Waiting for Piso

There is a purple suitcase sitting in our hall. It weighs exactly 19.8kg. This I know, and know well, because blasted Michael O'Leary will only let me take 20kg of my worldly possessions to Spain tomorrow. And it is tomorrow that I leave for Madrid, to find fame, fortune and affordable pillows since the aforementioned Ryanair won't let me take my own. I was going to give one to a small child at the airport, draw a smiley face on it and pay her mother to explain to the stewardess at the boarding gate he's call Mr Biggles and the child can't sleep without him. I won't do this for obvious reasons. I don't have a marker big enough to draw on a convincing smile.

This first entry is called Waiting for Piso. Piso is the Spanish word for flat but might as well mean "needle in a haystack." We couldn't find one. We tried. By all the gods we tried. We encountered suspect Cuban men who spoke and dressed like Louis Spence. The beer belly prevented him from carrying this look off flawlessly. He packed us all in a taxi and took us to a building site. We passed by tents full of naked protestors in main squares who spoke to the air with very animated hand movements. We had to look up "Isobella you can stick your flagrant disregard for contract up your ass and jog off." Lot of tricky conjunctions in that you see. But find one we did, or should I say the brave couple who set off for round two with that Spanish capital did. You've all missed hectic phonecalls in Spanish, limping through two miles of Madrid Barajas airport and trying desperately to remember if the verb "molestar" means to annoy or sexually harass. I must brush up on that as one doesn't wish to presume. But don't worry, there'll be plenty more drama and linguistic embarrassment where that came from.

One last note. As a darling friend said "Aileen, make it funny. No one wants to read serious shit." In the spirit of this plea I suppose I must tell you there will appear some bread-and-butter "What I did today in Spain"  but you will be glad to know there will be the spicy gazpacho of misunderstandings and bad luck that sometimes plague my endeavours. For example, you don't want to know I bought my duvet at Corte Ingles, the Spanish equivalent of John Lewis, but you will want to know that typing cortedeingles.es into the address bar in front of your mother who wishes to ensure you buy the appropriate size of quilt will bring up a chat de sexo con webcam where Rosalita is lonely and seeking attention. Fell free to check the accuracy of my claim, there you will find Rosalita. Or not if her shift has finished.This illustrates that truth is sometimes stranger than fiction and forebodes on what may be waiting out there in that strange land.

And so I must bid Ireland goodbye. For the meantime. The timing of my next blog is uncertain. I usually hate the bloody things so feel free to click the "Hide Option" on Facebook's news feeds. They won't all be as long, won't use the words "I mean seriously guys," talk about life affirming experiences nor literachoor as that way lies pronouncing gap year with too many h's and madness.

Adios chicas y chicos, besitos y un fuerte abrazo. That last is too filthy to translate and if that don't have you running to Google translate like good Spanish students I don't know what will.

xo