Why are there potato chips in shop windows?

You know what's weird? Well.. a lot of things are. But.. this.. this is particularly odd. Potato chips (crisps, for those playing in the UK) in shop windows. I mean... up against the storefront window, in some kind of glass or perspex giant box. I'm assuming the shopkeep scoops them out and puts them in little baggies for customers who say "I'll have a bag of chips please".. or "Tiene patatas fritos por favor" (check my broken Spanish!). I just find this seriously odd. I mean.. seriously odd. It seems very unhygienic, for one.. also - don't chips go kinda soft and icky when exposed to air and moisture for long periods? Isn't that why they come in those sealed bags? And.. I mean... who wants someone touching their chips? Or sneezing on them? And why chips? SO MANY QUESTIONS!

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

Spring has sprung, the grass has ris, but you're not allowed to touch it.

Spring has sprung! The grass has ris - I wonder where the birdies is? Outside my kitchen window, as it so turns out, sitting in the tall trees directly in front of our Northern wall (kitchen area), chirping and singing and showing off their glorious feathers to me. I love the views we have from our apartment - views to the North, South and West (East is an internal wall we share with next door - two apartments per floor) are filled with trees and birds and spring loveliness.



What a lovely week I've had. Two weeks into being in Madrid, and I'm starting to get a sense of just how completely different our cultures are. For example. No, you cannot order a beer and a water at the same time, that's just bizarre. BUT you can totally order a wine and a water together, that's acceptable. It's impolite to refuse the 'free-but-not-free' bread. You can sit outside alfresco style if you want to have a drink and maybe a tapa, but it's weird to sit outside if you want to eat. 2:30pm is no man's land between appertivo and lunch. Yes, they have pre-lunch. They also have pre-dinner. It's not just drinks, it's drinks and tapa. I get accused of eating a lot you know, but when a country actively makes you eat twice for each meal - who's really to blame?



We've done several lovely walks around our neighbourhood this past week - it was Easter of course, so A had Thursday and Friday off work, giving us a four day mini holiday together. We spent it mostly at home playing our game side by side (yes yes I know), but we did get out and about each day as well. Friday we went for a glorious three (or so) hour walk, heading South in our neighbourhood so A could show me the best pastry shop our side of town.. then West up the big hill to Retiro, where we meandered for a good hour, watching families, listening to the birdies, talking to the feral cats I found. It was very pleasant, the sun gently warming our faces, the brilliant blue sky framed by semi-naked spring branches scratching young green leaves across the azure heavens. We did a loop and ended up outside Trenque Lauquen (possibly misspelling that horribly) which is the Argentinian restaurant A took me to during my visit last September. They love him there - big warm greetings and lots of smiles and affection.. I met the owner, Sonia, who reminds me of someone I can't quite place. Some spectacular empanadas later and we were refuelled and ready for the twenty minute walk back home. For such a big city, it really is nice to be able to walk the streets at night without fear sinking cold into your bones; I get no spidey sense nearly everywhere I've been. I did stumble upon an alleyway last week when I was trying to short-cut home after doing an extensive amount of shopping (read: it was bloody heavy and I wanted to get home before my arms fell off) and felt those tiny little hairs raise up, so I did a 180 and marched right back up to the main road where I immediately felt safe again. But that's been the only occasion.. for the most part Madrid feels safe, open, no danger lurking in corners, no fear of street harassment (which frankly surprises the hell out of me) or pickpockets. I know we don't live in the "gypsy district" but it has a whole different flavour to other European cities I have visited.



Speaking of beauty.. I'm sure some of you have seen the photo I posted of our garden? Our apartment complex is actually two apartment buildings, and each one has its own big beautiful garden - the exterior hedged and the interior a beautiful lawn complete with big trees and lovely flowers including roses and margaritas (daisies!).. they're idyllic to look at, and that's all you're allowed to do. Look. Each garden is fenced and has a gate that is padlocked. No, residents do not have keys to this padlock (which would make sense to me). It is literally a look-but-don't-touch garden. You're not allowed to sit in there and read a book, or kick a ball with your child, or walk your dog. These are big gardens I'm talking about - half a block each. Beautifully taken care of - but again, you're not allowed to actively enjoy/use them. Does anyone other than me find this terribly strange? Yet another Spanish oddity.



I must move, as I have goals to achieve today, and that won't happen sitting around my living room writing blogs and zoning out remembering all the good times I've had the past week. Goal #1 - find a gym I like. Until then, I'm going to continue to get to know every street, every laneway, every hill, until they're written in my memory like fine threads winding into the overall tapestry that will be my mental Madrid map. And if I happen to see some interesting shoe stores on the way, so be it.



