A shock in Barca, and tomatoes on the terrace

July 1–20 – Zaragoza y Barcelona   

We both watched the street. It was dusk in Barcelona. A deep purply sky hung framed by the dirty white bricks of the boulevard. In the middle of the cross-section a young man lay stretched across the floor, motionless. His blood stained the tarmac. A scooter lay sprawled by his side, surrounded by the shattered fragments of his headlights.

I was looking at the street, standing beside my host. I had heard a bang in my room, and walked through to the living room, to find out what was up. I entered the room to find Norma, my host, at the window shaking her head.

“People are arrogant in this city. They drive too, too fast. They only think about themselves.”

Our window was on the third floor, and it gave almost a birds eye perspective. The scene felt like a painting. The accident was framed by the four-way street, and in the background, there were shots of light from windows of the apartment blocks opposite. Like us, residents where looking down at the accident unfolding, in disbelief.

And watching this all play out, took me back to London. To the last time I was called on to help a terrible situation, at the foot of my own apartment.

2 weeks before the accident, I arrived in Zaragoza. It became one of my favourite cites I have visited. And it is mainly because of my host.

Jose lived just a bit beyond the centre of the city, in a family orientated little barrio. He was friendly , but genuine, and a true enthusiast in his city and the under discovered countryside of Aragon, the region beyond.

Jose was a short man in his 50s with a mighty moustache you could hang your washing on. His apartment was stuffed full of well thumbed guides to the local flora and forna, the mountains, the rivers, and everything in between that shaped his beloved Aragon. He was also gardener of true passion and quality. Two french doors led to a veritable jungle of fruit and vegetables and flowers and herbs that grew on his sizeable terrace. And talking of washing, he even had made his own natural detergent. Not because he was hopelessly guyenth paltrow, but because he was good enough to know how to make his own. Hence, That night my pants and socks slept softly, smelling sweet amongst the vines and tomatoes.

It was my most complete stay I think really. Jose and I ate together – sometimes with produce from the terrace – and watched the spanish elections unfold to their ultimately disappointing stalemate again. Every now and then he would turn up brandishing a dusty old book on a particular ravine, or a map of walks through mountains or past beautiful monasteries. All, sadly, were almost impossible to get to without a car. Or there may be a bus in the (early) morning and one late in the evening. A nailed on chance to be lost in the middle of nowhere!

But this gave me the appetite to come back, have a beer with Jose, and finally tackle the mountains, and barrancos (revines) of the Aragonian Pyrenees. A roadtrip from Madrid could do it. One day.

Zaragoza itself is a great city to visit. A beautiful old town, statement cathedral and lovely river have now been supplemented by futuristic new buildings, bridges, and a fantastic wetlands 'aquapark'. Oh and the tapas is not bad either. It is a perfect little weekend break city.

After Zaragoza I set about making my way to Barcelona, a four hour journey by bus.

Almost everyone has been to Barcelona, but me. I'm not sure if I was saving it, or just preferred to go somewhere different in Spain – Granada, Jerez, Santander – rather than hitting the big, touristly heart of Spain. Or Catalunya, the region, and perhaps more if you speak to the right (wrong?) people. But that is a whole other blog, right there.

Barcelona is a beautiful city. A city of its different parts, barrios much more than others in Spain – which are usually much more residential, leading towards a centre. Barcelona, due in part to its history, is a city of different parts, brought together over the years. The Barrio Gótico – old town – was connected with the village of Gracia in the 19^th century to make the Paris-like Eixample neighbourhood – all long boulevards and cross-junctions. It also created the Paseo de Gracia – where Gaudi, and other leading, less bonkers architects of the day laid down Art Nouvelle masterpieces.

I was in Barcelona, ostensibly to study a little short conversation course. But what I was really in Barcelona for, I think, was to get refused entry to nightclubs. This happened three times. Despite dressing up 'elegente' my trainers or sandals weren't cutting it. But which traveller packs a fancy pair of loafers? My broken Spanish reasoning to the bouncers did not cut it, so while my friends partied, it was just a lukewarm can by the sea for me, bought for a euro off a indian man doing the rounds.

One of my rules always used to be, never go to a club that has a dress code. It's usually a pretty good barometer of a place. Normally you can predict: expensive drinks, dickheads scanning up girls too young for them, or rich charm-free types, who think that smashing down 2k to 'book a table' is a sign of attractiveness, instead vulgarity.

My classes was fantastic. And though only 2 hours a day, most days I asked a classmate for a beer and a further chat in Spanish. Our teacher was inspiring, and I was impressed how he managed to keep the conversation going, and throwing in a few jokes, aimed at the limited level that we were operating.

It was also fantastic to have a bit of structure, a place to be everyday, even though it was at a student friendly 1pm in the afternoon. How well I got up in time for that!

And another thing with doing the course, was the ability to find free friends.

I befriended a slightly nervy french lad, a Turkish girl who was studying architecture, and many Italians who seemingly would just speak italian, with a bad Spanish accent. In my class itself, people tended to be older, latter day learners – but much more committed to the learning, like me. Probably this was due to the slightly higher level we were than some of the others, but it did seem that some people were here for a holiday first and Spanish course second.

