Making Friends

AOG, Madrid

It was easy (ish) as a kid, a teen, even in your early 20s…but now?

 

I remember one of the first things I ever learned about myself, and it came straight out of my mother’s mouth.

“If he doesn’t have any friends, he is not going to do well in school.”

Was she right?

Well, ever since she told me this around the time I was seven, I have been fighting with her insight.

Does having friends ensure that you do well in school?

How about work?

Does having friends at work help or hinder your experience? And your output?

Of course, as a child, most- if not all- of your friends were the people you went to school with. A child has a very limited exposure to many social situations and is completely dependent upon parents to socialize to a large extent.

As you grow older, the bulk of your friends is still school-dependent, but, depending on your social interests (among other factors) you find that you have made a few friends outside of school. Maybe you joined a club, or you made a good friend during the summer.

Things like that.

Then comes University, or College, and, again, your social experience is still the main provider of friendships.

And then, one day, in your early, mid or late 20s, when you find yourself at your first jobs, your friends from youth are mostly gone and in their place are other people. People that, if you are “lucky”, have things in common with you.

Or, if you are “lucky”, have nothing in common with you, but you still enjoy each other’s company.

But then you get older. And your life changes. And you change.

But, if you are “lucky”, you still need people you like around you.

You need friends.

But those social networks which provided you with them, and enemies too -lest we forget- are no longer there.

With age you realize that making friends is now a bit more difficult. You realize that you can’t talk to people much younger than yourself because, well, because they all talk crap at that age. Just like you did. Or didn’t.

Now to that mix, add a spoonfull of ‘relocating to another country’ and half a liter of ‘doing it again in your late 30s’ plus a pinch of ‘and your partner lives in another city’.

Now…would you like fries with that?

Yes, moving to another country is as exciting as it is daunting. I now live in Spain. People here are very friendly, but in Spain, as anywhere else on this planet, most people have lived where they live most of their life. Their friends from most of their life are still here, and they are probably well-stocked in that area.

And here comes you, trying to enter that hallowed circle of friendship.

How does one do that? How do you penetrate someone’s circle of friends successfully.

Well, never mind that, my basic question is: how do you make friends later in life?

I have no idea.

If there’s a formula, I never chanced upon it.

I’ve been in Spain for seven years now, and, yes, I have some friends here and there.

Some of my friends happen to live in Barcelona, where my partner lives and, yes, most of these started out by being my partner’s friends, not mine. I am their friend by association, but friend nonetheless.

And here in Madrid I have some friends too, which I have fought over tooth and nail to make.

Some from my Masters, some from a social group, some I met through other friends, some others I met in French class. Some I just met on the street, and many are just expats (and no, not mostly British).

I cherish every one of them, but still I seek more friends. Like-minded people, not just people I have something, or a lot of things, in common with, but people who are like me.

Yes, it may sound ridiculous, but finding people like you is one of the most important things in life.

And what are people like you like?

Well, they are however you wish to define that, but basically, they are like you.

They are like the kind of people you say things like ‘people like you and I’ to.

Those people.

Like you.

So, just last week, through the power of the Internet and a dash of facebook, I met somebody I’d like to be friends with, but probably won’t be.

And she is the reason why this got written in the first place.

Let me tell you about this.

Last week, facebook advertised a page aimed at expats living in Spain who had things they wanted to get rid of, or sell. A sort of second-hand notice board for foreigners in the country.

Basically, if you came to Madrid to live 5 years ago, and you are going back home, you have to sell those Ikea bookshelves and CD collection which only you like. Plus your books.

You may end up throwing it all away, but now, thanks to the magic of the internet and the powers of facebook, your stuff can become someone else’s stuff.

So, there I was on the page, scrolling down to see what was there, hoping to find something I may like. And there it was: somebody was selling a surround sound system for €50.00

Me and another ‘user’ began to badger the owner of the product for a couple of days. One could come, one could not; then it rained; and it was sunny; then I was stuck in the office; and the other one seemed to pull out of the race, blah blah blah.

In the end I was the lucky one.

I went to her place, met her, her husband, and her baby. And really liked her.

After the whole transaction (I am now the proud owner of a Yamaha surround sound system for an incredible price and the cost of a cab ride home) was over, I went home thinking to myself, so… how would I go about befriending this nice person?

The usual fears and anxieties crept in.

She may think I’m a psycho. Or weird. Or any other number of social inequities may pop up in the equation.

Should I say something? Keep quiet?

Is she even in the market for a new friend?

A couple of years younger than I, and a mother, she may have no room or desire for new friends.

What should I do? Tell her I’d like to be her friend? Just move on?

If she were American, this process would be rather easy, but she is British, and as with all things UK, there are social procedures, nuances, and a myriad of unnavigable venues one should keep in mind so as not to make one big fat faux pas… and scare her off.

Age, in this respect, is beginning to be slightly burdensome.

Or perhaps not so much age but rather a clear, easy-to-follow,lack of befriending protocols.

 

Open Mic Madrid

AOG, Madrid

I remember reading a few years ago about Americans living in Prague during the 1990s. There was a small community of college kids (thought not only) living there who found the city fascinating and had created a small literary community. The only drawback, however, was that they cared little for Czech and spoke only English. Or so the author told us.

Yesterday I witnessed the Spanish equivalent of Prague's literary expat community. It was called "The first Mad open Mic" and was organised by Margie Kanter, an American writer who's lived in Spain for more than just a few years.

