And so I'm back

I've been pretty quiet for a while, haven't I? Well, not in real life obviously – that would be practically impossible. But since moving from Spain to the UK in 2010, my blogging efforts were mostly concentrated on Girl Eats Oxford, my waistline-expanding and wallet-emptying attempt to review as many restaurants in England's fairest university city as possible. And while the eating part was enjoyable, I realised that I don't actually enjoy writing about food. Demolishing it, yes, as any family member of mine would attest. But putting fingers to keyboard in order to share my findings with (a small percentage of) the world turned out to be much more of a challenge. And there only so many synonyms for 'tasty'. There's 'delicious' and errr... So, food blogging was fun, but without any technical knowledge of cookery to back my thoughts up, it became a bit tricky.

I much prefer writing about travel and life abroad. But when you're living in your home country and working full time, this is easier said than done.

As of mid-March, I'm back in Madrid. Not so that I can blog about it: emigrating to keep up an on-off hobby would be a bit extreme, and as you may have noticed I'm not quite that dedicated. I came back for a work opportunity that's keeping me nice and busy, but now that I'm back where Tales of a Brit Abroad began, I thought I might start posting again.

This time around, I think there will be fewer travel posts and more of a focus on life in Spain. I know plenty of bloggers are doing 'the expat thing' and doing it well, but adding my dos céntimos into the mix can't hurt. I'm not going to get all 'this is what I did today' on you, I don't flatter myself that anyone (my mother included) is that interested in the minutiae of 24 hours in the life of an ELT editor. But I do want to introduce whoever is reading to a couple of details of my daily life, starting with mi barrio*.

Last time I lived in Madrid, I resided in Canal, a smart area of upper-crust Chamberi in north-west Madrid. Well connected and well heeled, it was a pleasant place to live. I can't really say I spent a lot of time there, though: whenever we wanted to dine out or see something new, my flatmate and I headed for one of the city's more central areas. I didn't have a favourite bar round the corner where I'd pop in for breakfast, or a corner shop where they recognised me (although this was clearly more due to the nature of the staff of not-so-aptly-named 'Friends' than any failing on my part as a customer). Despite that, I still wanted to live in north-west Madrid this time round. But I decided to expand my search up to Cuatro Caminos, an area one estate agent charmingly referred to as 'estropeado'*. I hoped to end up with a little flat within walking distance of work, without the granny-style dark wooden mueble* so characteristic of Spanish rental flats. I didn't expect to end up in the Caribbean.

This is a beautiful view. It isn't my view.

I now live in Bellas Vistas, the area of Tetuán which starts just north of Cuatro Caminos and stretches up towards Francos Rodriguez and west towards the university. Or as El Pais would have it, I live in el pequeño Caribe. That's the Little Caribbean, folks. So called because it's the area of Madrid with the largest Dominican population (5,172 apparently) rather than because of its sandy beaches. Despite the allusion to 'beautiful views' in its name, there's nothing particularly scenic about my barrio. It's a low-rise network of streets filled with flats and – unusually for modern Madrid – houses, plus shops and a scattering of bars and restaurants. Many of these are Dominican-owned, and serve up traditional Caribbean cuisine, which smells mighty tempting as I pass by on my way home from work. It's a real barrio, with local shops and services as well as chains. Friends gossip on street corners, neighbours greet each other in the street. Caribbean element aside, it could be anywhere in Spain. And that's part of what I love about it. I like cities on my own terms: there to be enjoyed, dipped in and out of when you feel the need to be surrounded by culture, shops and crowds. But my little area is removed from the whirl of Madrid's city centre. It's a buzzing, lively little community of its own, and one I hope to be a part of. I've already got used to buying my fruit and veg in local shops; to hearing the strains of bachata from passing cars and the piropos* the Dominican gents call out to me as they chat outside barber shops. I am a little concerned my eyes may be the death of one of these lovely fellas (more on this later), but that's my only concern. If this is as close as I'm going to get to the Caribbean, it's good enough for me.


*My neighbourhood
* Literally, 'broken'
* 'Mueble' is a generic noun for 'furniture', but in this case refers to what my Nanna would have called 'a unit'. One of those giant wooden (and glass, in some cases) constructions that takes up most of a wall, features an assortment of shelves, cupboards and drawers, has space for a TV and a selection of ornaments. 
*Compliments

Trials and Tribulations in Edinburgh: An Expat in Reverse

 I've been back in the UK for two years now, so sometimes I can barely remember what it feels like to be an expat. With this in mind, I wondered what it feels like to be the expat in my home country? As a sort of 'expat in reverse', if you will. Andy Hayes obligingly enlightens us with his experience of living in Edinburgh


"I hadn’t heard of the term “expat in reverse” until a conversation with Kate, but life in reverse certainly explains the disorientation I felt on landing in Edinburgh, Scotland.

I was born in the US, but arrived in Edinburgh via several years in Amsterdam.  I loved the Dutch lifestyle and laissez-faire café culture, but due to the European banking crisis, my job moved to Scotland, and thus I moved with it.

When I was offered the opportunity to move to the Scottish capital, the idea of being back in an English-speaking country again certainly piqued my interest. Ironically, language ended up being one of the biggest divides I found in integrating with the local culture.  British English was the language spoke at my old job and many of my friends in Holland were not Dutch, but other European nationals, so even today, a couple of years on, I still find it hard to write “neighbor” without the u, nor can I explain the Americanised version of “aluminium.”