And also, to me, it was interesting, as it was my first ever experience learning Spanish in a classroom!

On my last day in Barcelona, at the window as I watched the aftermath of the accident, it reminded me of when something similar happened rather more close to home.

It was about 10pm and deadly quiet in the road that lead to my old flat in London. Joe, my flatmate, and I were returning from central London. We heard a sound, and were the first on the scene. A local 15 year old boy had stolen a moped, and not knowing any better, had careered into the back of a parked car. He lay on the floor, leg out of joint. It sent a shiver up through us.

We no option but to to help. His friends, were spiraling around shouting into thin air. They were clearly shocked to the core, but they also were worried about 'the evidence'. 'The crime' – of joyriding. So, lacking anyone better, we decided to take control of the situation. Joe, checked the logistics of the situation, and I kneeled down on the ground and attempted to reassure the boy. Joe engaged in a element of crowd control, and various kids jumped around the site like pigeons, hands infront of mouths. The boy was still conscious, but his eyes were closing. Staying alert is important in this situation, and staying still. He supported Brentford of all teams, and was confident of the new season. We kept him awake long enough.

The ambulance they managed to figure it out where we were, and made it on time. They did a fantastic job, despite the crowd, and the boy went off to hospital.

In Barcelona, the residents started to return inside their flats, and lights across the street, slowly turned off, one by one. There was sawdust covering the stains on the street and the rider was inside the ambulance. He was either receiving treatment or not.

The ambulance stayed there a long time, not rushing off to hospital.

“Its either a good or bad sign” my host said.

We both returned to our rooms. The night drew in, and the cars started flowing again through the street. Horns beeped, young people shouted and laughed outside my window. The noise and buzz of the city returned, camouflaging the events that had happened just an hour previously.

I went to bed, hot and sweaty on a humid Catalan evening. I pulled over the covers and closed my eyes, a little shaken.

Arriba, Abajo. The trials of language learning, and the rain in Spain.

June 13–17 – Burgos and Santander

“De nuevo! Una vez mas!”

Practice makes perfect, it seems. And in this case perfection seems essential.

On the rather high bar counter sit five wine glasses. They were lined up into a row, and each was filled to a similar level. Similar – almost exact. But not perfect.

A timid, friendly Ecuadorian boy looked a little anxious as he took each glass and threw away the water inside. One more try. The grizzled bar owner strided behind the bar, looking over the boy's shoulder, and making jokes at his expense. “You can't teach them nowadays”, I think was the general thrust. The boy continued to pour into each glass, one slowly after another, as carefully as he could. But with the bottle almost at head height, it was difficult to control, and the owner moved the one from the end next to the one from the start. The levels were off. The boy took the glasses, and poured the water inside down the sink. And so it started all over again.

I left Madrid in bright sunshine. The city at its extremities, stretches from shuttered 4 story blocks of flats, all curvy ironwork and window boxes, through council estate style concrete piles, to, at this time of the year, rolling green fields, and tame mountains beyond. When I left at 11am it was all lit in a spongy orange light. All terracotta fields, seaweed green hedgerows, and dusty cows.

As is often the case, the journey north led from bright skies, to moody clouds. And from moody clouds, came rain. Lots of it.

And this soggy entrance was how started my trip to Burgos. And it was the first time I felt just a touch of loneliness.

I do not normally think of myself as a quejica, about the weather. But the rain in Burgos affected me. The first day I attempted to walk around in shorts and T shirt – like it was the Costa del Sol or something – showing my Englishness. The Spanish, meanwhile, huddled in thick coats.

So I had to change it up – jacket, scarf, jumper, trousers. With no umbrella, I ran from overhanging building, to parasol – venturing out in the few breaks in the rain to take some pictures.

Burgos is a beautiful city, there is no doubt. And the walk from the bridge, through the finely detailed medieval entrance arch, to the stunning cathedral – is definitely one of the must see sights of the region Castilla y Leon. But in the rain, it feels an incredibly small, local town.

And, for some reason, I found it hard to understand hardly anything.

It all started well. My host was a lovely girl of a similar age, and I stayed in her carefully furnished flat close to town, with her husband. Initial conversation I was almost fluent. But that was pretty much my last successful conversation in Burgos.

I'm going to blame the rain. It must have brought my Englishness out. And it left the others closed. Necks sunken into coats, like pigeons in the wind.

The first paragraph in another language, like writing an article, is the most difficult. You have to stumble up the hill – and it's only once you scramble to the top, can you see the landscape beyond.

Burgos seemed like a lot of stumbling, a few grazed knees, and not many deep breaths at the top.

And on the way down, the pendulum swings back to tension, awkwardness, and self doubt.

The unfortunate truth about learning a language is the shear scale. It can be like pulling a ballon through the eye of a needle. I need all of this now! I need to understand everything, and say it all!

Because, just knowing how to describe a fraction of a complex fluid ocean of meaning, means that the further out you get, you are still treading water.

And the worst thing is to compare. Which is what I did in Santander.