I have to say that, on my way there, I bumped into a new friend of mine named David. He was moving out of his apartment in central Madrid and moving in with a friend in north-central Madrid. He was letting out his apartment for 1,200 Euros per month and moving into a large spacious place where "We can entertain" with a girl who is a friend of his and was driving the car he had just popped out of as I was walking past.
Needless to say I swiftly invited myself to he up-and-coming entertaining soirées chez David.

Back to poetry.

The event in question was held at the Café Concierto La Fídula on Huertas street. Nice venue but pricey. I had to pay 2.70 Euros for a small bottle of sparkling (fizzy) water. Yes, it was Vichy Catalan, but still.

Aptly enough it is located in Madrid's famous literary neighborhood of "Las Letras"- literally 'The Letters', almost across the street from the Prado museum.

So, what did I see? What did I hear?

I think the person who stood out the most for me was the first reader, Nicholas Thran. Canadian and living in Toronto where he works at a bookshop, he finds the time to write and, even, publish his work. Something I've never been able to do.
He said he liked Roberto Bolaño and dedicated one of his readings to him. Does he know Mr. Bolaño is dead? As it happens, he does know (see replies). I was also surprised to hear he has not visited his mother in five years until now although, as I've been informed, she goes back to Canada once a year. She, by the way, is the one living in Spain. I am very curious as to why. Does she work at the Canadian Embassy in Madrid? When I saw her I certainly thought so; she looks the type.

Then there was Sue Sinclair. Beautiful reading voice. She said how "everything in Spain is more beautiful than back home". She too is Canadian and Mr. Thran's girlfriend.
She read a poem called "Sunburst". Of hers, I liked this line the best: "Seeing objects in their endless sleep" and "A tear in the foil that reflects the God's to themselves".

Then Sue Burke read. Her contribution was a succinct but very well written witty tale about a Spanish man learning English with two different tutors. It made me laugh to hear the short story. I know Sue. I read her blog. Her husband was there too.

After her, a supermodel-type girl named Maria Schock from Ohio went up. More than read, she performed "The memory of a girl". Hers was a poem which blurred the lines between formal poetry and urban rap. I was amazed she could remember her work and not have to read it. I think we all were.

Then a woman named Laura Ferguson read. Margie was playing MC last night, and when it was Laura's turn, she asked after saying her name if the pronunciation was right. I immediately asked myself "in how many different ways can you pronounce 'Laura' in English?" I only know of one.

So Laura read a poem about immigration. A hot topic in Spain. A hot topic in the US too. I thought it was cute that Ms. Ferguson had a slight lisp. I thought it was very interesting that she regaled us with a some personal information through her poetry. It appears she leaves home for work with a book and a pencil. The Spanish seem to find this very odd. She likes to underline her books to ensure the words stay with her for the day. "For life if possible".

Then a lady of unknown origin but very posh-sounding English (with the odd Spanish inference here and there- mostly her consonants) read a short-story in progress: "African love". I unfortunately did not pay enough attention to it since her accent fascinated me. It was slightly like what I remember Lady Bienvenida Buck's faux posh English accent (in the photograph) to be, only one million times better. Susana Aikin's speech certainly enthralled me.

Then Margie's husband read after Marjorie herself read a selection of short poems. The only Spanish artist present to do so. His poem "Stereotypes" stayed with me all night long:

"Women like money
Men like Sex
That is why money and sex
go so well together"

I loved it. We all did.

Then the biggest surprise of the night for me was a girl named Nasima Akaloo. She apologised for using a lot of Spanish words in her work. "Your English gets displaced by Spanish to the point where you don't want to translate any more".

Of herself she said she was "Muslim and more" but didn't speak "Al Arabiya" as her poem told us. I don't know where she was from. Perhaps Pakistan? Her English certainly was at times choppy and foreign throughout- I think her second language, not her first. Amazingly she writes in it. And she writes very well.

Her poem spoke about having to wait in line to sort out her residency papers. About how the Spanish don't understand that she wants to live in Spain and yet she can't abide pork or its derivatives, and I had to be brought down to Earth rather quickly by the fact that not all immigrants are hard working people who are willing to do menial jobs for whatever pay. Here was an artist. I wonder if her employer knows or even cares about this?

I also find it interesting that, whilst all expats there are immigrants, Ms. Akaloo was the only one who felt she was. She certainly was the only one to say so. I think it is to do with that odd trans-ethnic thing where, if you are white and Western, anywhere you live in the Western world is part of your culture, and so, even if you are a midwest farmer living in Portugal, life, though different, is still at its core, somehow familiar to your own culture.

Whereas if you come from the non-Western part of the globe, you will always be an immigrant, unless you, somehow, blend in to the point of "passing for a local". Anglo-Indians in London do it all the time, though I wonder if it works both ways. Do they go to India and blend in? Probably not at first.

Two of the readers failed to show up, although one did but 30 minutes after the affair had died down. British, he was surprised that the flier mentioned it lasted until 22:30 and he arrived around 22:00 or so. Just in time to listen to the person previous to him, and the one just after him. I thought it was a bit rude to show up so late, but he was mostly just upset that he didn't get to read. Was there an excuse? Perhaps, but I didn't hear it. Mostly I saw a man with a pony tail and a black leather jacket sulk. I would like to hear his work at the next open mic, whenever this may be.

All in all, the evening was a success. I was quite happy to have been a part of it. I do hope to take part next time it takes place.