Summer, here I come!
18th -24th August | I'm travelling home for my hometown's Feria. Might end up on TV (again) and marrying the man of my dreams. All is possible in La Mancha.
A Week in the Life is where I share what life is like on any given week. Expect AI, visits to bookshops, cultural differences I can’t still get my head around, London tidbits, and reflections on everything under the sun.
Sunday 18th August
I’m starting the day going to see a preview of Kneecap, a film based on an Irish-language hip-hop band from Belfast where the members of the band play the lead roles. I only find out afterwards and I’m even more impressed by their performances. Given my recent obsession with Irish history thanks to Derry Girls I was sold on this film since I first watched the trailer.
In Kneecap the love of music, the love of a language and the use of the two as a means of self-expression to keep your history alive converge in a high-octane riotous mix that it’s both entertaining and reflective on Ireland’s recent past. Can’t wait to watch it again when it’s out in cinemas.
Walking out from the darkness of the cinema I’m relieved to see that it’s still sunny and hot outside.
These two phenomenons are never to be taken for granted in the viciousness of the British summer, especially in August, a month when for the 15 years I’ve lived in London the weather conditions are particularly harsh for us Southern Europeans, used to proper summers that ran from mid-May until mid-September. I’m supposed to be gasping for air and searching a shade not considering if I should also wear a a long-sleeve jumper as well as a jacket.
That’s why when the sun is out, I escape the house no matter what.
On Sundays my preferred destination is Granary Square. It turns out so it’s everyone else’s judging by the amount of people coming and going along the canal who have transformed it into the pedestrian equivalent to the M25 at rush hour.
By the time I reach the gasholders and the sidewalk widens I realise that, in no particular order, I nurture a deep hatred for slow walkers, runners, bike riders, people walking in pairs, people riding in pairs, people walking in groups, people pushing buggies distractely, people walking dogs, people with unleashed dogs, people running with their dogs, people in bikes with dogs running by their side, and last but definitely not least, people ill-dressed or with terrible style. Why do they multiply when the good weather is out? It’s easier to look good on summer clothes so this outrage on taste has to be on purpose.
Once at Granary Square I head to my favourite destination: Word on the Water, a floating bookshop on the canal. Despite its contained size, it has an excellent selection of books and it’s a good spot to sit down and read a bit as I ignore all the categories of people I hate while they walk past.
After five minutes, a guy sits next to me and sets up a little table where he places a typewritter. He is one of these writers that types poems on the spot for people. Because we’re very close I can’t help eavesdrop when he speaks to people. He’s from Singapore and he’s clearly good at making people who approach him a bit hesitantly feel at ease.
One of them is a girl from New York who is visiting London for a few days to immerse herself in nature (?) and escape a complicated situasionship (that’s more like it). After speaking to her for a bit to get a sense of what she’d like the poem to reflect, Poem guy tells her to come back in 15 minutes. I’m in awe of his focus with so many people coming and going around him asking for a poem. When the girl from NY comes back, she looks at her poem and after a few seconds starts laughing. “I love it, thank you so much, you’ve been the highlight of this trip!,” she says struggling to repress her smile.
I wonder what Poem guy may have written.
If it had been me at that typewriter, I know what I would have said:
Nature in London you may find
but certainly not in this patch.
If it’s heartbreak you’re running from,
run fast and don’t stop,
but mind the slow walkers, dog walkers, bike riders, buggy pushers,
and worst among all:
The unfashionable lot.
Mhm. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Monday 19th August
It is often the case this year that after a glorious day we get thrown back into the autumn without warning least we forget where we actually live. In other words: the weather is shit today.
I’m usually not the kind of person to indulge in celebrity gossip but I’ve been sucked into the It Ends With Us drama and I can’t extricate myself from it. I’ve decided to give in and watch the film to see what all the fuss is about. The value of a cinema membership lies not in the films you go to see because you want to, but on the ones you see and for which you wouldn’t have paid for.
