I just like plantain.

Strolling through the shady district of Martim Moniz the other day on the way to work, I couldn't help stopping to sniff, squeeze and shake the exotic selection of fruit and veg that Lisbon's resident African population has brought with it from the ex-colonies of Angola, Mozambique and Cabo Verde.

Some particularly tasty-looking plantain caught my eye (black, yellow and green!) and I couldn't resist picking up a few sweet ones to fry up as crispy patacones.

As I apporached the till, a beaming black man came up behind me, showing off all his discoloured teeth as he grinned.
"Plantain!" He gasped in muffled African Portuguese. "You're taking home plantain!"
"Sim. Eu gosto muito das bananas." I replied in slightly more muffled Spanish Portuguese.
Without hesitation the smiley guy said "You like plantain! Es africana?!"
"Uh?" I must have misheard.
"Are you African? You're buying plantain!"
"Um, no" (I'm giggling a bit now) "I just like plantain..."

So this got me pondering, as many things do, about what it is that defines us as being from one place or another. As far as I'm concerned, I look about as English as you can get, though since moving to Portugal my tell-tale lisp and habit of saying "sabes?" or "vale?" at the end of every sentence has meant that on several occasions, and in spite of my clear lack of Latina colouring (or bottom), I have been mistaken for a Spaniard.

In Lisbon it is amusingly easy to spot the main immigrant nationalities. The Brazilians always wear beachwear, even on the chilliest December morning (hey, if you've got an authentic pair of Havaianas, you might as well show them off) while the Africans simply refuse to take off their enormous black quilted coats, even while the rest of the city swelters in the Mediterranean heat and humidity.

But what is it really that defines us as being where we are from? I know ex-pats who have lived in their adopted country for longer than in their native land, married foreigners, changed their passports. They've had foreign babies whose first words are not English, and have subsequently grown up to be fully fledged foreign adults. But these ex-pats always seem to be the most exceedingly English people you could ever hope to meet, as if they wish to compensate for their self-imposed exile with an excess of patriotic beaviour. I know people who were born and raised in one country by foreign parents, whose nationality they still claim to feel closer to than their own. And then there are the swarms of 20-30-something nomads, who have spent a few years roaming the planet, lose touch, need a couple of days' practice before feeling fully comfortable using their own language again, and yet have not managed to adopt any other nationality as their own and are now stuck in some kind of limbo. It's a fabulous, exciting, curious state to experiment with for a while, but when does it start to become draining, confusing, unsatisfying?

We don't choose where we are from. We choose where we are. We choose what we eat, what we wear, where we shop. So maybe a plantain, catching my eye in Martim Moniz, is just as good a clue as any other as to who I am.

Science, maths and just a little bit of chocolate

You know that theory that if you eat a stick of celery you actaully burn more calories chewing it than you gain from the nutritionally-challenged vegetable itself?
Well, I have developed my own, slightly more indulgent version of this, involving a hell of a lot more sugar and fat... and pleasure.
I live on the third floor of an old building, which therefore has no lift. My reasoning is that by descending three flights of stairs, speed-walking to the bakery at the end of the street, and dashing back up to the flat, I have actually burned more calories than I will gain from whatever cream-filled and chocolate-coated piece of yumminess I choose to buy from the bakery.
This means that, in theory, this activity could be repeated endlessly throughout the day, with no increase in calories whatsoever, and a damn good pair of thighs at the end of it.
Isn´t that the perfect solution to winter blues?!

And where are YOU from?

"Where are you from?"
"Are you from England?"
"¿De dónde eres?"
"Are you Spanish?"
"De ónde és?"

Origin, for anyone venturing outside of their own country, is a hot topic. How many days can go by without me being asked at least one of the above questions? My nationality ranks above my job, my marital status, my education and my ambitions in the list of Top Ten Questions To Ask A New Person. It´s a conversation starter, when confronted by so many new faces on such a regular basis. It´s a conversation filler, when the new face turns out to be a bit short of small-talk. If you´re from the same place - well, hey! Wow! That´s something to talk about then, isn´t it!? What a coincidence! If you´re from different places - cool! What´s it like there? How´s the weather? The beaches? The food?

