UK 12. Nick's Food Tour of Spain

SAN SEBASTIAN. Friday 6th February

Postcards in San Sebastián showed the town covered in snow. February 6th showed the town bathed in sunshine and enjoying 24°C. Even at midnight it was still warm enough for a short sleeved shirt. Yep, the only logical explanation is that I'm a weather god.

After an hour in Spain I felt completely fluent in French. Sure, I only seem to speak that language every six years or so, but 2 days in Paris brought it all back. I know what to say in all manner of typical commercial and social situations (je voudrais...; ça fait combien?; Oh, bordelle de merde! Vous gros conasse!) but unfortunately none of this is much use in Spain.

But Day 1 passed easily. I met a Spanish speaking Aussie and his English girlfriend (fiancée? wife?) and we hung out for the day and evening and they dealt with the translating. Perfect. They also introduced me to the wonderful art of tapas hopping.

It's pretty simple, really. You start at a tapas bar, get drinks and a plate and take whatever you want from the bar to eat. Anchovy, jamon, creamed fish, artichokes... Then, and here's the good bit, you tell the barman how many pintxos you've had, pay up, go to a few doors down to the next tapas bar and repeat. The Parte Vieja (old part) of San Sebastián is loaded with such places so you can easily spend several hours working your way through a meal. My favourite was baby eel pie.

Tapas bars in other countries don't compare. There you sit down and order and a plate arrives and someone misses out on something because the number of servings never matches the number of people at your table. Here, it's all laid out on the bar, happily going off, with people happily smoking around the food and happily dropping their scraps and napkins and cigarette butts on the floor. You pick what you like the look of and it's fine. If there's something no-one likes there're not three left on the plate for you and your mates to pay for. What a great way to dine.

Apart from tapas, San Sebastián is a beautiful city with a crescent-shaped bay, beautiful beaches and two headlands overlooking the town. There's a castle (remains thereof) on one, with a not-quite-as-good-as-Rio statue of Christ making his presence felt. The views are spectacular, the walk up suitable tiring and in summer it's probably the best place in town for cool air and sea breezes.

This is one nice town. I recommend it. (Especially in unseasonably warm winters. You know, if I'm not a weather god, then this weather is probably due to global warming, something which, as an environmental designer, I'm dedicating my life to fixing up. But really, it's so damned pleasant to be enjoying the sun in February. Maybe I should get back into the oil business.)

PAMPLONA. Saturday 7th February

Seeing this country is fast becoming an exercise in culinary indulgence. I was lucky in San Sebastián to meet Michael and Rachel for tapas hopping. 2 hours for lunch and around the same for dinner. Then this morning's cold and wet weather caused me to change plans on the fly - I postponed Bilbao and headed straight to Pamplona. Just in time for lunch.

We (me and Spanish cousins) started around 3:00 with asparagus with capsicum and garlic; acorn-fed jamon (which is so far superior to "regular" ham it's as if it's from a different beast. Technically it is - it's from a black boar that only eats acorns - but even the normal jamon is far removed from the pink flabby stuff I'm used to); artichokes with clams; and marinated capsicum. This was pretty damned filling but there was still mains to come: monk fish in olive oil and garlic for Richard and me (and there's only been one better fish in my life so far - a barbecued fresh-water fish in Kuala Lumpur), steaks a foot and a half across for the girls, and a (perfectly cooked) steak as big as my head for Ana. She didn't leave any, either.

Feeling drowsy from the massive effort of digestion, we then decided to cleanse our palates with dessert. Sheep's yoghurt (basically) for me, which is another local dish; sorbet for the others.

We left around 5:00 and went home to rest up before dinner. I nibbled on some biscuits (local specialty biscuits, not Jatz crackers, or anything) for a while and about 9:30, fearing I might pass out from lack of food, Ana put some sausage and more jamon my way before a celery and walnut dinner (very small) with fruit and yoghurt for afters. Finished that around 11:00 and called it a night.

****

You know, I had been planning to write a food tour of England. (Oh, French tour: Nice duck, but the blueberry sauce was a little overpowering. Ox tongue: tender as can be, beautiful sauce, kinda weird seeing the taste buds.) But frankly, food here doesn't have what it takes. Despite the efforts of celebrity chefs like Jamie Oliver, on the evolutionary tree of cuisine, British food is situated on one of the lowest branches. On the most sickly looking twig slightly overhanging the neighbours fence line (and so asking to be pruned) is the chip buttie.

I was out cycling with some mates and we stopped at the World's Worst Pub for lunch. This place actively misled customers as to the menu, then the woman got abusive towards us when we asked where the salad was. It's always been written that way on the board, and as new customers we should have been aware that the salad is not part of the chip buttie order.