Santander, my next stop, is a glorious seaside town. The summer haunt of futbalistas from Real Madrid, kings and queens, and the rest. It is a class above the Costa del Southend-on-sea of the souths' resorts. In fact, it is today's example of those old halcyon days of the British Seaside – impressive 19^th Century hotels, endless boulevards, and postcard pantone yellow sand, stretching till clear lapping sea.

However, none of this was in evidence on my arrival to the city. The heavens had opened, and Santander was today's Bognor, Great Yarmouth et al, wet and blowy.

I met my wonderful friend Marisol under her umbrella, and we navigated undercover around Santander searching for the best tortilla available – a must in Spain. It has taken me a while to really understand why the Spanish are so obsessed with this simple comfort food, but I think I am slowly converting. But it has to be good. And, unlike any tortilla I have had in Britain, it has to be deliciously moist in the centre.

Marisol was having problems of the heart, having recently broken up with her boyfriend of five years. Despite never having never lived in the same country as her, I feel surprisingly close. Her heart is always on her sleeve, and mine could not avoid tightening just a little, as her eyes grew larger, her gestures more pronounced. She needed more time alone.

So I needed some other company for my time there, which fortunately, just turned up. Three students from the university in Madrid arrived in my accommodation, one Belgian, one Argentinian, and one Dutch guy. It has been a while, I admit, that I have been amongst 19 year olds. But we certainly seemed to be different people. And there was a strange sense of competition between them, the Belgian guy bullying the Dutch guy, and the Argentinian girl had some sense of fuck-you attitude. She was a closed book, perhaps insecure, perhaps just throwing in a whole host of bitchy resting face. She seemed either personally affronted or would laugh when I tried to speak Spanish to her, and would monosyllabicly palm off any attempts to find out more about her when we spoke english. It confuses me to find people like that. Pues, nada.

And with the other two, I found myself comparing my Spanish with theirs, their clunky northern european accents mirrored mine, but both having lived in Madrid for 10 months, were much more fluid. In actual fact, in a breakdown of 'hours spent' they were probably far, far in advance of my evenings and weekend work – but after my own 1 year and a half's work – it still annoyed me. They annoyed me. And I wanted to be better than them.

Of course, it is a meaningless competition, and the peaks and troughs you climb are always your own, although the area is the same. I am passing many pilgrims on my travels, who are heading further west on the Camino de Santiago. It makes me think. They are walking everyday almost, sore feet, reddish arms. But they keep going. It is like that with the language. It is not about looking at the distance. Not about feeling the heavy weight of the task ahead. That is where you fall, where your body gives up. It's putting one foot in front of the other, and just going.

In Burgos, the young bartender never managed to get the levels exactly right for the wine glasses. Some had a little less water, some a little more.

It can take a while to get the balance right. It's about the way the bottle feels: the weight, the touch, how it pours. And longer you do it, the more it feels like routine. Everyday things become a little more natural, until you are pouring wine in your dreams. Like you always have been pouring wine. Like you have never done anything else. Like it is in your blood.

“No te preocupes! Paso a paso”

The owner patted the young boy on the shoulder, after another failed attempt.

Don't worry, you'll get there, step by step, he said.

The boy sheepishly returned each glass to the shelf.

At that moment, getting to that level he needed to be felt a world away. He took his mind off the pouring, and the glasses, and cleaned the beer taps.

I left the bar as confused as the Ecuadorian boy. Just like him I wondering how on earth, I too, would achieve what I had set out to – learning to speak an entire language, like i always had. 

       

June 8-12 – Madrid – Back down to earth, and (temporary) homelessness.

“Get out of the way! Are you deaf!!”

A English man, red around the shoulders and slightly glazed from too much sun, beer, or both, shouted out at the top of his voice, over a packed, wilting, dripping clientele watching the match in the James Joyce pub.

I shuddered. The tall Spanish man, rotating, looking for some kind of space to park himself did not understand. Or in the commotion the meaning perhaps got lost. For there was noise – jaleo – everywhere: bar staff, flustered flitting around attempting to do table service to the few groups of trollied people that did not deserve it; Stag parties attempting to either fall off the chairs, or start chants about the other members of the group; Germans behind me having intellectual discussions with confused americans about the pros and cons of the gegenpress.

And, after the crushing disappointment of the equalising goal, once again reducing Roy Hodgson to apologising, it dawned on me. I was bloody back in England.

This morning, I am sitting in a beautiful secret plaza, by an outpost of the university, amongst students, and locals with dogs. Sparrows jump between tables, and a canopy of wisteria hangs down providing shade to a couple of guys playing guitars.

A woman hands out leaflets for Podemos ('We can') the new leftwing party that has smashed though the heart of mainstream politics here. You could describe them as the Jeremy Corbyn of Spain – but with a young, fresh, (though still beardy) face. They propose regulating banks' profits, providing more support to people, and improving healthcare. Not everyone agrees though, and most of Spain remains fairly conservative, like the UK. The main party is PP ('Popular Party') and they seem to be gaining points as we approach the election. Another election, because as with so many new fringe parties involved, the parliament has been at a state of impasse. Despite the rise of Podemos, apart from their passionate super-fans, the political mood here is not one of excitement. People are jaded by the stalemate in government. The first thing that comes to mind, before policy, is still the perception of corruption. 'Whoever you vote for, the government gets in' seems to be the prevailing attitude here.

