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!