Anyway, Mike talked me into ordering this thing, saying they were really good. I received a limp hamburger bun covered in margarine with some below average chips inserted. And that was it! Apparently, at it's best, the chip buttie has better bread and nicer chips and no margarine. Wow.

Thanks, Britain, for your wonderful contribution.

UK 11. NHS

I had my first experience of the NHS, (or No Help whatSoever), recently. I went to the NHS drop-in place and asked to see someone with medical experience. They were a bit put out that I wasn't registered with any doctors ("Who is your doctor?" "I don't know." "Well, where does he work?" "Australia." Sigh, roll eyes) but I was ushered in to see someone anyway. This bloke examined my condition, concluded it was an allergic reaction, wrote the name of an anti-histamine for me and said "If it doesn't clear up in a couple of days, go and see a doctor."

Hang on! Who the hell was this? Don't tell me I'd just fallen for the old trick of taking advice from someone because he was wearing a white coat.

When I explained I didn't have a doctor of my own, this bloke very politely gave me a list of doctors in the area and said if I didn't have any luck, to come back after hours as a GP would be on duty.

Fine.

So the next day I rang some surgeries, keen to get a more considered opinion than that of my nurse. The anti-histamines made me drowsy to the point of feeling stoned all day at work and my condition was worsening. But do you think any doctors (or at least their receptionists) wanted to see me? Did they f*ck! "If you're not registered you have to come and fill out a form and then we've got 48 hours to decide if we'll see you." Bitch.

So it was back to the NHS drop-in place.

"I believe you have a doctor here tonight."
"No."
"But the nurse yesterday said there was."
"Oh, there is one on duty, but only see emergency cases. You need to ring and make an appointment."
Because I'm meant to plan to get myself into an emergency situation, I suppose.
"We'll, I don't know the number, and I'm here now. Perhaps I can make an appointment with you." I'd be speaking to you anyway, you bureaucratic cow.
"No, you have to ring." Huh? "You can see a nurse and then they'll decide if you need to see a doctor. There's a half-hour wait. Or you could go to the A&E at the hospital." Then she smiled in the way that says "Get f*cked and die." Bitch.

So the hospital it was. And what joy. Friendly staff who smiled and joked, a really cute doctor, some mean-arsed anti-histamines and a course of steroids. And free, too. (Well, with the level of tax I'm paying, I should hope so!) A week later my allergic reaction has cleared up with only minor scarring which will hopefully disappear altogether. The only downside is that I think I've developed an allergy to alcohol.

UK 10. Some shallow and offensive remarks

Paris. I'd forgotten how much I like it. Maybe it was the unseasonably warm weather, maybe it's the elegant architecture, maybe its the food.

Nah. I've been in all seasons, the architecture is all the same and so gets boring quickly and the food seems to consist of steak, steak, steak or veal. What I love about Paris is the women. They're better looking and better dressed than Spanish girls, although some Spanish women make you want to weep and give thanks to God for giving you eyes. Spanish men are probably better looking than the French, but that really doesn't say much at all. Both sexes of both countries are better looking than the English (curse my heritage). Again, that doesn't really say too much, either.

(Today, back in England, I saw what I've been joking about these past eight months: a baby with a big eye in the middle of its forehead. It hadn't fully developed but it was dead centre, was eye shaped, and stuck out about a centimetre from the forehead. No mole is ever that big, and everyday bumps don't form that shape. That kid was clearly the result of frucking.)

There are no fat chicks in Paris (or Marseilles, from memory) and no tracksuits, either. (My cousin who lives there confrims this.) But in Spain I daresay decades of chav* English tourism has left its mark in the form of sportswear, cheap gold and cheaper heaircuts. The mullet may not have been invented in Spain but it definitely has a solid foothold here. Oddly, they don't have a word for it.

What the Spanish lack in style they make up for in food. It's a mystery they'll not all bloaters. Sure I've only seen one corner of the country and didn't exactly indulge in Burgos (I went into a classy restaurant there with every indulgent intention, but couldn't find any staff. Talk about laid back). I definitely prefer it to the French, but that may just be because I only ate at Parisian boulangeries where the choice was limited.

Finally, give me French language any day over Spanish, but give me Spanish friendliness any day over French.


*A "chav", I learnt yesterday, is the sort of bloke who wears sportswear and white trainers, cheap gold, cheap aftershave and gels his fringe. The nav girl pulls her hair back and is often seen, in these parts anyway, pushing an infant approximately 12 to 15 years younger than her. Both sexes bear facial resemblances to weasels. The term "pikey" has apparently spread beyond gypsies to include people who eat discount burgers and oven cooked chips and watch TV all day. They drive cheap cars with alloy wheels. A "bogan" or "Bevan", really. This starts to cross into "Kev" territory, which is essentially the "rice boy" seen in Australia or the US: ie, kitted-up cars that are probably just heavier and slower, but sound faster and have bigger stereos.

