René, I vill say zis only once. Well no, I'll type it once and quickly because I got me a tortilla in the oven. A tortilla con cebolla y huevos y patata y lots of deliciosas cosas (things) and even though its five o'clock the Spaniards consider it lunch. Viva la comida, never mind the vida.
I've established an internet point via ethernet cable in the hallway. Anyone opens the door I'll have to drawl "I've been expecting you Mr Bond" to cover up the awkwardness. I've got my feet up on our chest of drawers, the table we are still waiting to install in the kitchen when the previous tenant finally comes back is in the corner, I can see a little old Spanish lady putting her washing on the line. Just a moment, I must wave now we've made eye contact or she'll take serious Latin offence. Something about bad sex life for seven years or maybe that only works when you're clinking glasses crying "Salud!" Done now...
We've just got back from Los Rastros, the hub of humanity and everything you could wish to buy that'll fit on a stall. It's also the pickpocketing centre of Spain. Now picture the image of outrageously careful, clutching your bag to your bosom and quasi-snarling at anyone who comes within a radius of ten metres. Even a group of well heeled Americanos who in my defence looked like Spanish hobos. Maybe its the new look. Dreadlocks and frayed denim. Anyway even though someone was playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons at the La Latina Metro stop Los Rastros in dodgy with a capital D. And after a while we wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. Hd a peek in to our first police station in Spain, and my first ever to my shame. It was stangely like a doctors office, no drunk and disorderlies nor heavily tattooed dealers just us normal schmeels who'd had a run in with Crime. Byebye musings on career as a hero policewoman. I'd never have passed the fitness test anyway. If you look at my school PE records I have a mysteriously loose shoelace on the same "beep test" day every 15 years. Cunning incarnate, thas me.
In other news I was supposed to be typing this from Starbucks in their glorious air conditioned coffee filled palace. But when I got in yesterday they cried out "Hola!" at my opening of the door. Now this took me aback as at the time I was trying to remember the difference between Tirar/Empujar, Pull or Push? Shocked at this I made a desperate attempt at getting the level of friendly in the reply right and came out with "Muy buenas días a todos!" which is the linguistic equivalent of Uncle Ben booming "Good mornin', good mornin' how y'all doing this fine hot Alabama day?" They then asked would I like my coffee caliente or frio, what my name was, on hearng my name used it after every sentence and ushered me to a table. I was so swept up in this sea of language and desperately concentarting on the next repuesta (reply) that I forgot to ask for wifi. Oy vay. So I took out my wee Madrid notebook, pushed my glasses down my nose and went for arthouse chique and not powerhouse techno. And that was when I heard it...
"Well, whats the craic?"
Opposite me, in the centre of Madrid, in the friendliest Starbucks in the world, was the melifluous roll of a Derry accent. I couldn't not say anything, no way José. And so I met another Norn Irish, and so the Irish takeover of the world through MY-mum-knows-your-cousins-boyfriends-primary-school-teacher-who-knows-your-uncle- who-obviously-knows-YOUR-mum continues. And the Starbucks staff were all grinning, and "Adios-ing" and one step away from a thumbs up "get in there my son" when we wandered out still talking, under the belief they'd facilitated a matchmake that I had neither the heart nor the vocabulary to tell them that A) it was merely excitement to find another person from the Province and B) no marriage was likely unless he split with his boyfriend. And I'm no homewrecker.
Lessee, what else happened. Found Sunny Delight in the chilled aisle of Día and such an forgotten institution of our childhoods it was like finding the Terry Wogan sunning himself as an expat in Benidorm. Mind you I don't think Spain take EU regulations on e-numbers quite seriously enough. Down enough of that "orange" juice and you're seeing pink elephants. Also there was the escalated row over Father Ted's real name, our drill sergeant of an Inernational Law lecturer I MUST NOT call Franco anymore, the constant reappearance of our oven ghost and a certain pondering when my amusement with the Metro will cease as I smiled for a good 5 minutes today on thinking all of us scuttling about underground must surely resemble mole-people.
xo
No comments:
Post a Comment