Living like nutty superkings

Jo’s student allowance has finally arrived, a mere two weeks before the end of semester. The fact that we got it at all is due mainly to the efforts of Jo’s courageous mum, who valiantly took the fight to Centrelink, who would otherwise still be squatting, Smaug-like, on the glittering heap of benefits to which Jo is entitled. So hooray. Seeing as we’ve been paying our own way so far, and living on a relatively tight budget, we decided to go out for a nice dinner, at the Australian tax-payer’s expense. You know how a while ago I was complaining about the state of the steaks here? Well, as with every time I make a grand, sweeping statement about the nature of life in Spain, it turns out I am wrong. Good steak can indeed be had here. Good steak? Amaaazing steak. Aged to within an inch of its life, seared and served perfectly rare, and with a rind of fat on it that gives you chest pains just to look at it. 

Well, that’s what Jo had, anyway. I, at his suggestion I might add, passed up the lamb in favour of grilled prawns. Which were fine, but they looked pretty measly next to Jo’s steak, which was so big it hung over the sides of his plate. So obviously we had to go back so that I could also eat a chunk of something’s flesh. And we did, and I had chops and they were fabulous, and Jo had a steak that was even more hyperbolic than the first one. Just to round out the carnivore celebration, we had some jamon as a starter. This is how good it was;

 Good jamon is like nothing else I’ve ever tasted. It is an incredibly complex flavour, salty, nutty, creamy and soft, and barely porky at all. It melts in your mouth, and leaves a wonderful film of fat on your tongue. It is a completely blissful experience. We had some excellent jamon at the wine bar up the road which came served with salmorejo, oil, and bread, which makes the plate look nice, but it really is totally extraneous. If you need side dishes, it is because the jamon is no good. Good jamon needs no accompaniment. Just reverent silence.  OK, enough food poncery. 

We had an extremely good dinner, which was then spoiled by the old guy at the table next to us lighting up a cigar the size of a baguette.And all thanks to fact that those useless bureaucrats at Centrelink couldn't find their arses with two hands and a map. Thankyou, Centrelink, the food was delicious.  

For legal reasons, definitely not called 'spanksgiving'

More drinking. Oh, God. For any potential employers reading this, I just want to assure you that my alcoholism is for the most part well within the realms of ‘functional’, and I rarely abuse my liver to this extent.

The night after the beer pong and zombies was Espansgiving (which my spell checker seems to think is a real word, which worries me slightly – damn you, Microsoft Word, what other spelling mistakes have you been letting through?). Espansgiving is a clever combination of ‘Espana’ and ‘Thanksgiving’ (gettit?). It was pretty dull, just the usual Friday night; dinner with Icelandic girls who plied us with hip flasks of topas, a trip to a salsa club, a failed kidnap attempt, you know, the usual. 

We met the other exchange students over on the other side of the city and walked to the restaurant, which turned out to be an RSL style sports/social club. The top floors were buzzing with people, and there was a basketball game in the stadium. Then we were led down increasingly quiet and non-descript corridors into what seemed to be a basement, and I was not feeling optimistic about the way the evening was going to go. But the restaurant turned out to be quite nice, in a RSL kind of way, and not in a basement at all – it was built into the side of the hill, so that we had a nice view across the valley. The food was acceptable, and we had some nice fat steaks which were probably the best we’ve had here, though to the dismay of a number of people on our table the steaks were served rare. One guy cut eagerly into his steak, then wailed in horror ‘it’s not cooked!’ We assured him that people do in fact eat steak in that condition, but he still looked doubtful and slightly appalled.  

Towards the end of the meal it was announced that we were to go to a salsa club, and before we could protest we were bundled into the car of some guy who took off without saying anything to us. We weren’t entirely sure what was going on, and we seemed to be stopping and starting a lot, and making sudden turns, and I did start to think that maybe we were being kidnapped by anti-exchange student radicals, but we eventually got to the salsa club, where it turned out our driver was one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen and not a crazed kidnapper at all. In fact, all the dancers there were intimidatingly good. I have previously mentioned that I dance like someone recovering from brain surgery, and I was even more demoralised than usual after seeing these people whirling all over the dance floor. The club did have a stage to one side with some men demonstrating the basic dance steps for beginners to follow, but I’m beyond the help of mere demonstration. I need years of training at the hands of an aloof Eastern European dancing master to get me up to the level of normal people, but despite the exorbitant price of the drinks, this was not a service the club seemed willing to provide. Amazingly for men in tight white pants and tight white shirts with the name of the club written across the shoulders in silver rhinestones, the dance teachers looked not at all ridiculous. In fact, they looked quite masculine. That’s the magic of salsa. 

Jo and I shuffled around the dance floor for a bit, then Miss Sutherland Shire, shamefaced, admitted that she was too tired to stay and was heading off. We pointed and laughed, and pretended that we were having a great time and were going to stay all night. We may even have done a dance of triumph. Then, five minutes after she left we gratefully went home too.