Personal Reflections

La Mútua

~ Kate Wilson ~ 1 Comment

I have joined the private health system.
If you are a regular here you might remember that about a year ago I hurt my hand in the van door. I won’t make you revisit the details of what happened in the underground car park – I still can’t bear to think of it.
It was agony for a few weeks and then gradually healed up but there was always a strange sensation around the wound and even when it stopped hurting I wouldn’t say it was back to normal.
Then about 8 months ago a lump appeared over the finger joint and this has got bigger and more painful as time went on.

Ok, that’s the background and I only tell you the details as an introduction to my experience of health care here in Catalunya.

According to leaflets found in the health centres, every person resident here is entitled to a health card which provides free services at doctors and hospitals and reduced price drugs.

However….although I have been here three years and am empadronated in Granollers (it’s a list of people who officially live in an area) and come from an EU country,  I have never been able to get a health card, the Tarjeta Sanitaria or CAP card.

Everyone in my Catalan class – from Africa, from Morocco, from other parts of Spain – have CAP cards.  My friends from Germany and Australia have CAP cards. But I can’t get one.
Different officials give different reasons for this but in the end it comes down to the fact that I am from the UK.  If I get a form from the National Insurance in Newcastle saying that I receive no benefits from the social security system then I can apply for a card. But this would mean that I had opted out of the Health Service in the UK and as I return home every year and always go to visit my doctor there, and up to recently was being monitored for kidney stones, I don’t want to opt out. I want to go here when I am in Catalunya and there when I am in the UK. I can’t really see the problem.

This is why I didn’t do anything when I damaged my hand last year. I waited for it to get better.  Which it did. Then it got worse again and I found myself here without a doctor to turn to.

We went to the Urgency doctor in the local surgery. After waiting for almost an hour in a very dirty waiting room I saw a doctor who took a quick look and pronounced that I had a lump on my finger and that she couldn’t send me to a specialist as I was only receiving urgent treatment.

I then looked into private health care. Most of the arrangements cost about 200 euros per month.
A friend of a friend very kindly took a look at the finger and thought it might be infected and needed looking at by a doctor.
Finally someone pointed me in the direction of La Mútua – which as its name suggests offers various levels of membership of a mutual organisation providing health care.  Anyone here with a bit of money seems to be a member.     I used to be surprised when friends said casually they were off to see a gynaecologist but now I understand how easy it is here.  For 30 euros a month I can go and see a specialist almost immediately.  I pay each time for a visit or a treatment but it is at a much reduced rate.  The other option was to pay more each month, be a full member and have everything included.

The building of the Mútua towers over a central square in Granollers and inside there is an impressive list of specialities. I was shocked to see how many I could imagine using – ginecologia, urologia, pneumologia, even perhaps in the near future, geriatria!

Today was my first visit. I saw Dr Toro who I chose for his name.   He works in traumatologia and he speaks English. He sent me off to book in for an x-ray and an ultrasound. Because of Easter I can’t go next week but the week after I should be several steps closer to sorting out my lump!

This is not an advertisement for the Mútua – I’ll let you know how it goes and what I think of it after I’ve had the treatment. But it is interesting that here so many people are in private health schemes and accept it as completely normal.

Vermut and Kisses

~ Kate Wilson ~ 3 Comments

Last night there was a big jazz band playing at the Casino and about a 100 people came to dance Swing and Lindy Hop.  As you might know, I am learning Swing in Barcelona but I don’t have much chance to practise so I was quite excited.  Granollers swinging at last.
And the best thing is that my friend Montse Marti is going to start teaching classes here in Granollers. After Easter I will be going there and am very happy that Pep is going to come too!
For more information go to Bigpotters Swing on Faceboook.

This is a Virtual Vermut so here is a sign I saw in Barcelona last Monday when I went up for my Swing class.

Vins Cava Vermut i Petons!    Wine Cava Vermouth and Kisses!

This tiny bar with the sign is in the Barri Gotic and is owned by a  Scottish lady called Katherine who has a cheese shop and decided to expand into the the space next door to create a simple bar with wine and cheese.   After many many years of living in Barcelona, she still has a beautiful rich Scottish accent. And of course she speaks Catalan and Spanish as well.

