The Spanish Are Mad (Ah)

"Buenas días Hai'leeeen! Que pasa"

"Buenas, buenas todos! Ay, nada de mal hombre."

This is me back in the friendliest Starbucks in the world. I've worked out that the trick to it is sounding like you know everyone's mother, brother, senile maiden aunt and medical history. A lot like Ireland actually where we really do know everyone's mother, brother, maiden aunt and medical history. They can't quite get the name yet. I would try explaining the closest you ever come to the celtic "Ai" at the start is to imitate Joey's "'eeeeeey gorgeous, how you doin'?" but this is a bit forward even for me. All these phonetic problems that plague my existence would have been solved had I gone with the Irish Eibhleann (Evelyn) but I am unusual enough without being Evelyn Devlin, a Dr Suess character.

Enough etymological nonsense; the reason why I am in Starbucks as a pleasant change to our entrance-way is once again the presence of wifi. Because FNAC was as much use as a chocolat teapot.

I wandered down to Micro Clinic in the depths of the superstore. I had everything written down because I didn't trust my Spanish not to betray me. We went to connect to wifi of the passworded sort, as has been the problem for a good month now. I'd tried everything short of sacrificing Steve Jobs to Bill Gates.  And lo and behold, there in FNAC, successfully connected to wireless internet.

"Suele pasar" says the technician with a smile. It means "Ah, isn't that always the way?" He is trying to be kind.

"A ha ha ha ha, ah sí, how suele it does pasar." I am trying not to be mortified.

The keys on my laptop curve slightly, whether for aesthetically pleasing reasons or old fashioned comfort, I know not. But at that moment the damn thing seemed to be grinning at me. Back to the drawing board...in our hallway.

Attempt to cheer self up was to compose a welcome message for my €7 spanish mobile. This was hilarious fun and I eventually settled on "Why hello Aileen, You've turned me on." This provided half an hour of uninterrupted smile time and then a good five hours of wondering why God saw fit to grace me with the sense of humour of an adolescent Hugh Hefner.

Another example of this sentido de humor happens on nights out when one of my favourite things to do, apart from bust my sweet moves on the dance flo' (the extra 'or is unnecessary according to Mr Z) is to find the football.

Bear with me. It's not just the football. What you do is wander up to where a bunch of Spanish lads stand around the big screen clutching bottles of Corona and cans of Mahou. You sidle into the middle, clad in a sparkly dress and kitten heels, sipping a cocktail pinker than Barbie's soul. You wait until the ref does something idiotic, which happens about 15 times a minute in a Real Madrid v Barca match. And then, and only then you cry out in the best Spanish accent you can manage "Ay hijo de puta! Que pasa? No me dices que es justo! ie "What are you doing, you bloody idiot? That's not fair ref!" Then you totter off to sing some Cyndi Lauper. And you try not to laugh at the confusion in your wake.

Interesting point, this sort of  "But she was a chica!" reaction doesn't happen in the UK and Ireland. You're more likely to get a slap on the back, a beer bought for you and a post match analysis. The Spanish are mucho mas macho.

Other news now and once again Día had been making its vital contribution to our wellbeing foodwise. Or it was until I went in to get a pizza and was faced with a queue longer than Berlusconi's charge sheet. The problem, engineerically speaking were the two aisles that kept one queue from seeing the other. The left hand queue insisted it was in the right, the right hand queue thought the whole thing was up the left. Spaniards were shouting and "Ay Díos-ing" and waving their hands and then one little old duena marshalled her strength and screeched;

 "SILENCIO!!"

And by god, silencio there was.

Little old Spanish ladies are terrifying. Their shoes always match their dress, their hair is always coiffed, they wear twin sets of necklaces and earrings. They either smoke profusely or not at all. They are capable of bursting eardrums with exclamations. They choose the same shade of lipstick and nail polish. They express disapproval by pursing their painted lips and if one of them starts to organise a supermarket queue you pay attention or you pay the price.

"Que locura es, eh nena?"

The matriarch is speaking to me. And because what she has said literally translates as "This is madness, isn' it girlie?" there's only one thing I wish to say back to her before I lead the left hand queue to victory. And it's not even in Spanish...

"Madness?  No.  This...Is...DÍA!"

Maybe some other time...

xo