There’s only four of us in the cinema and although the lights are out when I enter the screen room, the other three girls are in their early (very early) tweenties. No doubt Tiktokers who have pushed Colleen Hoover to fame. One of the girs seated a few seats apart from me is sobbing quite audibly twenty minutes into the film. She must have read the book because, aside from the terrible screenplay, nothing has happened so far to induce such a state of desperation.
When the movie ends, I start laughing. I can’t control it, it comes out spontaneously. I try to keep it down as I can hear the other three girls still sobbing.
What in the fuckety fuck have I just watched???
If it hadn’t been for the press tour debacle I doubt I would have EVER watched this movie or guessed it was meant to be a serious? film about domestic violence. I can see where the creative differences have come from. On the one hand a director and lead actor who bought the book rights for the adaptation as he wanted the film to be centered around domestic violence and on the other an actress and producer who probably wasn’t sold on the idea and thought a romantic comedy was more in her wheelbarrow.
Result: train wreck and a forgettable movie about a forgettable book that has only been made because tiktokers have the literary taste of a six-year old. I take it back and apologise profusely to the six-year old community because the daughter of a friend is six and she’s reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban at the moment. And that was a great movie adaptation, perhaps the best in the series.
It Ends With Us has been a missed opportunity to produce something along the lines of the brilliance of C’è Ancora Domani (There is Still Tomorrow) by Paola Cortellesi. But on second thoughts, Cortellesi has created an original work of art anchored in truth and a shared history over decades that Italy is tired of hiding, glossing over, and justifying. Hollywood can only dream of coming slightly close to the power of this movie and the impact it’s had. Never to match it.
Tuesday 20th August
Another day of grey skies, drizzle and cold. I have to switch on the lights around 3 pm because it’s got very dark. I can’t wait to go on holiday on Friday.
On Saturday I found a half price copy of Romantic Comedy by Curtis Sittenfeld and I decided to buy it on a whim because I liked the cover. When people ask me how I find books I want to read my answer is usually that either I liked the title or the cover or both. Sometimes you don’t need to overanalise it.
I was afraid Romantic Comedy could be a Sally Rooney kind of novel, but I shouldn’t have worried. Sally Rooney would never disappoint her fans by writing a book where the characters are emotionally intelligent and communicate openly, therefore depriving readers of the agony of witnessing the awkwardness that settles in around page 10 and propels the story forward for another 300 pages while you hope that, at some point, someone finally stops acting as if they were a boiled potato instead of an adult.
Romantic Comedy is the exactly the opposite of that and it does what it says on the tin: It has romance and it has comedy and both are done brilliantly, which is incredibly satisfying if you’re a fan of good romantic comedy films and feel modern takes on the genre are somewhat “meh”.
The best way I can describe this book is by saying that if When Harry Met Sally and Notting Hill had produced a literary love child, it’d be Romantic Comedy. Which is to say that Curstis Settenfeld combines best of Nora Ephron and Richard Curtis in her writing and that’s why I couldn’t put the book down from the moment I started reading. And when I did, I it was to watch Notting Hill for the tenth time and I marvelled at how good and hopeful in love a great romantic comedy makes you feel -and how fun it is to watch, or read- but how difficult it is to find the right formula.
If you are also a fan of Saturday Night Live you are in for a treat as the first half Romantic Comedy takes place over the week leading up to a late-night comedy show and it is modelled on SNL, so lots of insights on what goes on behind the scenes to bring the sketches alive and the creative process behind it. I really enjoyed this bit and it was a great way to set the scene for how things unfold later between the protagonists.
Glen Powell was asked recently whether he would do more romantic comedies (he’s started in Set it Up and the surprise hit Anyone but You) and he said that of course but the problem is finding a good script because the key is in the writing. I truly hope someone sees the potential of this novel for a film and casts Glen Powell on it because he’d be fantastic in the role of a celebrity pop singer with ravishing looks that falls for a witty and clever Emmy winner script-writer while he is invited to host the late-night comedy show where she works.
Fine, I’ll sacrifice myself for the role of the comedy writter seeing we can’t come up with anyone else to do it.
Wednesday 21st August
My sister sends a picture to the whatsapp group with my mum. They’re at the swimming pool. “Bring a light jacket because temperatures drop a bit in the evening as you know,” a voice note from my mum says in response to how the weather is like. What she means by “temperatures drop a bit” is that they go down to 26 C at night.