"Where are you from?" has become one of the most detested questions amongst seasoned nomads. It reeks of unoriginality, boredom, desperation. You´ve reeled off the answer so many times, with catchy little soundbytes devised for your village/region/country/continent, depending on the distance of the questioner´s own origin, and level of geographical comprehension. Thus, in London, I am from Kent. In Portugal, I am from London. In the States, I am British, though the closer I edge inland, the more I become European. In Chile I was, as the most recognised point of reference, from Spain. In Ecuador I was from some where so incomprehensibly distant that it simply became Not Ecuador.

The soundbytes themselves are lame attempts at either self-deprecation, humour, or patriotism, a trait rarely witnessed within England but which is forced to flourish once abroad. A typical soundbyte about my village will also depend, once again, on the other player´s own origin. It could be as follows:

Slough: "Yeah, Kent. Just this crappy little village in the middle of nowhere with one poxy bus an hour to the nearest town. An you only go there if you fancy getting bottled by a couple of orange girls with thongs sticking out above their miniskirts."

Spain: "It´s sort of between London and France. So it´s not as cold as the North. And the food is really ok, no, honestly, you should have a Sunday roast at my grandma´s sometime. No, the beef doesn´t have mad cow disease..."

USA: "It´s this pretty little village with one pub serving traditional pints of Kentish ale, yeah, surrounded by forest and farmland, and at the bottom of the hill, past this really old church, there´s this iron-age burial site with STONES..."

Ecuador: "We have lots of trees in my village too but we have these things called, er, seasons, and, uh, the leaves fall off the trees... yeah, it´s totally weird, and we have glass in our windows cos it´s quite cold, and, um, that´s why we can´t wash our clothes in the river. Well, actually, machines do our washing. Magic."

How to Wash in a Third World Country

Slightly hysterical after a week of on-off hot water drama, I relise I need to get the situation under control and come up with a solution. What would bruce Parry do? What would Ray Mears do?
Hm. Not having quite enough time before class to sit and rub two sticks together and heat the tin bucket of freshly collected spring water, I start to think about what I would do, and indeed did, when forced to live not only without hot water, but without running water, way down in the tropics.
So I adapted my technique for colder climes and came up with the following:
1) Fill kettle, boil kettle, pour water into washing up bowl.
2) Repeat step one at least three times.
3) Fill large tupperware bowl with water and heat in microwave.
4) Add tupperware bowl water to washing up bowl.
5) Create elaborate network of extension leads, allowing the heater to be placed in freezing bathroom.
6) EXTREMELY IMPORTANT: Do NOT switch on heater while kettle and microwave are in use as this will result in power cut in ridiculously low powered Portuguese flats, thus leaving one with no hot water, no heat and no light. This is not the desired outcome.
7) Place steaming washing up bowl of water into bath(with water still in bowl), switch on heater, wait for bathroom to resemble sauna
8) Place self in tub, and enjoy burning oneself with boiling water, liberally applied with sponge.
9) For added heat, place feet in washing up bowl.
10) You are now clean, AND warm. Yay!

The mystery of those we just love to live with

Finding myself once again on the move, I have been forced to consider the curious conundrum of HOUSEMATES. Why is it that, while a good three-quarters of the folk you meet everyday (and trust me, travelling and teaching brings me into contact with a pretty wide selection of new faces on a pretty much weekly basis) are what can be broadly termed as "normal", while a freakishly high percentage (´scuse the pun) of those who we should be proud enough to address as our Housemates are, well... losing screws, marbles and toothpaste lids all over the place.
I realise of course that on first contact, one´s own personal quirks, habits, fetishes and fads are not usually on display to the whole world, and that living with someone can draw attention to the bizarrest of traits. Four years at Art college introduced me to some pretty odd characters (creativity manifests itself in many ways, maaan), though this would generally entice you to know them better, and enjoy spending time around those who had broken from the sterile concept or "normality" and the fear of "what will people THINK???"

Now, I have no desire to name and shame here, that´s not the point of this blog. But I do feel that a few examples would help to flesh out this theory, and clarify my point. So here´s a small selection of the characters I have been blessed with over the last eight years of shared homes.

• The paranoid-schizophrenic anorexic who pulled her hair out.

Way back in the hazy days of my first ever student flat and still dazed by all the possibilities that were open to me now that I didn´t live with mummy and daddy, I was presented with the scary housemate to scare off all other housemates and was forced to sleep with a locked door, until one day she disappeared, just like that.