Many young people believe that abroad is the best option. Especially the ambitious ones. And, a good level of English feels like a passport. Many eye opportunities in Britain, Holland or Germany, and are prepared to do whatever it takes to get there. But always, there is a sad lament. A hollowing in the heart, when pressed on the issues here. El paro, the unemployment, still casts a shadow over this country. And many people I meet at language exchanges are unemployed – looking for skills to give them the opportunity to leave, or increasingly, to stand out in a chaotic jobs market. A surprising thing, but close to home as well. It is easy to take for granted our current situation in the UK, with job opportunities, and a breezy confidence. But we have short memories. The scars we had from our own recession have healed, but we shouldn't forget why they emerged in the first place.

Despite this, at least to me, there is a lot to be positive about Spain's future. I have also heard the shoots of opportunity rising, in a small way: a French company locating to Madrid for access to Latin America, new bars and cafes full of locals morning and night, and the metro buzzing (and boiling) at rush hour. Whether Podemos can form a coalition, or PP returns to power, Spain will recover. Time is a healer, and Spain is a sleeping giant. Like, er, Aston Villa.

And it was peoples lust for English skills that lead to my first job.

It was last night, terribly organised, but hugely enjoyable. I returned to the bar I met David a week before, after he set me some messages offering the class. It took a while to realise, that he was not going to be there, and thanks to some vague directions from the barman, I had to find and introduce myself to my students. My first time as a profesor and now I was also my own boss. But it went well, one student much more confident than the other, and I tried to push and pull the conversation through some interesting topics. My first questions though fell flat. Neither of my students were interested in the biggest event of these few weeks – the European Championship (la Eurocupa). A surprising theme actually – far less Spaniards are aficionados de futbal than I thought.

Which may not be a bad thing. Especially when alcohol is involved.

The James Joyce bar filtered out after the final whistle. Grumpy expats returned to their Spanish wives, stag parties stumbled to vomit somewhere close to Plaza Mayor, and the bar staff exhaled.

I moved on, to pass through the centre, Puerta del Sol. 

Aside from the odd british stag party, a night out in Madrid is a especially friendly, relaxed place to walk. The hubbub and chatter, old and young, party animals and sophisticated diners all live and enjoy the night, side by side. It is a stark contrast with UK cities, where a foray into a saturday night is to mix with police, and arseholes, tearing up the night, throwing their ego around like it is a half empty bottle of WKD. Here there is no aggro whatsoever.

Well almost no aggro. As I found out last night. When I was homeless (well, kind of).

I was forced to change my plans quickly, yesterday, as my host in Burgos 'forgot' that I was coming. Lo siento, he olvidado! It is surprising how many people don't treat Airbnb like a business, which is exactly what it is. This left me in a fix. In a frantic messaging and booking session, I managed to secure a place for a few more days in Madrid, and then a later place in Burgos. And secure is certainly the word. Coming back after my class, and pushing on 12pm on a Sunday night is not the time for your key to not open your door. That morning my host, struggling herself to open the door for at least ten minutes, explained to me – you just need to pull it out a touch and then giggle it. Easy. Or not.

That evening I tried the lock for almost 40 minutes like I was robbing the place. Key in, left, right. A little short of the slot, fully in. Quickly. Slowly. Everything. People looked at me strangely. My host, Valeria, who does not live in the flat, was at work – till 3 in the morning – and reluctant to come after that. My only option was to wait for someone to come out.

The bar opposite was open, although almost empty, and eventually I saw why. Three guys, one super drunk, were propping up the bar. I held my beer close and stood still, eyes transfixed on the door to the apartment block, looking awkward. Feeling awkward. Someone came back, but I missed them, as my attention was taken momentarily. The drunk guy dropped the contents of his bag on the floor, and in a pissed jiggle to try and retrive his things, got told to leave by the barman. I held my beer. He did eventually leave, swearing, and throwing the door open with his shoulder.

And, it was here I spotted my opportunity. Just then, a couple exited my building. I ran out, knocked Drunky Mcdrunkface on the way and sprinted after the couple heading towards the metro.

“Vivís en esta edificio?!! Lo siento, mi llave no funciona! Me quedo allí”.

I was panting, but perhaps not showing signs of being malicious. They let me in, and I collapsed on my bed. The fan above chopped into the hot air, and I slept, happy and relieved.

Today, the sparrows are still skipping from table to table. Spring flowers smell sweet, and old couples shuffle across the leafy plaza.

It is here I feel relaxed, writing with a background of subtle guitar music, and chattering students. Later I will visit the park, and purchase a phone. Perhaps visit a museum, on my final day in Madrid.

I sit here for a moment and close my eyes.

And, I say a silent little prayer to the god of locks, to help my almighty struggle with the door, that awaits me on my return.

June 6/7th – Madrid & Segovia – Belonging, or #chrissowhite

June 6/7^th – Madrid & Segovia – Belonging, or #chrissowhite

“Are you Basque?!”