Meanwhile in London we’ve move forward towards late October, early November as the clouds, cold, wind, misery, and desperation seem to have settled in.
Hands on Me by The Struts comes to mind, “It’s been raining like the sun don’t come to London anymore.” I’m convinced this song is actually a desperate cry for the return of good weather, not a lover.
I have physio appointment. I’ve been coming regularly every week for a couple of months since May to treat a shoulder problem. This is one of the situations where there is massive difference compared to Spain, where regaining mobility of your limbs doesn’t cost you a small fortune. When I visited the physio back home in May I paid €18 for a one hour session. Here, the cheapest closer to my house is £55 for 30 minutes. It makes you reflect on how much you really need your left shoulder on a day-to-day basis and whether you could manage without.
This month I also had to go to the dentist for an emergy appointment that has set me off a futher £200 for 10 minutes of work. We can claim medical expenses through work, so I have submitted the dentist invoice as an emergency appointment, which is included in the plan. After days waiting to hear from the provider, they’ve contacted me today to confirm they’ll only reimburse me for the cost of a regular dentist appointment, which is £70.
The urge to call them back and ask them to name one Southern European person, just one from any country, who goes to the dentist (or physiotherapist, or hairdresser for that matter) in London willingly is strong. Of course it’s an emergency, what would I pay £200 for something that costs €30 back home?
I need to switch on the lights again after 3 pm.
Temperature in Spain: 34C degrees.
As it should be.
Thursday 22nd August
It’s raining, very windy and greyish black outside. One more day until proper summer.
I’m meeting someone from a company we work with in the AI and creative space for a long overdue catch-up. To prove that I am a woman of class within ten minutes or arriving, I manage to drop half a coffee on me while drinking it. Too bad as this is what I’m wearing tomorrow for the trip.
On my way to the tube, it starts raining. Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift is playing full blast from one of these touristy rickshaws that plague central London and are a criminal offence to the senses. A little tear falls down and then a few more. Why is never truly summer in London? Focused as I am on my weather misery, I haven’t noticed that people are staring at me. The crying in public plus my coffee-stained outfit wouldn’t be out of place in Soho on a Saturday night, but I’m walking down Bond Street in daylight and so I deduce passers-by are feeling more scared than concerned about my appearance.
I’m not carrying my laptop with me as it’s the last day before going on leave and I need to avoid the temptation of staying late in the office.
I would need a few free days before going on holiday to indulge in the anxiety that accompanies any trip back home and all the things that can potentially go wrong and leave me stranded during a 13hour journey that requires multiple means of transport as I live in a very bad connected town. In the absence of a clear schedule to wallow in despair, leaving the office on time to go home early and sit in bed for hours staring at an open suitcase in a state of shock before I muster the strenght to start packing would do.
Friday 23rd August
Hope nothing goes wrong today.
As I change trains at Blackfriars on my way to Gatwick, guess who’s decided to make an appearance today? The sun. It’s so bright I can’t even take a proper picture because of the reflection. You have to be kidding me.
Once I get to the airport I can tick off the fear of missing the plane or forgetting my passport (it has actually happened) and move on to the next potential transport failure: A delayed plane that will cause me to miss my train once I land in Madrid.
Once that doesn’t happen either, and after boarding, I can finally relax and switch off for the length of the flight and make another dent on Caledonian Road by Andrew O’Hagan. While the “getting to” and “waiting at to get to” part of a journey stresses the bejesus out of me, the “being on” is quite enjoyable.
When I travelled to Bali in 2022 the trip took 20 hours and consisted of two flights. One of which was 14 hours to Kuala Lumpur with a 2-hour stopover at a very small terminal from which I took a 4 hour-flight to Depansar. What other trip had ever given me an anxiety free 18-hour slot not having to worry about changing trains, taking tubes, missing flights every few hours? I almost wished my family were from Bali. It’s a lot less stressful to travel there.