Till next time!

M x

Segovia.. an expedition back in time

Friday night BF was all excited smiles, telling me we had to go to bed at a reasonable hour so we could get up early as he had plans for us the next day. My clues? "A lot of walking, and a lot of stairs." Uh-huh. I do love a good surprise though, and I have utter and complete trust in this man (there's a first..) so I just smiled back at his gorgeous face and said "sure, let me know if what I'm wearing is OK".

I'm not entirely sure why, but I had assumed we were walking - from the house. We were in fact, not. As he opened my car door for me, I had a small thrill of anticipation, I had absolutely no idea where we were going, but I hoped it had something to do with the mountains I had seen from the highway last week. As it so turns out, he can read minds, because soon we started heading for the mountains, and I relaxed into the very comfortable leather of the passenger seat, and took in the beautiful countryside beginning to unfold itself to us as we zipped out of Madrid's city limits.

Segovia is about 90 mins out of Madrid, nestled in the hills, frozen in time with stunning sandstone buildings, cobblestone streets, and of course, the ancient Roman aqueduct. We parked in the more modern part of the town, and walked our way up steep narrow streets, winding, winding, winding until eventually we were right in front of some of the arches of the aqueduct itself. We did a lot of walking, and then proceeded to climb a lot of stairs. The view from the top was absolutely breathtaking. It is unimaginable - the sheer volume of rock that was chiselled and carved and moved, lifted, to form this masterpiece of engineering. The city itself is such a quaint and picturesque little town, and it captured my heart entirely.

After walking the length of the "ruins" (I use inverted commas because it is in impeccable condition, given it's a couple of thousand of years old), BF wanted to show me an equally ancient cathedral. I've seen a lot of churches, cathedrals and other religious constructs in my time but this was something truly special. I took so many photos I nearly ran out of battery. Gold plated designs in the interior.. stained glass that would rival the beauty of those found in the Catholic churches in Italy.. it is something truly special. I had a spiritual moment inside that caught me very off-guard, and I found I needed to sit and breathe and just let it wash over me. Something spoke to me while I was inside that church, and I heard its message very clearly. As we left I felt so overwhelmed, and wanting to share what I had just experienced, but I couldn't do it justice walking, so we walked to a closeby bar and sat to enjoy appertivo (pre-lunch drink and tapa). After soaking in a villager wedding right next to our table, and then watching a demonstration about something-or-another (loud, annoying, protest elsewhere please..), we made our way through the winding cobblestone streets to the restaurant BF had booked for our lunch.

Boy was it a treat. The local dish is suckling piglet - roasted whole, served with something delicious. BF ordered our food, and I was in heaven. It was complimented beautifully by the vintage red he ordered, and we ate and ate and drank until I thought my pants might burst. It was such a perfect day, and the drive home was filled with views of the gorgeous Spanish countryside.

Segovia is a little slice of heaven. I would happily go there again some day.

Till next time,
M x

Adventures in Spanglish: Part 2 (ha! knew it!)

Goodness me. This really was an adventure in Spanglish today. It started off well; I considered where I had walked the past six days, and thought that instead of heading West/North or some combination thereof, I would head West/South. Gasp! Rebellious little me.

Madrid is divided up into neighbourhoods, or barrios, and some are more desirable than others, as is usually the case in large cities. Up to this point, I had been spending my time exploring the salubrious neighbourhoods to the North and West of our neighbourhood (Estrella). Today, I decided I would just wander in a different direction, still in the larger barrio of Retiro, but just go a little further South than I had before. This turned out to be a really, really great idea. Not only did I get to wander through the quaint, cosy and simply beautiful streets of Nino Jesus, I ended up in Pacifico, a cultural melting pot full of immigrants and interesting shops galore. I came because Trip Advisor told my hungry stomach that there was a high rated but low priced restaurant about a mile from where I was standing, and at this point, my phone's internet was working, so I walked south/west/south/west until eventually I came upon the right Calle, and fronted up to the famous restaurant. Which was closed. Bloody hell Madrid, it's 11am! I'm hungry here! So I found a bench, and I sat, and people watched for a good hour. Texted BF to ask if I could expect the restaurant to be open at 12pm.. his response was something like "maybe". Then another text, asking where I was. To which I responded, "I think I'm in Pacifico?". This did not go down well; apparently my now much-liked Pacifico is a somewhat dodgy neighbourhood. Wanting to stay and eat at the restaurant, but also wanting to heed BF's advice, I was torn only briefly, before I reluctantly left my happy spot on the bench, and meandered back to the safer, prettier Nino Jesus instead.