A bouncy girl of about ten years old shouted this out to me, as I walked away from the Roman Aqueduct.

She was part of a packed group of livewire Ecuadorian kids, rushing and bustling next to the edge of viewing platform, close to where I was sitting. Most were frantically waving down at another group of kids, ignoring the monotone ramble of their teacher.

¡Hola! ¡Mira! ¡Mira aqui!

My heart jumped a little, anxious, as tiny feet scrambled up and around the crumbling ledge, hands in the air, desperate to make the biggest impression. There was laughter and un montón de jaleo.

The aqueduct stood silent, second place to the buzz of life, as it has done for 2000 years.

I left Madrid por la mañana, crammed my washing into the top of my bag, with the towel still damp from the morning's shower. I struggled into the metro, with my suitcase poorly balanced, and my rucksack cutting into my shoulders. On the move like this, I feel like a tortoise. Although perhaps not quite as world-weary (I assume!), but still, my life is in those two bags – and I can feel the weight.

The AVE high-speed train is glorious. I have not accounted for much train travel durante mi viaje, but this I could not resist. For the short journey it was delightful. Countryside rolling past the window, still tipped with scrubby greenary, was home to cows, gleeming white goats, and a few hikers. The train itself is luxurious compared to what I am used to, and seats have leg room, and foot rests. Foot rests!

A new hobby started yesterday. I've started talking to old American couples. It began on the train, and I met a nice liberal couple from South Carolina. Both teachers, one of Spanish, passing as bit of time in their beloved Spain to arrive eventually in Frankfurt, to the University, for business. Eventually discussion passed, like any current US/UK chat to a subject we all love: Donald Trump. His marginalisation of people particularly worried them, and the fallout on relations.

“I'm just worried what the world will think of America”. We departed and wished each other well, lamenting for politics both sides of the atlantic.

It wasn't the only Americans I met. Lunch was, typically, a simple affair. The view was special, food a little disappointing and over salty, and the coffee bitter. Kind of like my second couple of Americans. Sometimes it can be fun to play the 'how long does it take until they mention Muslims' game. It depends on the people quite clearly, and we have all be in that situation, where we think. 

“But, how did we get from ice cream to Jihad?” Well it could be the person, and it could be your colour. I'm white. I'd say it took 10 minutes.

I have never understood why people are so keen (even desperate) to discuss their most controversial views with complete strangers at the first meeting. But i'm from London I suppose. So perhaps I have some insight on 'the issue'.

“So what's with those Muslims in Europe?”

Living their lives I suppose. Stuck with some outdated views I suppose. Not mixing. Kind of like a couple of retiree Americans from smalltown Tennessee, afraid to let their grandkids go to school in Knoxville. But they were also nice. And not the only ones to be fearful of the change in America, or the world.

While America seems to be closing itself off to the world, other, traditionally more guarded cultures are opening themselves up. And this is a great thing.

Especially, it seems, the Chinese. I've been thinking about it. And I think, hands-down, they are the best tourists in the world. They embrace it like bees to pollen. They rub their noses in tourism. It is fantastic.

And it is not the kind of 'experience it like the locals', 'last night I tried yagé and I hallucinated the ancestral spirits' bollocks.
So I love the Chinese for their attitude.

It is raw, dirty sightseeing-for-sightseeing sake. I have never seen people take so many pictures, one after another, as yesterday in Segovia. 'Here is me infront of the Cathedral', 'Here is me slightly to the left in front of the Cathedral'. It goes on and on. But they love it. They buy chocolate Jesus from the shops, and study the guidebooks like it is the Koran.

And I think, in someways they have it right. Us nouvelle tourists, try desperately for an 'authentic' experience. 'Where do the real locals go!?' 'Let's go to the Market and take pictures of all that fruit we are not going to buy, just like the residents!'

You want authentic? Go to a fucking Wetherspoons.

But do I follow them? Of course I don't. I am just as bad as the rest. 

Truth is; I'm desperate to fit in.

For the first time in my life I am looking down at my arms, and analysing them. Is it just the light? Or am I really getting browner? Let's say I am (review in the morning). I don't need a tan. Or particularly want one. But perhaps i just want to be a bit more tanned then a tourist.  

Perhaps I am just rubbish at being a traveller. I want to be a stayer. A worker. A resident.

I want to walk down the street, like I fit in. I want to get that nod from the regulars in the cafeteria as they think “ahh esta él, suele pedir café y tosada con tomate”.

I think I managed it once. Walking through the streets of Tel Aviv, with not more then a few phrases in Hebrew, I could hardly count the number of times a local frantically asked me directions to a cafe, a rave (or, well to Oz for all I knew).

And it almost happened again, yesterday. Just.

It was a beautiful shady spot. Just to the left of a staircase, and looking out to the aqueduct, as it ran, arch-by-ancient-arch into the distance, each one progressively thinner, and less distinct. At the horizon, a soft granite grey blurred in the heat faze, touching a brilliant blue sky cut into by the mountains beyond.

For half an hour it was just me. I closed my eyes, and tried to imagine the shapes of the aqueduct, how they might frame on the page. I then drew, slowly; relaxed by the heat of the day, and its heavy air.

