So I'm in Madrid, Spain. I figure if you squint hard enough and extrapolate like I did in the title of this blog, it's passable to include it in my America travel diary. I have to admit, it is very, very odd being on holidays in a country that isn't the USA, and even more odd to be on holidays with my boyfriend. Not that he's on holidays; he lives here. But, after the past however long of travelling solo, and spending all my free time and money exploring the USA.. it's a bit of a culture shock. Sure, the language is different (unless you're talking So Cal, in which case you'd be used to hearing Spanish) but it's more than that.. it's a whole world apart from the Southern Hospitality I've been used to the last few years. Spaniards are strange, but wonderful. Siesta does my head in like you wouldn't believe, and it seems to be the time every single day where I decide I need something from the shops, only to find out yet again that most shops are closed mid-afternoon.
I debated writing a blog for this trip, because strictly speaking, I'm not here on holidays. Yes, sure I'm in a different country and I'm not working and I'm exploring the city and sightseeing - so it is a holiday - but that's not the purpose of my being here. I'm here to meet and spend time with the man I met months ago online, and figure out if we work as a couple, and whether we can visualise a life together. The answer, thus far, dear readers - is yes. I could spend the entire blog waxing lyrical about how wonderful he is, how in love I am, how he's everything I never even knew I wanted in a partner.. but I imagine that'd get tiresome pretty quickly, and given the purpose of my blogs is to remind me of my travels I think I should stay on-point. I can't see me forgetting how smitten I am any time soon!
Madrid - weekend #!. Emirates loses my bags. Somewhere in Dubai, apparently. OK, not a problem. I'm just so happy to arrive alive and to finally be able to put my arms around said amazing man, that I don't much care my presents for him or my beloved camera are MIA. We went shopping, at El Corte Ingles, a major department store to the North-West of his apartment. Had a lovely time shopping for essentials (think underwear, clothes, perfume etc) and just grinning like fools at each other. Listening to Spaniards roll their "r's" and speak with a warmth and openness that is typically European was both a culture shock and a delight to witness. Tapas, or Pinchos, for lunch. I let him choose everything. Dish after dish of delicious and very different to my usual white man food arrives. I eat slowly; he pops the whole thing in his mouth and it's done in one or two bites. Lots of people watching. Lots of smiling. I notice that the girls here are slight of build, wearing underwear for shorts, long lean tanned legs lengthened by the high cut line of their short shorts. Mad gesticulating. Everyone smokes. And I do mean EVERYONE. It's hot; hotter than I've felt in a long while but not suffocatingly so because of the utter lack of humidity. My hair responds by rebelling into greasy here, dry there and peaks & horns everywhere. Litter - everywhere. All over the streets. What an absolute shame to denigrate the beauty of these otherwise beautifully manicured streets with their quaint shuttered windowed buildings! Lots of smoking, lots of cigarette butts all over the streets, the gardens. Madrid isn't going to win "cleanest city" award any time soon. Strange smells in alleyways; probably the homeless population meeting with the over-abundance of pet dogs being walked everywhere I look.
Buildings yawn up into the sky like sleepy mythical giants; shuttered windows remind me of eyelashes framing huge rectangular eyes like powder-blue lacework. The afternoon sun beats down from a perfectly blue sky, both warming and scorching, depending on where you stand in the street. I'm suddenly thirsty, realising I haven't drunk anywhere near enough water to combat the drying effect of the Madrid heat. We cross another street, and make our way past al fresco dining as it is now well and truly Spanish lunch hour. I do not understand how folks can eat breakfast at 7am but have lunch at 2pm and dinner at 9pm. My poor stomach is going to protest, I just know it.
Finally, after more shopping, more public displays of affection (I cannot help it; it's been too long that I've been unable to touch the man I love), more fanning myself to combat the heat - we head home. Tired, happy, brimming with new love.
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