Sometimes I take Bonnie for walks around the town, looking for old buildings and signs of Granollers history. This was an old  liqueur factory, now derelict.  I like this style of sign writing; there is a lot of it in Granollers.  It’s in Spanish as you can see from Montaña which would be written as Montanya in Catalan.
An Arab woman happened to be passing by when I took the photo.  I read in the local paper today that while the last ten years have seen a huge increase in the number of immigrants here in Valles Oriental, in the last year there has been a decrease.   This is due to the fact that people who came from Latin America are now returning home. Work is hard to come by here and in Latin America there is a strengthening economy.   Over 18% of the population of Granollers are from other countries originally.  By immigrants I mean all people who are not of Spanish nationality, including me!

Two other stories from the week
1/ Ant invasion
The ants have come back. We have tried everything but they are winning. Sometimes they withdraw to build up strength and numbers for the next campaign. But they never really go away.
We cleaned out the cupboards yet again

We spread cinnamon around all the entry points

We hung bay leaves as apparently they don’t like the smell

We squished with our fingers the scouts that they send out in advance of the main army
And of course we have tried to negotiate and ask them to go away.
They are fascinating creatures – if you get down close and watch them it becomes very hard to do them harm.

2/ Drawings

Pep did a clown performance and helped present prizes at a drawing competition for the local cancer charity. Before Christmas children had done drawings of…..guess what?  Yes, caganers,  the Catalan addition to all Nativity scenes. So we wandered around looking at about one hundred depictions of little red capped men – shitting!    I am sure the children had a great time!

So that’s it for this week. Happy March to you all!

Taking your dog to live abroad

~ Kate Wilson ~ 3 Comments

I took Bonnie for our normal walk this morning. We don’t always go to the same place but 4 or 5 times a week we go to the Park by the river.
First we crossed over the little square Jacint Verdaguer where there are nice large beds of sand around the tree trunks, used by many dogs as their local toilet.
(Just in case you are not a dog person and are beginning to breathe rapidly and get all worked up about dog shit, I will add now that although some people do not ‘pick up’ the vast majority do, including me!)
There is a colony of pigeons that live in the trees that circle the fountain and today, like most days, they were eating some food left by a neighbour

We went along narrow streets until we arrived at the green space near the river.
I wondered where the swallows are now – of course it is far too early for them to arrive but when they do, this is the place I watch them flying and feeding.

There is a lot of human rubbish all around this zone and I have to defocus otherwise I would be walking every day in a steaming tizzy.
I have a plan to work one day a month clearing up this path – it doesn’t look too bad here – but it is!

I’ve got the bags and just need to contact the council to ask them where I can leave them when they are full. I am attracted to the idea of being ‘that crazy British woman who picks up rubbish’

We passed the vegetable plots and the wild and chaotic yard where Lola the Border Collie lives. She wasn’t there today so we couldn’t do our normal greeting from afar – HOLA GUAPAAAAA!  QUE TAL?  WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF in response.

People do stare at me – I have a secret exhibitionist trying to get out, I think.

We said hello to the little dog who lives on a balcony in one of the flats that look out over the river. Many people here have dogs that spend their days on the balconies, barking at every passing dog. I feel sorry for them but try to cope with it by shouting hello when we pass.

In the park there are always lots of dog walkers and this is one of our favourite places. I don’t usually throw balls and Bonnie just gets on with her newly discovered addiction to sniffing around on the path. She never used to do this in Cornwall – she was too busy running and playing with friends and balls. But now she seems very happy with her head down, checking out who has passed by and whatever other secret messages dogs leave in their pee trails.

This all set me thinking about how we both have adapted to our new environment. We lived in a beautiful paradise in Cornwall, beaches, fields, woods, peace and fresh air. Now we live in a polluted and noisy industrial city, surrounded by rubbish and graffiti, with few green areas to walk in unless we go further afield

But we both seem to have learned to get on with enjoying life. I look at the flowers and the birds and enjoy the view of the distant mountains. She gets very excited by all the new and strange smells and obviously loves the way every day brings more news from the doggy world

This is the funny face  she makes when she is sniffing for scents – her mouth hangs open slightly

At least once a week we can go to the beach or the hills and get more into wild nature.  We have the Pyranees and the Mediterranean on our doorstep.  Granollers is not our perfect dream place to live but in general it is fine.  I worried about all this before bringing Bonnie to live here but like all dogs she lives in the present moment and I don’t think she spends any time dreaming of Cornwall and our past life. She also adores Pep and so long as we are all together and there are new things to explore, she is happy.  Me too!