Having it large: Eating in Indianapolis

Fish and chips, Sunday roast with all the trimmings, a full English breakfast, a cream tea: traditional English food doesn't exactly warrant the label 'light'. So why is it that whenever you mention dining in America, your average Brit's eyes widen in alarm and they mutter something about the huge portion sizes? Unless they've been to calorie-conscious California, they'll also probably allude to either the grease factor or the sugary sweetness of the cooking on offer. Although 'typical' British grub may not be lean cuisine, healthy eating campaigns have made us all much more aware of what we consume and its origins, while the UK's ethnic diveristy has helped to broaden our palate and open our minds to different tastes.

Indianapolis

When I boarded the plane for Indianapolis, I wasn't exactly sure what to expect when it came to my first post-flight meal. Would I be faced with a lard-fest of epic proportions? Or sugar-coated goodies guaranteed to send the tooth fairy fluttering my way? As a pescetarian heading to a meat-loving country, I was a little daunted. I was going to be staying with an English expat family, but given that testing out the local cuisine is one of my favourite things to do while on holiday, I hoped there would be enough for me to enjoy over a ten-day stay.

Turns out I needn't have worried. Indy might be in the heart of corn country, but it turns out Midwestern cuisine is heavily influenced by central and northern European cooking. Just as in the UK, meat plus carb-of-choice (veg optional) dishes are standard fare, but thankfully for my pescetarian palate, there's far more on Indy's menu than home-style cooking. From seafood to stonebaked pizza to tapas to hearty American breakfasts, I tried it all in the name of research.  

Indianapolis: Cars, cream pie... and culture

'Where are you going on holiday this summer then?'
'Indianapolis'.
'Oh, right'. [pause] 'Why?'

For the past few months, every time anyone has asked me that question beloved of hairdressers, I've watched their facial expressions change to confusion at my reply and fielded numerous enquiries as to why I'd chosen the Hoosier heartland over... well, anywhere else, really. When Brits go to the USA on holiday, they opt for a long weekend of cocktails and culture in the Big Apple, a fly-drive to Florida or maybe even a multi-stop trip to California's hotspots. But ten days in the midwest? Apparently that's not a particularly common (or even comprehensible) vacation.

Why had I chosen to visit Indianapolis over America's other attractions, or even a European destination? Simple: to see my friend Vicki, who relocated there earlier this year. In addition to visiting her, it seemed like a great opportunity to get to know a city I probably would never have been to otherwise. After all, Indianapolis's pin isn't very prominent on the world tourist map. But as I discovered, it's all the better for it.

The event that puts Indy on the world map

As a city with a population of 830,000, Indy isn't exactly off the beaten track, but nor is it a bustling metropolis playing host to hundreds of thousands of visitors each year. Well, with the exception of the final week in May, when the city prepares for the main event in its calendar: the Indy 500. Entirely by accident, I'd managed to book a flight arriving the evening before the big race. Keen to capitalize on my lucky booking, we bought tickets for the race. In the week leading up to 'the greatest spectacle in racing', Indy puts on a festival with a range of racing-related events, including vintage car laps and a street parade. Unfortunately I missed out on these activities, but the atmosphere on race day itself made up for it. As the biggest one-day spectator sport event in the world, the Indianapolis 500 Mile Race (to use its official title) draws vistors from all over the globe, including two unsuspecting girls from the north west of England. Put simply, it was overwhelming: foot and four-wheel traffic swarmed towards the Speedway, loaded down with refreshments to last through a long day in the blazing sun.

Ask a Brit for their impression of America, and the word 'big' will crop up somewhere: big country, big roads, big portions. The scale of the Indy 500 definitely fell into this category. In the build-up to the race, more than a degree of patriotism was on show, with renditions of 'America the Beautiful' and the national anthem accompanied by much heart-clutching and hat removing. It certainly wasn't something you'd see in Britain, but the level of evident national pride was quite humbling. When the race finally began, we sat back and watched the 33 cars tear around the track for 3 hours. As clueless individuals whose knowledge came from a quick run-down from Vicki's long-time Indy resident cousin and a few facts gleaned from the official programme, we found our interest came and went in waves: lead changes and crashes sparked it, but our picnic diverted it. The final few laps were undeniably gripping though, with a crash and a last-minute lead change signalling victory for Scottish driver Dario Franchitti. For a full account of the race, read my article on The Travel Belles.

I've got my sights set on the 2013 title

Getting out of town: Woodstock

When you live abroad, starting a blog to document your experiences seems like a great idea. Every day holds the potential for a new experience, sight or snapshot. When I began Tales of a Brit Abroad in 2010, it motivated me to make the most of living in Madrid by exploring the city beyond the tourist hotspots. It also gave me even more of an excuse to escape the capital at weekends and spend time getting to know the rest of Spain.

Since moving back to the UK, it's been understandably difficult to maintain this blog: after all, I'm no longer a Brit abroad. Fortunately, I travel enough to make the occasional post possible. But what all these weekend trips overseas have made me realise is how little I've seen of my own country. Unless I have a friend who lives somewhere, chances are I won't have been there. It's embarrassing really; I've probably been to more provinces in Spain than I have English counties. This needs to change: after all, who knows how long I'll be based on this island?

When I was recently offered the chance to visit Woodstock, I accepted gladly. After all, the pretty little Cotswold town is only 8 miles outside of Oxford, my current home. Despite this, I'd only ever driven through Woodstock once, en route to Blenheim Palace on the outskirts. 'A big rock festival was held here in the 60s', my mum announced as we drove through the sleepy streets. My 15-year-old self looked back at her witheringly and said, 'That was in America'. So I knew there wasn't going to be any rock and roll on the agenda for this visit, but I was hoping for some relaxation, good food and a touch of luxury.

A watercolour of Woodstock by local artist Rod Craig