiresome as the monotonous bleeping of an alarm clock and suddenly seeing the devoted male starts to feel like an obligation rather than an event to brighten the day. But, that’s just my opinion; I hear some women like all that?
3) I like sex too much. Who would have thought that could actually be a problem? However, my theory lies not in the quantity but rather the hastiness of my actions. Rather than having a strategic waiting time I merely live by a philosophy of: If I want sex this evening, I will bloody well have sex. This doesn’t exactly give off the impression of a wholesome girl and as I have discovered, sets the tone of the entire relationship; a relationship that is entirely based on sex and not personal compatibility...bugger.

I would go on but I feel if I were to berate myself any further I would develop a complex and choose to stay away from men altogether. However, my rather small list does shed light on a thing or two. Basically, I don’t know what I want because the minute something else interests me I’m off quicker than you can say, ‘Time space continuum’. Like most women, I am honestly looking for that knight in shining armour to come along, whisk me off my feet and ride into the sunset on some valiant stead. Unfortunately the closest I have come to this was when I was five; playing Power Rangers and poor Daniel had to save me from the enemy with some sort of masculine gallantry. It could have been romantic but alas the armour was imaginary and the enemy was a teddy bear. Nevertheless, I have faith, honestly, I do. But for now I shall trundle along life in my merry manner fucking up relationship after relationship. Until, finally I come across a bloke who is bold, bright and bolshie enough to make me sit up, pay attention and still make me want cheeky morning sex a few months down the road.

What has sex got to do with it?

Sex. The final frontier. These are the voyages of the Good Ship Lollipop. Its mission; to explore strange new erogenous zones, to seek out new tantalisations, to boldly go where, indeed, no man has gone before.

I must warn you before embarking on such a journey that it takes utmost courage and determination with the realistic grasp of practically imminent failure. It’s a perilous trip, consisting of obstacles, dangerous consequences and ever consuming fear of rejection and malfunction. Indeed, it may evoke some of the most embarrassing moments of one’s life and at the same time some of the most frightening as the realisation that the theory is much different to the practical. Such a trek as this can involve many a fumble, brash, possibly regretful decisions and increases the chance of third parties being able to view one’s buttocks.

It’s incredible; so many potentially frightening encounters is actually the main journey that we all wish to embark on and we fool ourselves into believing that more experience can result in more ability. On the contrary, more experience could actually counter act in causing a person to be so arrogant that they become ignorant to individual needs. Perhaps this one partner doesn’t appreciate a nibble of the nipple nor is it a turn on being ‘warmed up’ like he’s rummaging around for keys. Therefore it could be easily agreed that when it comes to sex there is no right or wrong way but in fact it’s a culmination of haphazard trial and errors with a bit of luck thrown in for kicks.

I won’t sit here and claim that I am the all seeing, all knowing nymph who knows what works for both sexes and has as much knowledge about penises as she does cocktails. Quite the opposite in fact; my understanding of the male of form is mostly based on ‘Sex and the City’ addiction, Cosmopolitan and sexual innuendoes so therefore has given me about the same amount of awareness as I have concerning quantum mechanics. I am apparently, however, unafraid to shed light on past experiences and from listening to stories of others and in the end it all boils down to the question of what sex really has to do with it. And it would seem the answer is: pretty much everything.

Let me cast light on a scenario. You’re a few dates into a potentially fantastic relationship. There is chemistry, an agreement on sense of humour and a general excellent rapport with the person. You’ve kissed, you’ve hugged, shock horror you’ve done both a couple times in public, when suddenly the time arises, the ever looming ‘first time’. Nerves start to take over with a hint of arousal at the prospect and then a pang of worry about performance. There could be fireworks, clothes and orgasms going off with a bang or there could be the fireworks of a more of gentle fizzle variety or worse, the rocket that just failed to launch. With so many high expectations, especially when the social chemistry is there, it’s hard not to feel like the sex should be the act to seal the deal and indeed it can be. Our sexual personas are sometimes different to the ones normally on the service. A domineering character could emerge; perhaps arrogance or even the person who is directive in life is submissive in sex. With that comes along new realisations about the persons themselves and although it makes it seem like the person just came, (excuse the pun) got what they wanted and left, it could purely be coincidental as they didn’t like being slapped in the heat of the moment or perhaps didn’t enjoy being nagged for oral when the main event is up for grabs.

Men and women generally don’t know what each other has to deal with and unfortunately being a woman I’m inept at divulging into all of the traumas that men may face other than the obvious. Erectile dysfunction, inability to unleash the stamina, technique and possibly the same body conscious cognitions women put themselves through. Juxtaposed with the men’s concerns lies women’s thoughts of not wearing matching lingerie, the forgotten leg/bikini wax, the hunt for the perfect orgasm and many other that contribute to the odd pang of awkwardness that can derive from having sex. Luckily however the way that we’re all on par is in the sense that neither gender has any idea what is running through the other’s mind, unless they are that incredibly vocal type which can sometimes be awkward for anybody sleeping in the next room.

However, whilst we are plagued with minor worries we also decide to spice up the anxiety with demands or polite requests. The masculine goal of obtaining the blow job is a particular figment in such a scenario. Guy wants head, girl doesn’t want to give head due to many uncomfortable results that giving head can cause. In return guy chooses not to go down on the girl or simply does it in the vain hope of reciprocation which sometimes is an unlikely result. The concept of oral sex is a difficult one to debate. It feels fantastic yet sometimes doing the deed only has its pleasures in hearing the appreciation so to speak. Otherwise it’s your mouth, around gentiles, the same mouth which then continues to be kissed straight afterwards. The rules of hygiene appear to the banished all in the name of pleasure yet should the oral sex not occur there is a tension looming around the bedroom, the shocking thought that during your session you haven’t done ‘everything’ and are therefore not fully satisfied. Forget copulating in so many positions it would make Kama Sutra look like a beginner’s sex manual; if the oral isn’t on the menu there is a void that hovers, pining to be filled. Yet whilst that may be the case I would like to enlighten you with a quotation from my gospel, Sex and the City:

“You men have no idea what we're dealing with down there. Teeth placement, and jaw stress, and suction, and gag reflex, and all the while bobbing up and down, moaning and trying to breathe through our noses. Easy? Honey, they don't call it a job for nothin” (Samantha Jones: Sex and the City: Easy Come, Easy Go, Season 3, Episode 9)

As you can see, many a complication and many a thing to consider and had this not been communicated then there would be looming ignorance as well as looming desire about the blow job. In addition, it would seem that if communication is not around, we’re basically bumbling oafs, attempting to figure things out unaware that there could be simplistic solutions to achieving the unrealistic, perfect sex that we all see in movies. That said we all appear to idolise the sex in movies. Constantly passionate, has orgasm success of 100% and a body that looks like it was sculpted by angels. However, let’s all consider a few things. There’s a director, ability to stop and start without awkwardness and if there is a cringe-worthy creek in the bed at every thrust of the hips, the springs can be replaced mid fornication. Do we have such luxuries in life? I rest my case.