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!