Progress was good once the groups started arriving. First to arrive were the Chinese.

It is not hard to gain an audience. Groups of two or three would stand behind me. I am not a great artist. Or even profess to being one at all. But there is something fascinating about someone sitting drawing or painting, and interpreting the surroundings. We all do it.

And I am used to it. I have spent many hours in galleries in London, teaching myself through doing, aiming to the admittedly low level I have now. But there is something nice about that. The best art you keep to yourself. Your little projects. And from my most self-conscious days to relative ambivalence, I have always had people peering, looking over my shoulder.

And abroad, people start talking to me.

Like those Ecuadorian girls. They shuffled up. Curious and giggling, while their compatriots were shouting and hollering. They just stood and watched for a moment; then the tallest walked round the front.

“Es tu dibrujo?”

“Si es mio! De donde Eres?”

She mumbled her home country, and went back to her friends, still rushing and taking selfies.

As I left, she shouted out a question – was from the Basque country? (A fiercely independent part of north-east Spain).

“No... Soy Ingles!” I proudly shouted back, to more giggles. Someone had clearly lost the bet.

My strange accent must have confused them – or pricked their imagination. They must have tried to figure it out, with a few theories. Their group then moved onto another monument.

I walked down the stairs, past the aqueduct, into the distance. The sun hit my creamy shoulders, and I clutched my warm leather sketchbook. The famous swifts of Segovia flitted and soared between terrazas, spires, and fresh white washing.

And as I returned to my flat, through the plaza major, just a little part of my heart warmed, reminiscing of the beaches and pinchos of my fictitious homeland – el Pais Basco.

I have a job! Brexit. But also: La Latina.

June 5^th – Madrid – I have a job! Brexit. But also: La Latina.

It was in the shower this morning that something from last night kept bugging me.

The tea-stained coloured shower curtain clung to me like a wetsuit. It left me flailing around to try and wash myself without tripping over, and thereby ending as helpless as a beached whale wrapped in tarpaulin. It was at this moment of temporary relaxation (or moment before a potential disaster), that I remembered a slither of the conversation that transpired the night before. And for a moment, I felt a little worried.

Last night I found my first friend. Or at least, someone happy enough to listen to me for 3 hours. Which, I think is the same thing.

Miriam is a sweet girl, working as a paediatrician for a couple of months in Madrid, and we are both solo in the city. And we met in a relaxed international bar (no lepricorns, or fish and chips on the menu) as part of a language exchange meetups. Oh and she has a boyfriend from Manchester. (So don't let your mind wander).

She understands the English, therefore. And we are a complex bunch at the best of times.

My Spanish, at the least seems to be getting faster. Perhaps better, but faster nevertheless. And in longer periods of time it settles into a vague staccato fluidity. It can feel quite like you are chasing your thoughts down a hill, trying to clutch at the ones that you can catch. Grab enough, and you can leave your companion nodding in approval. And it can be truly thrilling, like a buzz. A bit like cocaine. Except there is no need to nose the top of a toilet to talk like a crazed idiot. And, like many non native speakers, I tend to exaggerate. Just a little. Just turning up the dial.

“Eres un personaje”

My friend Esther says this to me in London, I think it means roughly 'you are such a character'.

I have always been a performer. In English too. But there, I love the subtleties. I feed on the spaces between the obvious. The silences. Social norms. The fluidity and mouldability of the language, and of the English sensibility.

But in a second language those connections are more simple. Your building blocks are in primary colours. And your route is all A-roads.

So you amplify. Expression is important, gestures frame the grandeur, or minimalism. And pitch, tone, pauses also. It is a challenge. But don't forget – you are still running down that hill, chasing.

Moving around the group, I spoke to middle-aged engineers; mothers with daughters abroad; students back from Erasmus. Eventually the social gears turned, the circling stopped, and I was chatting to the organiser of the meetup. El Jefe.

And it was here he offered me a job. But it wasn't the only thing we chatted about.

And it was that other conversation that made me think.

Us native English speakers have no idea how blessed we are. We have been given this incredible gift. The prize of being born into an English speaking country. The luxury of being the default tongue of the business world. It is something that is lost on us, so taken for granted, that we are the ones on holiday astonished when we are not spoken back to us in the perfect tones of the market town, rolling hills and best bitter.

We never think of why. And it is difficult, unpalatable of course. And fading from memory, and perhaps losing relevance in a changing world. But it still holds true to how we got to this situation.

History is history. We are not responsible for history 200 years old or 50 years old. From Roman times or even from the war. But we are the recipients of the benefits of where we are in the world.

Britain did not start globalisation. But we were the best at it. And through our colonisation, we spread language. Our language. We have always had a headstart on the rest of the world, and the world has wanted to do business with us because of this history. America also.

And also, while there was a whole lot bad – which I am not going to go into now – we would not be where we are with civil rights, connection of nations, freedom, if we had not had the era of colonisation. You need to pass by the bad, to get to the good. But for some people, Britain is still that same country. They miss the influence. They believe that, rather by success by chance and circumstance, we have something that the rest of the world doesn't.

