The wispy remains of a dream was the only proof I slept at all last night. Carlos and I were sharing a bed. A single bed. I reckon he slept worse than I did though he denies it. He’s too polite to let me sleep on the couch. I met his flat mates this morning: Sole and Maria – friends of his from university. Maria went to kiss me on each cheek. A social greeting I haven’t quite got the hang of. Another very awkward moment occurred when Sole began talking to me in Spanish, assuming that I had bothered to learn some of the language of the country I had come to visit. A third helping of awkwardness then followed as Carlos and his flatmates all began talking to each other in Spanish and I had to stare very seriously at my phone like I was reading an important text message.
I soon managed to escape all the awkwardness, leaving the flat and going for a leisurely walk. Carlos blew me a kiss from his work desk…. Interesting. I stumbled around the museo de Historio de Madrid, too tired to read the placards and just staring at the paintings instead. My favourite of which is the following.
By the time I staggered out of the museum I was in desperate need of my morning cup of joe. So, I went to look for coffee and WIFI. Two things that go very well together.
‘Mi Espaniol no es buenos… Esta bien si yo en Ingles?’……. ‘Mi Espaniol no es buenos… Esta bien si yo en Ingles?’…… ‘Mi Espaniol no es buenos… Esta bien si yo en Ingles?’
I repeated the words over and over again in my head. I was going to be the most polite and considerate foreigner Madrid had ever seen. That is – the most polite and considerate foreigner who didn’t bother to learn any Spanish before he came to Madrid.
‘My Spanish is not so good… is it okay if I speak to you in English?’ I really thought this was going to go down well. It was a complete and utter failure. Each time I uttered it I was greeted with blank looks or a gruff dismissive shake of the head. I had more luck when I didn’t bother to speak any Spanish at all!
Carlos had told me about a place called El Brillante. It supposedly blew all the touristy calamari stalls out of the water. I had to go there to get a proper Calamari sandwich. But as soon as I walked in and tried my whole ‘Mi Espanol No Es Buenos’ routine, it was another dud, and I walked out feeling downright stupid. Without WIFI or internet data, Google translate wasn’t on the cards. I sat on the ground outside, desperately needing a piss and cursing the fact that I didn’t even know how to ask for the nearest toilet in Spanish. My confidence was draining away fast.
I took refuge at the nearby train station, and it was here that I came upon the most cleanly and fancy public toilets I have ever been in. Speakers in the cubicles were playing soothing melodious sounds. Chimes were tinkling, birds were tweeting and singing, the cubicle walls were changing colour and there were mirrors everywhere; it was like something out of a ten star hotel. It was just what I needed to… erm… assuage my stress over my lack of calamari.
Once I had calmed down and had a good piss, I forced myself back into El Brillante. This time I spotted a picture of my desired sandwich on the wall and realised that the Spanish word for calamari was calamares – practically the same. So, after a bit of over-the-counter communication awkwardness, I got my calamari Sandwich! It was a big boy, a French stick cut in half and packed with greasy battered rubbery goodness. The grease soaked into the bread and I munched it triumphantly, even though I still felt quite intimidated by my surroundings. The place was packed and all the tables taken, so I was eating at the counter, beneath of which ran a trough – like a gutter or a urinal – to catch the various food spillages and other garbage. This is not the sort of place I would normally plonk myself in for a snack, but I’m going back there and that’s a fact. The calamari sandwich was well worth 7 euros, and there’s a menagerie of other things being served up in that place I’m eager to try.
Carlos was just finishing work when I got back to his flat. Poor guy. It was passed 8pm. For dinner we had something which I can only describe as Tuna bake. The fish was coated in a delicious pastry, yet Carlos kept saying that this was only the supermarket version, and that the proper version is on another level. It’s called empanada. We dipped carrots in hummus and ate more olives and Carlos also opened a bottle of white wine. It was a pleasant spread and everything was eaten in moderation. I cannot say the same about the events playing out in House of the Dragon however, of which we watched 3 more episodes.
I stretched out with my legs up on the sofa, feeling more at home in Carlos’ flat than the night before. Carlos also had his legs up on the table. We were sitting close together but not touching. Although we watched and talked about House of the Dragon, I couldn’t help but feel a weird distance between us. I promised myself to speak to him properly when we went to bed. Sometimes it’s easier to be more open when the lights are out.
