Since last week’s blog titled Once a Travel writer, always a travel writer, I’ve amazed myself at being able to focus on one idea; being a travel writer.

During this productive week, in which I have started a blog about Things to do in Seville, and finished chapter 11 of the sequel to Falling for Flamenco, I have had a couple of marvellous revelations.

Parrot on a perch…Photo by Karsun

The first was thanks to Chris Stewart. It was while reading about his adventures with a Parrot in a Pepper Tree, although he still hasn’t even mentioned anything about a parrot, whether in a pepper tree, or squawking about aimlessly, that I began to realise what his magical gift is, and how we are in a way quite similar. A fan of mine, (no not my Mum), did actually say that my writing reminded her of Christ Stewart. Whether that was because we both use words on paper, or whether we are both slightly mad fools living here in Spain, I’ll never know. The fact is though, thanks to Chris’s witty way of looking at life in Andalusia, I’ve began to find my own voice.

I love the way he can just have a laugh at himself, and that’s something I’ve done for years. I’ve always been one for making a fool out of myself, ever since I had to turn myself into a bit of a joker as a lad to survive in tough banter battles at school. It was my way of protecting myself against against society. I sort of turned myself into a bit of a fool, and took the piss out of myself before anyone else got the chance. That way I wouldn’t get taken down a peg.

The beauty of travel writing, and especially autobiographical travel writing, is that self-depreciating humour is abundant. This is especially true for Christ Stewart, who describes himself as a fool (not literally) and picks out his own flaws on more than one occasion.

Anyone can travel, go to a new place, have a nice meal, go for a walk along the beach, give some poor people some money, get pissed and learn a few swear words in the local language. But what’s the point? Why do we travel? Just so that we can go home and tell our mates that we have travelled somewhere. Oh look at me, I’m cool because I walked along the Wall of China wearing nothing but a Borat mankini.

I guess in a way, we strive to travel to have fun, to see places, and to keep up with the Joneses. But what if we don’t give a damn about the Joneses anymore? What if we just want to travel because we are curious about a new world?

My first travelling challenge was to go to the end of the road on my bike. I only did it because my Mum said I couldn’t.

“Don’t go past the end of the alleyway,” she would say every time I left the house. So, like a curious young lad, I did, and often went on to the next alleyway, and the next, until I ended up lost. But finding the way home was always the fun part. Having that buzz of being in the unknown, being free, and doing something naughty, was always motivating.

That was probably why I started travelling way back then, because someone told me not to. I’m not sure if it was my parents, my neighbours, my girlfriend, or the little old lady who kept a pink scooter in her porch. But someone must have told me not to travel, or I never would have ended up where I am now, almost 1,000km away from home. I’m not sure if it’s men and women, or just fools, but we do what we’re not supposed to do because we’re curious about pushing the boundaries, finding out the unknown.

Now I’ve been living in Spain for over a decade, I’m beginning to question the real reason why I came, and stayed, in the first place. Was it to struggle to learn Spanish, realise that I don’t actually like sunbathing, or to devote my life to a Sevillana lady’s desire to have two blond children?

The real reason I came over here was a mix of curiosities. I was curious about Spain, the language, the fact that they had more days off than any other country in Europe. I wanted to know if people really did sleep all day and party all night.

I’d missed Spanish after living in South America. I had got slightly past the beginner stage. You know, when you can actually form a sentence without looking like someone whose left side of their brain has just been put on silent mode.

I missed the sexy sound of Spanish. It was romantic, in a way, and I wanted to be able to produce that same sexy effect that would bamboozle women and make them fall at my feet, not in disgust at my British accent, or surprise at my silly use of vocabulary, but in awe at the way I mastered the language (this still hasn’t happened by the way).

I wanted to be able to be funny in another language too. As bizarre as it sounds, playing the fool in Spanish was important back then, and still is now.

Yesterday in class I acted out a mini role play, with myself. It was my own fault because I have this spinning object which chooses who is the volunteer. Unfortunately, I got volunteered (by the spinning thing) twice. So I had a chat with myself in front of the class and because they were young learners, and I wanted to entertain them slightly. I did it in Spanish.

Tortilla please..Photo by Cosas de dos

All I was doing was asking myself what I’d done the previous day. But because I put on my guiri accent, and exaggerated a few things, like that I’d played fifteen hours of Fortnite and eaten my body weight in Tortilla de Patatas, I was able to be funny in Spanish.

I like entertaining my students. I find it the best way to bond with them and , most importantly, make the lesson memorabke.

I’ve started to eat raisins, not to entertain my students, but as part of a new diet. Raisins are reasonably high in calories and quite cheap, so I munch on them between classes.

I’ve started doing silly jokes with them, you see, raisins in Spanish, if you didn’t know, is pasa.

“Sorry I’m late,” said one student as she came in. At this point I still had one raisin in my hand. I held it up.

“No pasa nada,” I said, winking. The others laughed as she looked down in embarrassment.

“Que te pasa?” I asked, although I probably should have held back at that point. The class laughed again. “Ha pasado algo?” I added, which was met with several groans.