Besides, if you tell an introvert they don’t have to leave a place to go anywhere and that they will still be fed and entertained (I rewatched the Matrix trilogy plus the new fourth film as well as House of Gucci - all of them uninterrupted!) and they’ll love you for ever. I confess I still dream of those flights. Bali was good, don’t get me wrong, but for all the yoga I did there the peace of mind I got while on those planes was unmatched.
My flight lands on time. The weather is lovely and I change clothes before taking train from the airport to the train station and then from there another train to the place where my mum and my sister are picking me up in the evening. I can feel the heat already.
When I step out of the train at the town where my mum and sister are waiting for me the heat hits me. I could cry tears of joy and no one would notice as they would evaporate in two seconds. There’s a light breeze so the heat wraps around me more like a cosy blanket than an open furnace. I really needed this.
We head for an ice cream and then do a bit of shopping as the city where the train leaves me has a lovely pedestrian street lined with shops. My sister and I go to a bookshop and I offer to pay for the book she’s picked, Papyrus by Irene Vallejo. We joke about how this should have been a surprise gift for her birthday and the guy at the till, who’s been laughing hearing our sisterly banter, plays along and puts the book I get my sister in a separate bag from the ones I’ve bought for myself as he says, very ceremoniously,: “A present from your sister,” to her. He then gives me a conspiratorial look and whispers: “I’ll give you a receipt in case she doesn’t like it and you need to take it back.” The three of us laugh. I love how everyone is so good-humoured back home.
When we finally leave, my mum hands me the car keys because she doesn’t really enjoy driving. Because Spain is further South than the UK, most of the times the car ride happens still in daylight. It is usually very atmospheric and set against an impressive scene as La Mancha, the region where I’m from, is a land of vast horizons, sublime light and infinite skies which dye their blueness with orange and pink hues. The clouds here serve more like props carefully designed to highlight the natural beauty of the landscape than omens of bad weather.
The windmills atop a hill remind us we are in the land of Don Quijote, which is a playground for dreamers.
Saturday 24th August
Feria
Every 24th of August Tomelloso, my hometown, kicks off the noble tradition of feria, a week-long celebration that involves everyone and for which many people living away return. Among the many activities there are concerts (I’ve seen one of my favourite bands M-Clan twice, one was free), a literary festival, different competitions based on local traditions, parades, and I believe bullfights.
While I’m not personally a fan, our local feria has its origins back in the middle of the XIX century and it’s closely linked to bullfighting. Historians are unsure if the feria is a byproduct of people coming for the bullfights or if the bullfights kept taking place during a certain period of the year because there was a feria already established and it made sense to capitalise on the affluence of people.
Back in the XIX century, however, the feria was in early October and it was eventually moved to September and finally August to avoid clashing with the beginning of the grape harvest as we’re at the heart of a vast vineyard region and wine production is a key activity still today, with new wineries like Verum infusing new life to the wines made back home. In fact, their Sauvignon Blanc + Gewurztraminer has quickly become a favourite white wine.
The concept of feria, which is common across Spain, can vary slightly depending on the region but, in a nutshell, is a celebration of the Spanish outdoors lifestyle.
While it’s hard to explain the atmosphere, everyone is on a festive mood, which perhaps doesn’t help considering we’re talking about Spain, and there’s a more relaxed vibe -again not the best way to explain this- with many business activities closing for the week. This is a bad time for medical tourism as both my physio and my dentist are on annual leave enjoying the feria. Now that I think about it this is not a good time to feel unwell.
While I have regularly partaken in the feria since I was 16, backed in the day I arrived around 23 pm planning on to stay until the early hours of the day. Which was a regular feria for anyone between the ages of 15 and, well, there’s really no limit as long as you can endure it.
But the good thing about the feria in my hometown is that you have all-day long events and activities because that’s what true diversity and inclusion means: you can still have a blast in plain daylight. So when in 2022 I came home in August after ten years of not having been there for the feria, my friend Miguel, a regular reader of this newsletter as well as fellow Londoner and native of my hometown, showed me the magical world of Baile del Vermut, a key component of daytime Feria.