Thinking of England, as I discussed with David, el jefe, I found it hard to square my views, looking from abroad, with how it seems the country – or the political dialogue is going.

It is always dangerous to read the news while abroad. And the news seems bleak for the remain in Europe campaign. And whether we leave or not, the debate around this referendum leaves a bitter taste in the mouth (one Mr Farage will be pulling into a lukewarm pint glass anytime soon). The UK feels more insular. Looking inside, but blaming the outside.

And it is related to, but tied to, our history. There is a yearning for an old England that never existed. And I can understand it. But it pains me.

And I can understand, that for me it is also personal. Half my family descend from refugees. I am close to relatives that survived the nazis, or the russians, or both. Europe in conflict is still in our lifetime. It's only 60 years since the war. And only 20 years ago Berlin was divided, eastern europe desolate.

Look at the progress we have made. Germany is prosperous, Poland, Hungary, and more have democracy, stable economies. Look to the Middle East post-Arab Spring to see how hard this is. How precious. How fragile.

And we have all created this together. In Europe. Through the EU. Through working together. Not though turning our backs, in our own backyard.

People here cannot see why UK would leave. Save for the independistas in Catalonia, and the Basque country, they see the benefits of a united Europe, despite the problems.

And for me, it is a tough one. If we leave on June 23^rd, what will the reaction be? Will I have to come back home. Will I be an illegal immigrant here in Spain? Will we pull up the draw bridge with a newly crowned Boris on the ropes? I worry for the country I would come back to. London would always stay the same. But England. I'm not sure. Many foreign friends of mine would worry for their jobs, their place in the UK – knowing it as their real home. But we will see. I'm going to try and avoid the English news until it happens. Then the clean up operation will begin.

So David then offered me a job. For being an English native (and more I expect). It is small, and being only in Madrid for 1 week at the moment, a one time only thing. Oh, and half the payment is in beer. So let's just say it is not going to keep me in caviar. But it is a start. I will help with a English informal class on thursday, and meet people, and get a bit of beer money. Porque no?

I bid David hasta luego, and a little half-cut, stumbled off back home. But en route, I managed to find a little side cafe. And the pangs of withdrawl symptoms kicked in. It was a scrubby under serviced Lebanese joint, with cracked lino flooring, low lighting, and the essential pictures for every offering – for a clientele strangers to this kind of food. Just sit and point at the meat.
I was wondering how long it would take for me to revert to hummus. I couldn't hold out out enough, and it came, pleasingly topped with whole chickpeas, and a swirl of paprika. Que tiene una buena pinta (looks great!) I almost said, but that would have perhaps been a little premature. The familiarity of the colour, led, as so often to a thick sandy paste, barely there. But it was hummus. And the pita was warm. I headed home, happy, buzzy from the chatting, and bloaty from the pita.

Sitting this balmy morning at the cross section of a few roads in la latina, outside an old man cafe (I love these in spain), with a creamy cafe con leche, it reminds me how much I have warmed to this area – La Latina. It is Malasana without the attitude, relaxed, cool but traditional. The tapas bars spill onto the street. The smell of salty fried meat wafts through the air, and the hum of el chisme (gossip) fills spaces between sips of vino tinto swaying in traditional flatbottomed vasos.

I think the flatbottomed glass, the little beer (caña), the rickity B&Q garden furniture outside the bars, go some way to summing up Spain. It is a country less concerned with pretentions. The important thing is getting together. Wine is just the lubricant; the chair is just to rest your legs. It's time for some serious chat. No me digas! (you don't say), or variants of, are heard after another crazy story of amor, fiesta or el jefe. And breakfast chats lead into lunch, and Lunch into tapas, and tapas to copas.

If there is one thing that we share as Europeans it is our history of art. So that is where I am off to now – Reina Sofia Museum. And if there is one painting that sums up how dangerous a country that isolates itself and breaks apart though nationalism and civil war – it is Gernica by Picasso, about the horrors of the Spanish Civil War. Art is often the best mirror to what we can't see in our own society. And sometimes we need that mirror to realise what we have, and what we might lose.

Que tengas un buen dia, y hasta la proxima!

June 4^th – Madrid – Introduction

Four years ago I arrived in Madrid, sipped a typically tiny beer in a sun-drenched square, and felt something. Something strong. Perhaps it was comfort. Or that sense of feeling at home. It could have just been sunstroke.

But, whatever it was, it stayed with me. And in the back of my mind, Madrid – or Spain – set up a space in the memory, nestled back there collecting dust. Perhaps just behind memories of the Saints team circa 2001-2. A happy place; but still collecting dust – waiting it's turn.

What I felt, I think, was that feeling. A scary idea, that one day I needed to move countries. To try and live another culture. To fit in (without resorting to St Tropez). Not forever, and not, because I'm smoking a fat riffer, make from a freshly burnt flag of St George (although I hear it is an excellent make-shift kindle for a cracking BBQ).

It is perhaps because I've always always been intrigued by what is beyond. And it started with London.

For me, London was never scary. And I was a neurotic child. Like a little Woody Allen (except with better eyesight). But I loved it. I loved the busy-ness. I loved the anonymity. And most of all I loved the chance, that anyone could be who they wanted to be. Everyone is London, and London is for everyone. Even Nigel Farage.