The Crazy Stepmother from Hell

~ Kate Wilson ~ 6 Comments

There are so many changes to adapt to when you move to another country that sometimes it is hard to know where or who you are.
But for me the most challenging thing has been without doubt the change from childless independent woman to evil step-mother.
I had to create another blog to write about that as it has been a steep learning curve and I needed to create a safe place to explore many difficult feelings and experiences.  I was trying so hard to be nice – yet getting in touch with terrible anger and even hatred. If you want to read about people facing difficult emotions then go and read online Stepparent Forums. Noone prepares you for what it is like in reality and there are a lot of people suffering out there and often blaming themselves.

I went through an interesting process today, out walking Bonnie in the park and mulling things over as usual.  I felt myself shift from tired beaten down victim who wants to run away……. to someone who could stand up for herself and fight her corner. I don’t like fighting – surely people can just be nice to each other?  Can’t they?  Well, sometimes that just isn’t going to happen.

Here’s the story.

Don’t Judge
If you have never been a stepparent please don’t judge what I tell you. It is nothing like being a parent – it is much more complicated and in my opinion, harder. And being a stepmother is not the same as being a stepfather. Those fairy tales weren’t joking – stepmothers have a raw deal and it’s no wonder they can get murderous.
In the beginning
I came onto the scene when the boy was 14 – entering adolescence. I have never known him as a normal child.  Never seen him being loving or entertaining or cuddly like small boys can be.  I have no memories of his eyes lighting up when he sees me, nor of him running to me for a hug when he is hurt. I arrived for the worst bit without any shared happy history.  We haven’t been through a bonding experience like mothers and babies do from the beginning
He hates me
I didn’t expect that.
I probably arrived with absurd notions about parenting.  I don’t have my own children and I had no experience at all of what is involved in being a step-parent.  None of my friends had step children and I have never had a step family myself.  I now know that of course a child will hate the person who intrudes into their home and takes away attention from them.
Whatever the original parental relationship was like, it had one strong common bond – The Child.
I arrived and although I wanted to make a relationship with The Child, he didn’t want one with me. His survival does not depend on me and in fact I am an obstacle in his life. I come between him and his father.
He is a boy so doesn’t express his emotions.  He tolerates me so long as I don’t get in his way. But if I come between him and his desires then it becomes obvious. He hates me.
Language
Obviously we have an added difficulty in that we don’t share the same language. Luckily for me he speaks quite good English and I quickly decided to only speak that with him. If I struggle to talk in Spanish or even worse Catalan, it puts me in a very inferior position and he has even less respect for me than he does already.  He is an expert at the raised eyebrow, the silent putdown.
For the first year our main meeting point was the dinner table where he and his father spoke in Catalan and I sat in grumpy silence, trying to understand what was going on.
I actually learnt a lot of Catalan in those days as the conversations were fairly repetitive. Food. School. Homework. That sort of thing.
There were many times when I was totally lost about what was happening as he spoke with his father about plans or trips or events or, more often than not, things that he wanted to have.  Of course he used to turn on me if I intervened and sneer ‘you don’t know what we are talking about so mind your own business’.
Language also affects how I relate to his friends. It is awkward enough talking with monosyllabic teenagers but I am at a great disadvantage as I can’t be natural and chat and joke in a light manner. Usually they ignore me and talk with his father. If I say something I see terror in their eyes –  I might suddenly burst into English and they might have to answer.
Adolescence
I am told he is a normal adolescent. If that means lying, being rude, swearing a lot, missing school, not doing any homework, refusing to help in the house, stealing money and using our credit cards, playing online poker, looking at food on his plate and saying he won’t eat that shit, not showering without being paid, never cleaning his teeth and spending ALL his awake home time on the computer or mobile phone, then yes, he is a normal adolescent.
Mothering
If mothers always get the blame then what about stepmothers?
My partner’s family complained that I wasn’t playing the mother role in the house. Perhaps it was a compliment that they thought me capable of mothering someone who had so little desire to be mothered.  And in what way was I qualified for this important job?  Just because I am a woman?
Did they think I could make everything better?    This was actually quite an interesting introduction into mother-blame.  Never having been a mother before I hadn’t understood quite how crazy with rage this sort of thoughtless stupid remark can make you.

So, this morning I was walking, mumbling to myself about how I can’t live one more moment with someone who doesn’t want me in their life, who doesn’t like me and who sometimes actively hates me when ……..