• The depressed Sicilian who folded plastic bags

I never actually saw the bags being folded, they just appeared in neat, tiny little triangles in the kitchen drawer.

• The nymphomaniac Argentinian musician

Despite having a rather gorgeous model as a long-term girlfriend, this lovely young chap decided he was man enough to take up the challenge of shagging his way round the capital, and I was regularly introduced (or, not, if they were in a particularly randy mood) to nymph-like cellists, nurses, and, more memorably, the baker from across the road.
The problem was that the Housemate would leave early for work, and I would always double lock the door on my way out, resulting, on more than one occasion, in said cellist/nurse/baker (especially the baker - she started work early) being locked into the flat and having to find ways of breaking out. Extra evil housemate points for the all-night house parties, allowing me not a wink of sleep, then running away the next morning leaving me, on the verge of collapse, to deal with fuming neighbours.

So I start my latest hunt optimistically enough - Mission: Find a nice house, within budget. Avoid: Total freaks. SO simple. Surely the odds are on my side?

I rock up at the door of the first flat, hopping from foot to foot with anticipation (it´s a beautiful old building! It has balconies! I has views!) and the door slowly opens to reveal... a female drag queen. Sigh.

To be fair, (s)he was pretty sweet, her dogs (dogs??!) were friendly and she even said that me being a Gemini made us compatible as housemates. Her own brightly coloured paintings covered the walls. If I could just have seen past the spangly turquoise eye make-up and pink-and-platinum wig, we may have been the perfect match. I guess I´ll never know.

A Little Bit about my New Home

Lisbon is a very likeable city. It´s quaint. It´s quiet. It has trams. It´s cheap. It has all the benefits of a modern capital (efficient metro, modern art galleries, thriving nightlife) but none of the bustle, the stress, the pollution, the ugliness. It´s a half hour drive to the middle of nowhere. It´s a half hour drive to the beach.

Portugal is exceptionally poor. I remember being disgusted to learn that the mimum wage in Spain is just 570 euros a month (the government is aiming for a whopping 600). Just before jumping on the plane to Lisbon, I discovered that Portugal´s minimum wage is 380 euros. I was stunned. Part of Lisbon´s beauty is its antiquity. The vast majority of the buildings are old, low rise houses, either painted in sunny colours or tiled from top to bottom with signature Portuguese patterned tiles - azulejos. But many of the tiles are damaged, cracked, faded, or have simply fallen off the façade.

A much-loved façade can be transformed into a true tapestry of mismatched azulejos, abstract patterns competing with floral swirls, powder blue backed up against sea green. But more commonly the space is left exposed to the elements, each rare rainstorm washing away the crumbling layers, the wind blowing away dusty cement. Pigeons wedge their way into the cracks and scratch away firmer footholds. Here and there an unsurpressable plant pushes its way through the layers, tearing the building apart from within.

It is beautiful, but also sad. Romantic as these scenes are, the lives of those who live there are surely not so rose-tinted. A short drive out of the city takes you past shanty towns, crumbling colonies taking advantage of the country´s empty spaces and escaping the city´s inflated rent. "What´s that?" I ask innocently as we drive north past a strange looking settlement, adjusting my sunglasses, ready for the beach.
"Slums" is the unforgiving reply.
If the Portuguese struggle, the immigrants really have to claw their way to survival. With former Portuguese colonies such as Angola, Mozambique and Cape Verde, there is no shortage of tenants for these impoverished kingdoms, exposed to the elements and the hatred of their native neighbours. If they pass thish harsh initiation, they will be rewarded with houses from the Portuguese government. Imagine the horror of the 380 euro a month Portuguese worker.

Back in the city the evening sun is low behind the Golden Gate-style bridge, spanning the river Tejo. Everything is golden. The city looks like it´s on fire, the sparkling azulejos catching the sunset and reflecting it back out like an enormous mirror ball with a million tiles. The Sao Jorge castle presides over this golden treasure; across the river Christ stretches out his arms to embrace the glowing city. And everything is forgiven.