I was a slightly confused, poorly dressed, Jewish boy in (as I saw it) super white, straight-jacketed, Tory Hampshire. And (**add how much you love your parents here**) I couldn't wait to leave.

London changed my life. There I met my friends for life, and the people who define who I am. I stole bits of comedy skills from each of my friends, and honed them (just enough) to throw together a few lines to make people like me. I started a newspaper, failed to keep time in the doomed bands I joined, and flirted with a short lived political career. And that was just university!

Almost 11 years have passed since I nervously stuck keys into my first room in London, and many flats, damp issues, infestations, and deep conversations since, I decided that it might be time to have a little break.

London I love you. But it is time to have a change. Keep your hummus warm, and your letting agency fees unjustified. Hold your passive aggression, just a... little... longer.

And it was what I loved about London, that led me here. You see, London isn't England. It's not even Britain. It is a collection of tiny salami slices of the world laid over each other. Each different colour, smell, texture (I think this metaphor stands up – just.) adds to its ambience. But just like salami – it's hard to know what really is inside, and whether it is doing you more harm than good. But you still eat it. And it tastes fucking good.

The slice of this life (still endeavouring with this!) that most appealed to me was the Europeaness of London. London is desperate to be Europe. Walk down any street in the city. Check out the people clutching their Cafe au Lait or having tapas, outside, freezing their bollocks off.

And I'm with them! Drinking Estrella Galicia staring at man-boy racers speeding around Newington Green, taking my jacket off – putting it back on – taking it off again. Feeling so bloody cultured! Or just cold.

So Europe fits us. And Spain, especially. And it fits me also.

I think.

And, madre mia! Do I have a lot of time to do that now.

This is how the trip starts. In the head. Plots, subplots, failures, successes. Everything. A year of unknowns is a lot of process. Known unknowns and unknown unknowns, as Donald Rumsfeld Once said. How to quantify a year away?

From the head to the street. When did I first start to enjoy myself? I think it was after when I'd found my room, got my barrings and wandered out into the throng of my adopted barrio.

The room itself was a shabby sweatbox with humming plug sockets. Que mono! (how cute) I exclaimed – to start things off right to my world-weary Mexicana host. I took onboard the majority of the strict instructions, although still can't be sure whether the two fabric bundles in the corner of the room were blankets or towels (in the shower this morning, said towel was bereft of the absorption that I required – let's say they are blankets, and not mention it again).

It was after a short siesta, that I took it on myself to remember the complicated 4 lock, 3 key procedure, and attempt to leave the piso.

If it wasn't the clean, crisp yellow sunlight that hit me first, it was the smooth terracotta walls, and the pockmarked, beaten window shutters. This city is not monumental like others. There are no real landmarks that compare to London, Paris or Barcelona. But there is a simple beauty to the plazas. A down to earth charm, that radiates to the people, and the life. Madrid is a working city, it is a living city. But most of all, it is a city that loves to have fun. And loves to drink, nurse's costume and all.

Yes, even here.

Certain things make me proud to be English. A well cooked Sunday Roast. The sound of leather of willow. And, a Spanish group of girls, walking down the street pissed-out-of-their-heads with sashes, policemans hats, screeching at the top of their voice “Bailando!!!”.

It is enough to bring just a little tear to the eye. One of our greatest exports, I think – the hen do.

The other of course is football. Our most significant gift to the world, apart from enslaving half of it (you are welcome, world). And it was through football, the social male-lubricant (try not to think too hard on that) that gave me my first amigo of the trip. It was in Taberna San Bruno, waiting for my host to arrive, swamped with my life-luggage, in the closing moments of Serena Williams losing to Garbine Muguruza (a plucky 24 year old Spanish tennis player), that we started to chat (you always need an 'in' and why not national glory?). He was a nice middle-aged and well fed chap. And the thing we shared was a natural animosity to El Madrid (Real Madrid), and their fans. Being a (emerging) Atletico aficionado, we managed some good charlando, although his honest, animated description of the intricacies of the Roland Garros final seemed to pass me by. Madrid, it seems, has a element of London about it. It takes a bit of effort on your side to get people to open up. But when you do, there is a lot of life there.

So I was there, standing in that square, on my first foray into town, soaking in the Vitamin D. Was it the same feeling of four years ago?

It was, I think. But there was a difference. Perhaps this time it was tinged with a bit of relief. A bit And of achievement also. It has been a long road to get here, for sure. And my focus has changed. I have to see the city through different eyes. As a home, perhaps. A university – as everyday, I need learn more and more.

But what ever that initial feeling was, I'm glad I had it. Without it, this change, this opportunity would not have happened. But, all it was, was a feeling. And life is about grabbing at what feels right. Learning spanish for these past few years has felt right. Leaving London has felt right, but also scary, daunting, exciting and everything in between.

But, while there will be ups and downs (enough to fill a recent substandard Woody Allen movie), I'm grateful for that first Madrid trip, and that feeling, that has led me here.

Let's see what happens.

Vámonos!