At the start I struggled to be funny in Spanish, especially as Spaniards don’t really get dry, self-depreciating humour.

Being the fool in Spain is frowned upon, most people don’t like it. That’s why you don’t get many stag dos, or hen dos in Seville, or people generally running about doing silly stuff in costumes or  mankinis. It’s frowned upon to be a bit original, not the norm, which is so unlike the world back home.

I struggled a lot with this at first. I was a happy-go-lucky chap, just up for having a laugh, learning a bit of Spanish, playing the fool now and then, and maybe getting into a bit of trouble.

But that side of me, that laddish side, has sort of been pushed away.

But it’s still there, dying to get out.

I teach teenage boys, and, like most teenage boys, they are immature. I try to put on the responsible face and make sure they are behaving and doing the work, but deep down they just reminded me of me being a twat at school. The immaturity may reduce over the years, but it never fully goes away.

Take the other night for example, on the metro on the way home I, and several teachers, turned into immature teenage lads again.

We were sending pictures to a colleague who was off work: Guess who’s shoe this is? Guess who’s knee this is? Then someone suggested sending a picture of one of our crotches. So, like the mature, almost 40 year old that I am, I pulled out my plastic banana case and stuck it in my pocket.

We were literally pissing ourselves with laughter, three grown men in their 30’s, 40’s, and almost 50’s, just creasing up because I’d put a plastic banana in my trouser pocket.

It was pure, pathetic, immaturity, but oh so funny.

What made it funnier were the looks from people, probably thinking stuff like:

“Look at those immature guiris.”

Or

“How old are they?”

Or

“Where did he get that plastic banana case?”

That’s what gets me sometimes about being a guiri here; you feel as if you can’t really be yourself. You have to tame your behaviour and make sure it’s correct.

I guess it’s the same in most countries. It was in Thailand. I can’t imagine what they would have done to me had I pulled out a banana case on a bus in Bangkok. I’d probably have been sent to the Chu Chi tunnels in Vietnam.

That’s why I’ll always miss that side about England, and being the fool, and being able to laugh at myself whenever the hell I want.

So since yesterday I’ve been thinking long and hard about the angle I want to go with the next book. I’m pretty sure I want to go autobiographical. However, I don’t just want it to be like this:

I went here and had some tapas and saw a sunset.

I went here and had a ración and saw a bull fight.

I had a cubata here while watching a gypsy walking about with a donkey.

Then I got married and had two children.

I want to go deeper.

I want to really get to grips as to why it is so hard to integrate in the Spanish society.

When I came here, all those years ago, I never expected to still be here, with a wife, two kids, a dog, and a house which gets attacked with cockroaches every May. The wife and kids I could have imagined, and maybe a dog, but not the cockroaches.

I’m getting bored of reading about travel blogs, places to eat, places to see, top ten blah blah blah. I want to get on a deeper level and be more philosophical. Why the hell do all these Brits, Germans, Irish, Chinese, you name it, really come to Spain? And why is it so hard for us to become integrated? Or do some guiris become real Spanish people who aren’t looked down on, nor belittled, nor seen as pobresitos.

It’s hard work here.

Ask anyone.

This might sound a bit weird, but sod it, I’ll say it anyway (if you’re still reading then you must be either really bored, or actually interested) Did we invent our own languages so we could protect our own nations? I mean, think about it. You’re a doctor, highly educated with 10 degrees and have published several books, but you’re Chinese (not that it makes a difference to me if you’re Chinese or Burkese), then you get dumped in the middle of Madrid, and all you can do is walk about selling bracelets. This must be some kind of hidden form of protection.

I know, let’s make our own language, that way anyone who comes over to try to steal our crops, milk, or women, will be screwed.

That’s how I felt when I came here. I was a reasonably educated guy. I never really had a problem expressing myself, unless I was chatting to an attractive lady, but even a couple of beers sorted that out.

But coming to Spain, especially Sevilla, where instead of Mas o menos they say maomeo, my self-confidence, charm, and wit were all erased from my person. Everything that I’d been working on since puberty was just whipped from under my feet, so all I had was my smile and sandals.

And those sandals were just knackered, I’d been half way round the world wearing them, so how were they going to get me anywhere? They didn’t.

So, like most foreigners, ones with a slight interest in learning more about the culture, and seeing what Spain was really about, I was forced to learn the language, not without obvious failings.

I wasn’t prepared to change myself just because I couldn’t communicate in Spanish. It was unfair, so I thought, fuck it, I’m not going to give up, no way. I’m gonna learn their language, and then raise them a few hundred euros.

So, thanks if you’re still around.

I’m toying with this way of blogging at the moment. I’ve always been keen on writing a diary, but in a way that will amuse, and entertain, and I’m trying to go down this route and working my way to writing an autobiography about life here in Spain.

What is my aim? Just to recollect, reminisce about my failed attempt at becoming part Sevillano, and wondering how the hell I ended up here, and try to remember why the hell I gave my life to Spain (and obviously the woman of my dreams).

On the way I’ll be looking at the language, the culture, and the real life as an expat, being a father of two, writing about trips I’ve made, and hopefully having a laugh on the way.

Thanks for reading.