La hora, la hora

I've been here two weeks and I've still got jetlag.

I think it has something to do with the temporal exchange rate - one Spanish day equals about a weekend in London, which means that a week in Barca is three and a half months in London, except for the work time, which is approximate to one lunar month, give or take, except when the Jewish calendar has a letter that has phlegm in it.

Let me explain. The average Spanish day is long and involves a lot of breaks, each of which has a name. Although siestas don't exist any more (and I'm beginning to suspect they were nothing more than the invention of lazy tourists), things begin at around 8am with a caffeine hit (desayuno) in your local bar that should be strong enough to include the enamel from the cup. By about 10.30am, your brain should be awake enough to no longer need artificial stimulation, which is why it's time to fire another espresso bolt into the frontal lobes, along with some kind of small cake to keep the stomach pixies quiet (descanso).

Work ends for the morning around 1.30pm, which then gives you plenty of time to go shopping, head home and prepare lunch (almuerzo) for 2pm. You go back to work by 3pm until about 6pm (unless you work in a shop or bar, which involves a complicated arrangement of shifts). Then you then go home, catch up with your soap operas and go do some shopping. Maybe you'll meet a friend for some tapas at around 7.30pm for half an hour or so, but the kids are probably starving by now so you head back and give them a snack (merienda) to keep them quiet until about 9.30pm, when it's time for dinner (cena). And then, if you want to meet a friend for a drink, you go out at 11pm or so to the local bar (which has been open since desayuno, unless it's an alcoholic bar only, in which case it's probably just opening). Bed at 2am or later, up again at 8am next morning. And yes, they do have kebabs here as well but I don't think there's a name for that. Not one that's printable anyway.

In creating the language, the dictionary elves dedicated a lot of time thinking up words for their breaks, but then didn't leave much left over for time itself. As a result, it all has the feeling of an afterthought: morning is the same as tomorrow (manana) and afternoon is late (tarde), which actually says everything you need to know about when your order will arrive.

Either way, I'm having real trouble coping. I currently cheat, living an solitary existence where I eat in the in-between hours, for which Spaniards have no words but being the very last moment when my stomach is about to return home to where it knew it was loved. I sneak around my flat, the curtains shut, cravenly nibbling a sandwich before sneaking to bed before most of the shops shut. I can't cope with being able to do all my weekend shopping by 10pm on Friday. With having football games that start at 9.30pm. With the agonising wait until a big evening meal, and not being able to sleep it off straight afterwards. Perhaps the Spanish do live longer than the Brits, but I can't help feeling that it's because they measure years as being 200 days long.

And so I met up with friends on Friday at 11pm (stupidly I was only five minutes late and so had to stand around until the others arrived at half past - something else I'm adjusting to) and we headed to a bar. We were a Quality Street tin of nationalities, Jesus (pronounced Heh-soos, naturally) the most Spanish, me the most not. The bar we were going to was Miguel (a Belgian Irishman who speaks more languages than I can name)'s local. Not a place in any of my guidebooks (I just had to check afterwards, for reasons that will become apparent), the decor is best described as 'fire hazard', with candles everywhere, long strips of material and more Greek columns than Athens on Sunday. Like almost all bars in the old city, it's small and narrow, friendly enough, and a lot more than meets the eye.

I should have guessed something was up by the name. Going to a bar that names itself after a Roman emperor who famously married a horse and loved dressing up in rich silk, ornamented with precious stones is not going to be a night down the Dog and Duck. And so it proved.

About an hour in, Jesus and I were sat facing the others when we were suddenly asked to move in closer to the table. As we complied, an enormous spotlight was placed on the bar and pointed at a beaded curtain on the far wall, from which appeared a stunningly beautiful transsexual, miming to a Roxette song. A few dance steps, a bit more miming, then the song fades, she takes a bow and everyone just continues chatting. This happened about every 20 minutes, with a whole variety of divas being mimed to by one of three shemales with incredible hips and outfits to match. Those with flowing dresses were given a floor-standing fan to sing into as well, to complete the picture (and the fire hazard effect). As time went on, the outfits became more and more adventurous to keep you from becoming blas�. I'll certainly never listen to Dido in the same way again.

As the bar closed at 3am (unlike in the UK, however, when it's time to close you have about two minutes to get out), people handed out fliers for another bar. "I know this one," said Miguel. "It opens at 5am until about half twelve in the afternoon. We could head that way if you like."

I looked at the others in horror. I would love to say that, at the thought of this bar, even Jesus wept. But no, it was just me.

Posted by Andrew Losowsky at January 20, 2003 02:44 PM | TrackBack