….suddenly I received some help from the ethers.
I realised that I am much stronger than I believe.
How can I be so scared of a 17 year old baby who has no money, inadequate social skills, not very good job prospects and at the moment, no qualifications?
I have a bad habit of feeling small and vulnerable and getting stuck in despair but of course there is a part of me that is tough as boots. I just need to remember it!
Years ago I  took an intensive five year survival course in character building at the school of bad relationships when I was in love with someone with borderline personality syndrome.  After that brush with madness (and I am talking about my own there), surely a stroppy, selfish, lazy, rude and spoilt adolescent should be a doddle in the park?

PS I can’t say often enough that if you have never been in this situation then you can’t know what it is like. I used to believe that stepmothers should be patient and understanding and loving and mature. Stepchildren have often been through horrible family breakups and need help not negativity. 

But that was before I actually lived this situation.  We are only human and adolescents can be bitingly cruel and cleverly manipulative.  And deep down, they don’t want you there.  Yes they may be wonderful people underneath but sometimes it takes a saint or a doormat to stay loving and open.  Birth parents find it hard enough but they have a magic potion called unconditional love flowing in their veins. We are expected to be good parents without any help – magical or from society.  Add to this the language and cultural differences and perhaps you can see what I am talking about.

My journey home

~ Kate Wilson ~ 2 Comments

Travelling in Britain when there are a few inches of snow is a good way to remind yourself why you are living in Spain!

What happened?  How was my journey?  Don’t read unless you want to know – here it is!

  • Monday morning receive text from Easyjet saying plane will be delayed two hours till 18.05
  • Decide to leave early anyway because of possible train problems
  • Get to Cambridge station early to catch 11.15 to Kings Cross
  • 11.15 to Kings Cross ‘delayed’ – no other information
  • Hope rises with announcement that 11.15 will leave from Platform 7.   Lug case over there.              Who would think that 16 kgs would be so heavy. It’s the haggis I suppose.
  • Platform 7 already has a crowd of people and a silent waiting train bound for Liverpool Street
  • All trains to Kings Cross cancelled because of an accident.
  • There is no-one giving information in person so we all try to intuit what is the best way to get to London. Much frowning and jumping on and off the quiet train as it waits for a driver to arrive.
  • Eventually we all set off  for Liverpool Street on this train.
  • Slow gentle ride to London stopping at all stations on the way. How pretty the snow!
  • Tube journey to Kings Cross and a short walk to St Pancras – how do old or disabled people manage with all these stairs?
  • Train to Gatwick is ‘delayed’.  There is still no-one giving information. But there are a lot of people with suitcases. We scan the departure boards anxiously. After the Cambridge experience I no longer trust the word ‘delayed’ which might without warning change into ‘cancelled’.         This is when I get that feeling of hatred for public transport in the UK. That sort of reaction I normally judge in other people. That ‘what is the matter with this bloody country I can’t wait to get out?‘ sort of feeling. Then there was one of those wonderful tannoy announcements made famous by Jacques Tati in M Hulot’s Holiday which was was like someone gargling under water and totally incomprehensible.  I began to laugh and felt better.
  • Should I wait patiently or go to Victoria for Gatwick Express? Yes No Yes No …….ah, the train arrives.
  • Slow gentle ride to Gatwick  – no toilets. But how pretty the snow!
  • Arrive Easyjet check-in 45 minutes before original flight time. The check in desk said  ‘No, there is no delay! The flight will leave on time’   She looked surprised that I had thought otherwise.
  • Departure lounge – no gate details yet so I go to the loo – at last!
  • Coming out again I look up and it says ‘Gate 46 Easyjet.  Gates Closed’!
  • Nightmare run along endless corridors alongside a hundred other panting and panicking passengers. Our gate is at the furthest end of the airport. No time to buy a paper or coffee or water.
  • Gate 46 – two bored Easyjet staff smile at us as we arrive sweating and dishevelled.  ‘No that was a mistake – the gates are not closed. Please take a seat!’
  • There is a vending machine – I lose £1.20 trying to buy a bottle of water.  So does another woman.  After that we stand guard to warn people off.
  • Sitting down, tired, hungry, thirsty and confused we all receive another text message telling us the flight is delayed and offering food coupons.
  • We get on the plane which leaves exactly on time – at 16.05
  • Lovely Barcelona airport.
  • I have a strong coffee and a potato omelette roll.
  • The walk to the train is so easy. There are escalators. The journey takes one hour and I am home.
  • Lovely welcome from dog and man.