5000 Miles away in Brixton

Having broken free of nice, shiny Summertown suburbia - for a whole 24 hours! - I found myself playing at being a traveler. The babble of foreign languages and music and stalls of unrecognisable fruit and veg and enormous pigs' trotters and fish in clear plastic bags made me feel like I was five thousand miles from home again. It was magic. I strode through Brixton market with a swing in my step and a barely disguised grin creeping its way across my face. So much to see and smell and hear and be amazed by - it was everything I loved about being abroad. And in my grounded state, someone had brought it all to me here in England! I felt like I was about to burst with excitement.

I poked and prodded and inhaled until I found the perfect mini papayas, and bought a bag of lychees for a pound. I discovered what breadfruit look like, though not what one is supposed to do with it. I even caught a glimpse of the elusive pomelo, an exotic fruit I was fed as a child, somewhere between a giant grapefruit and a melon, which I was consistently accused of having invented, due to the lack of any remaining physical evidence to show disbelieving friends.

Then, just to make the "traveling" experience even more authentic, I got proposed to. Ha!

He was a little fishmonger who had already made a couple of suggestive comments as I had strolled past, and as I turned to pace back again he called out: "You want to marry me, lady?" I couldn't place his accent, and being surrounded by so many nationalities and races and cultures, I was curious to find out where at least one of these facinating people came from. So, with my inquisitive traveler spirit still bouncign around inside me, I asked.

"Oh, I come from very bad country" replied the little fishmonger, his smile still intact. "My country not good place." Despite the grin, I could tell he was being serious.

"Where?" I insisted, saddened that anyone should have to feel such shame over their origin.

"Afghanistan" he replied.

"Oh" I said, dumbly.

Fortunately I was spared having to find a suitable response as the Afghan fishmonger took the opportunity to ask where I was from. I have been asked this question many, many times over the past few years, but never, never in my own country. It made me smile.

"I'm from here" I said, "England."

The little fishmonger's face lit up. "I want marry English lady" he said.

I had my polite declination planned. "I'm sorry, I'm already married." I apologised, tucking my left hand out of sight so that the lack of ring was not glaringly obvious. But we continued to grin at each other, the jovial atmosphere unspoiled.

As I turned to walk away, the optimistic little Afghan fishmonger called out: "Maybe I find another English lady to marry."

Maybe he will.

Hurled Back to Life in the 21st century

A lot of strange things have happened in England since I've been away. There is no bell rung in the pub at ten to eleven. Tony Blair is no longer Prime Minister. And people have been replaced by robots.

Yes, robots.

I innocently walk into the local Co-op on my first weekend back in Britain, a very posh supermarket in the classy Oxford suburb of Summertown which tellingly sells red split lentils, unpronounceable fruit juices and organic wholemeal couscous. All those things which are cheap, staple foods in third world countries, but which in England are the most fashionable of fashionable foods - ridiculously overpriced, exotic-sounding AND healthy!

Finally back in Blighty, I'm quite excited about the prospect of being able to buy a copy of the Guardian and some coconut macaroons, but my plan to just nip in and out is thwarted by massively long checkout queues. Until I spot a suspiciously short little queue at the far end, and smugly stroll over, wondering why no-one else has done the same. Then I realise.

BECAUSE THE CASHIER IS A ROBOT.

Christ. Terrifying. I clutch my newspaper and scoot back into line behind three enormous trolleys.

The following week, having grabbed a carton of cranberry juice to enjoy with my Saturday paper, I discover, to my horror, that due to the Co-op's abnormally empty state, there are no cashiers. Except the Robot. Oh God.

I shuffle over and touch the screen. A friendly female voice greets me and instructs me to scan my items. I make it go beep. "Please place the item in the bag" says Robot Lady. I frown. I don't want a bag. I put my macaroons NEXT to the bag, to one side.

"Please select your payment option" I stick my card into the slot and am requested to wait. So I pick up the Guardian to glance at the headlines.

"Please place the item BACK in the bag" growls Robot Lady. What?! How the hell does she know???!!

I give the screen a filthy glare, knotting my brow as much as possible. Robot Lady does not seem fased by this death-defying scowl. I sheepishly place my paper back next to the plastic bags. The hideous piece of technology pretends not to care.

The transaction complete, I tuck the cranberry juice and Guardian under my arm, give the screen one last evil grimace, and flounce out of the store with my purchases.