It's been a good week. I've done a fair amount of walking around our lovely neighbourhood, and the surrounding barrios. We live in Estrella, which translates to 'star', and our street name translates to 'southern cross'. I think that has a lovely bit of kismet to it, a feeling of fated paths crossing, that my home in Spain shares the name of a much loved emblem for my birth home. I've joined a gym at long last - it is a cheerful 5 minute walk across two streets and through a lovely neighbourhood garden. The staff there speak a little English, which is nice. I decided I would tackle going back to my workouts in a very typical 'me' manner, and went all in from day one. By day three I was somewhat crippled, as I'd hit my back and my legs hard on days one and two. I decided a sensible approach would be to rest on Wednesday, and resume my efforts again on Thursday. It was a good strategy, and my body is responding well to the much-needed kick.
Skyped with mum again this morning, got to see my gorgeous little furchild on camera - poor little man looked so confused as to where mummy's voice was coming from. He settled on mum's lap and gave her hand a wash, which was heartwarming to see. Apparently he'd been happily curved up on dad's lap "helping" him read a book (I can picture it right now.. LB shoving his face repeatedly in front of the book to garner more attention from Dad). Mum and I talked about various subjects.. what I've been up to, when am I going to fly to France (she's obsessed, I tell you), when am I going to fly to London to visit my little sister, Amber.. and somehow we got onto the topic of Jill's house in Ipswich. Memory is a funny thing. I remember being 4 years old - I clearly remember the toilet in Jilly's house in Ipswich.. I remember it having a floor to ceiling bookshelf, stuffed full of interesting books and comics.. I remember the pool at that house, with the palm fronds lazily skimming the surface of the water as they danced in the wind to an unheard rhythm. I remember the funny noise her cat, Shimmy, used to make, and how the sunlight would reflect off his impressively glossy coat, his perfectly triangular little Siamese face with its all-knowing eyes. I remember being so small, and watching Jill's kids Sarah and Ben, jumping into the pool sending water splashing everywhere. But I do not remember a conversation I have had with you last week, or this morning. I do not remember if I have taken my daily vitamins. I do not remember sometimes, how I got here (wherever "here" may be at the time). Sometimes I don't remember something you said to me three seconds ago. And yet.. I remember being three, sleepy in my pram as mum and Jill walked around our western suburbs neighbourhood, the sun dappling through the tree leaves overhead, the slightly bumpy feeling of the uneven footpath. I remember the phone number of the house we lived in when I was six years old - the name of the street - the way my sister used to push me down the laundry shute and sometimes I'd get lucky and land on a pile of laundry.. sometimes I wouldn't. I remember tormenting that poor male pheasant coucal with my Fisher Price kazoo - it must've sounded like a mating call from a female because he would go nuts trying to find the phantom bird. But I don't remember friends I made in my twenties, I don't remember people I knew from University (unless of course, we've kept in touch). I'm grateful for the memories I have of my young life. Not that my adult years have been something I wish to forget, but my childhood.. oh my idyllic childhood. The simplicity of being young and taken care of by good, loving parents. When I leave this mortal world, if I have nothing else I wish to remember, this is what I want to think of when I'm drawing my last breath. The warmth of the sun, the sound of my mother's laughter, my father's voice, our dog's bark; the feeling of being small and protected and loved.
Well. I got way off track there.
Surprise surprise - cooking is a big part of my life here. A is a fantastic cook, but I have such joy for it, and I thoroughly enjoy spending a day dreamily leafing through cookbooks, imagining the way things taste, putting together meals in my mind. I found a fantastic kitchenware shop in barrio Centro - as far West as I have been in Madrid of my own accord - and I spent an afternoon in there, going through every item on the overstuffed shelves until I had found the pieces I needed. A flan tin, with removable base - so I can make quiches, flans, cheesecakes. Ceramic baking beads, so I can blind-bake the pastry and avoid disaster. Measuring cups, and spoons, so my cakes don't rise too little, or too much. The kitchenware shop, Alambique, is the culinary equivalent of a well stocked, charismatic old bookstore. I could've curled up and had a nap, blissfully surrounded by my favourite things. They also have a culinary school there, so I think we both know I will be enrolling in one of their courses fairly soon. They do a traditional tapas in Ingles afternoon periodically - that sounds like an excellent idea to me. I believe they're held on Fridays, which means I can then spend the weekend stuffing A full of all the (hopefully) tasty things I've learnt to cook. It is a beautiful part of the city, so I will take a backpack and my D-SLR, and make a day of it.
The weather is supposed to be warming up, but I find myself still in yoga pants and a hoodie at the warmest part of the day. It was positively coldlast night when we left the restaurant to embark upon the journey home. As I huddled against A's lovely broad warm chest for shelter, he assured me that it was indeed a "weird spring". I wonder if this means summer will be mild? We can all live in hope.
Adios, mi amigos.
M x