UK 9. My weird landlord

My landlord is weird. That's all there is to it.

I called him up the other day on his mobile to see whether it was okay to pay just two weeks rent now and for the last month to be covered by the bond. That way he wouldn't have to return the bond to me (very inconvenient). Sure, he says, no problem.

Then, out of nowhere, he says: "I'm in Bermuda".
So what? "I'd better get off the phone then," I say, "this will be costing you a fortune." International roaming charges, and all that.
Him: "No not you, me. I'm in Bermuda."
Stunned silence. A bit of bewildered banter from me.
Him again: "I've just bought some jeans."
Wow! This was getting too weird for me, so I rung off.

Then, today, I got a postcard from the bloke. From Tobacco Bay.

Dear Nicholas
Like I said.
I am here.
Lovely weather
very cool.
This time of year.
Sub tropical island.
Everton

Truely bizarre.

UK 8. New Year's Eve

Okay, this is a real cack that I think you'll appreciate.

I went to Brighton for New Years and my mates Brigitte, Dan and I went to a party that Dan had somehow found out about. We rocked up around 11:00 to find a house full of women sitting around eating. No blokes, no loud music, all very polite. Naturally, we put two and two together and deduce we'd mistakenly arrived at the wrong house and had just gatecrashed a lesbian party. (Should be interesting, thought Dan and I. Bugger, thought Bridge.) Everyone was still sitting around in little groups so it didn't even have the critical mass required to mingle.

We're stoic sorts, though, and, after Bridge rifled through the mail to confirm the address, we settled down with a bottle of red to see how long we'd last until we were spotted and evicted.

But no! It was the right place and pretty soon a few dozen more people showed up, all the signs as to where you could or could not wear shoes or smoke were ignored, a DJ arrived and I made my own entertainment by telling everyone something different when they asked what I did. (I started out as a helicopter pilot and finally settled down to clearance diver with the Australian Navy, on secondment to the forces in Britain. As to why I was living in landlocked Peterborough I put down to working in a liaison role with the RAF. As you can see, like all good lies, it's really close to the truth with only a few technicalities not being entirely accurate. Still, that cover story's getting a bit old now, so it's time to think of something new for the next stranger I meet. Ideas are welcomed.)

But anyway, the funny thing about this party was the Ceremony. Just before 12:00 we were invited upstairs (a nominally shoe-free zone, with stress on nominally) for a special ceremony to see in the new year. We all sat in a circle and held hands and were asked to chant Omm three times in unison to raise the energy levels.

Now look, I don't have a problem with spirituality, qi, energy fields, religions or meditation. But sitting around with a bunch of strangers chanting is just fucking weird. Some people had a bit of a laugh at the idea and they were asked to leave by the hippie leader, I mean host of the party, so they wouldn't spoil it for the rest of us, and only people who wanted to participate should be there, unless, piped up another voice, they were already there, in which case they could stay. Quite right, says the host - all those outside the room (door was closed) who didn't want to be there should go, all those inside could stay because they were already there, presumably regardless of whether they were going to spoil it for everyone else or not. A great show of tolerance, if not clarity of mind.

Next up we had to think of something from 2003 we wanted to let go of (I think - this point wasn't communicated very well, but you get that when you have a hippie running the show), then think of something we wanted for 2004 (and I guess the earlier Omming was going to make this materialise), then someone passed me a slip of paper with a word on that was meant to be something I was to pursue in the new year. I don't actually remember what that word was, but I know it started in S and the only thing I could think of when asked later was "selfishness". This led to some an interesting discussion in which I convinced a palates instructor that selfishness is actually a good thing if looked at in the right way (thank you, Gordon Gecko).

To return to the Ceremony, no-one had bothered to set his or her watch beforehand so naturally the whole thing broke down to the hippies chanting Omm (they were working to the watch of the guy with the loudest voice, which was slow - the watch, not the voice) and the pragmatists singing Auld Langsyne (sp?) based on my watch which was fast.

The night degenerated from there and, due to the excess of smoke, I managed to lose my voice for two whole days (can someone explain why a non-smoker suffers more than a smoker?) and due to forces beyond my understanding, I managed to lose my phone as well. Anyway, I wound up watching Kiki's Delivery Service in the room that was showing animé films all night and that had the least smoke (I was really in a bad way by around 3:00). Despite the title and total lack of plot, this was not porn although it did have an unsettling number of glimpses of teenaged Kiki's underwear (that's Japanese animé for you), and no-one could sit through the whole thing.