Plainly put, this is an open-air day bar set inside a local park in the shade where people can eat and drink and which runs from midday until 7 pm. At that time, this bar closes and people move on to the adjacent gardens within the park where the party continues until 2 am. After that, they can go to the chiringuitos until 7 am, which is the area I was more familiar with in my younger days, and which is an open-air disco. And if you still want more after 7 am, then you can finire in bellezza and head for churros con chocolate before catching up on sleep until the vermut resumes at 12 pm.
If you think this is only for young people, you’d be surprised how many 70 and 80-year old are out and about at 1 am having a lovely time. As are families with babies and small children, something very common throughout the summer, not only during feria. My sister and I always say that London and Paris, for all their greatness, have nothing on our hometown’s unmatched lifestyle. If we could export it, the world would be a happier place.
Is that the time???
On the 24th there is the opening ceremony at the main square in town to announce the beginning of feria. A master of ceremonies introduces the different musical parts and the pregonero. This is a key figure as every year someone from our town is invited to give an inaugural speech, called pregón and hence the name pregonero, which mostly aimed at praising the virtues and values of our town and its traditions, unmatched anywhere else in the world.
My mum wants my sister and I to do it one day, and the only reason it hasn’t happened yet is because I have told her not to dare put my name forward when she casually drops that she’s been asked whether I might be interested. My sister, on the other hand, is quite keen and I’m sure she’d do a great job after having attended her PhD defence. In French. For four hours. I only hope if she gets to be the guest of honour of the Feria one day, her speech is slightly shorter.
After the opening ceremony is over, people get ready to walk alongside a parade with music that runs from the main square down Calle de la Feria (official name Calle Don Víctor, but since this was the street where the feria stalls were originally placed before the location was moved in the XX century, most people still refer to it by its former name) towards the main site of the feria for the fireworks at midnight.
This year I’ve come across different articles on the declining London’s nightlife and how to resuscitate it after the pandemic, and every time I thought the solution would be to embrace the Spanish lifestyle, and include all demographics into participating into late evening activities and making them feel safe.
However, it’s hard to reinvigorate a city when you love having dinner at 6 pm and putting kids to sleep at 7 pm, not to mention closing restaurant kitchens at 9 pm in Central London. In Spain, in the summer, at 6 pm we’re all enjoying our hard-earned siestas. At 9pm we’re getting ready to leave the house. At 10 pm we meet with friends to go for dinner, which probably won’t happen until 11 pm. The UK schedules are not very conducive to inclusivity. No wonder that the core London demographic at midnight on a Saturday consists of drunks, drug dealers and delusional people.
As the local tv broadcasts the event, last year my sister, my mum, my aunt, and I made a stellar appearance on tv. This is minutes before midnight and as you can see there are people of all ages on the street having a lovely time and being civilised.
My sister and I appear on bottom left of the screen from 3’07” as we come from the back. I’m the one in a blue dress with a fan and my sister is next to me filming. She had arrived the day before and had time to look refreshed and be stylish. I had just arrived from London and had to change quickly into a summer dress in the car as the clothes I was wearing were perfect for the misery of the London summer but inadequate for the splendorous heat of La Mancha.
I’ve learned my lesson and this year I’ve come a day earlier to be radiant and rested in case I end up on tv again and, thanks to the power of the internet, Glen Powell ends up watching this video and decides he wants me on board for the adaptation of Romantic Comedy. I’d be devastated if he picked my sister because she’s had time to prepare and sleep well and I hadn’t. I don’t think I could settle for having him as a brother-in-law when he has “husband material” written all over him.
I really need to get ready. My future love life depends on it. Bye for now.
Don’t make that face - I can see you.
I told you La Mancha is a playground for dreamers, didn’t I? Let me bloody dream while I’m here.
Abroad is an independent publication about identity and belonging, living in between cultures and languages, the love of books, music, films, creativity, life in London, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.
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Loved this. Hope you're getting ready for your closeup...
I am reading this as I pack to get on a flight to London tomorrow and immediately had to reassess my plans to pack any open shoes! It is always so confusing (layers I know but shoes always problematic). Also how can you not love Rooney!? We seem to be on the same page about so many things that I wasn't expecting that! But now curious about the Sittenfield - will read.