All this walking will make a girl hungry (hey! it'd been a good three hours!), so I decided to try a bar in our local Estrella instead. Boy oh boy, was this a lesson in Spanglish. Naturally, my phone's internet had died again at this point (it hates me, truly), so I was left with literally only the Spanish I could remember, which is insufficient when faced with a waitress who was determined to be stubborn as hell (yes, stubborn. No, not unable to understand English, actually stubborn. Because I found out later she spoke English reasonably well), and a brain that is tired from too much sun & walking and not enough water. I pointed to a few items on the menu, and before I knew it, I was enjoying a beer and boquerones fritos - flash fried boquerones (white anchovies). Delicious! I could get used to all the gorgeous different raciones here - I'm beginning to recognise some of the names which is helpful.

Must run - things to see!
M x

Adventures in Spanglish: Part 1

I've titled this "Part 1" because I just know that there will be many adventures in Spanglish for this intrepid explorer.. I am learning quickly, very quickly, and am able to understand an awful lot of Spanish which is encouraging, but sadly, unable to communicate back in Spanish, so am having these mildly frustrating but otherwise entertaining psuedo-conversations with the natives. Absolutely undeterred, I head out each day into the wide world and choose a completely different path out of our neighbourhood, seeing if I can expand my mental map of Madrid, and colour it in glorious detail now that I seem to have the bones laid down. By "colour it" I mean "choose a different road and hope to hell I still have good bird-brain because I have no bloody gps on my phone here and I still cannot read road signs or ask for directions from the locals". It appears to be working. Four blocks East, then two blocks North, there is an absolutely divine smelling bread shop, that I have been resisting for two weeks. Opposite it, half a block further North, is a greengrocer, who closes for siesta (will NOT be caught out by that again..). Keep going another two blocks, and you hit Parque del Retiro - or simply "El Retiro". So I did just that - winded my way East/North/East until eventually I saw the Eastern gates marking the entrance to El Retiro.. and I knew from our walk on the weekend, that the Argentinian restaurant boyfriend had taken me to was close-by.


My first lesson in Spanglish, was ordering lunch at the delightful Trenque-Lauquen. After assuring the waiter that it was indeed just me eating (why is this Universally such a hard concept to grasp??), and no, boyfriend was not joining us (he really is loved there), I somehow managed to order a still mineral water instead of a sparkling one - but hey, who cares, it was bloody hot - and three empanadas. Empanadas here are large, very large, and three is a meal. The espinaca (spinach, for those of you playing at home) emmanada was simply a culinary relevation. Very simple ingredients combined to make something that I cannot do justice with words.. but allow me to attempt to convey the experience.

Hot, buttery pastry held between two fingers (only heathens eat empanadas with cutlery BF assures me) that is heavier than it looks, for its size. I blow softly on the first bite, trying to release some of the heat trapped inside this pillow of pastry perfection; crisp, soft, slightly crumbling, leaving small wet marks of grease on my fingertips. The first bite is mostly the twisted, bunched ends of pastry, but even that elicits a small satisfied sigh from my lips. The next bite is more serious; I can see the deep, dark green of the spinach now not so much as hiding inside the pillow, but inviting me to get to know it better. A hit of nutmeg surprises me; the soft, yielding and almost reminiscent of rubber texture of the feta-esque cheese inside adds a layer of textural contrast, and when I find the sweetness of golden raisins married with the gentle bitterness of the spinach, I am officially in heaven. Soon, I discover it really is too hot to eat like this, so I reluctantly put this marvel of food back on my plate, and resort to the very uncouth use of a knife and fork. I make short work of the rest of my espinaca empanada, and its two friends: carne & aceitunas, and queso & cebolla. Very happy, slightly full but not uncomfortably so, I embark upon the Spanglish dance of requesting the bill, and assuring my eager-to-please waiter that I do not need dessert. It is at this point he gives me a message for BF in Spanish which I quickly text across to him before I forget. Apparently it was something lovely, because I get an enthusiastic "thanks to the waiter!" back. Sadly, I cannot remember what was said, and after prompting my beloved, neither can he. Some things will remain a mystery I suppose.

Another walk through El Retiro; grass and leaves alike dappled with the energising afternoon sun, a bird dancing on the almond-coloured sand pathway, daring me to take its photo. I happily oblige, fairly confident the photo will not turn out at all, as I haven't brought my DSL, but am rather using my iPhone which is not so great for action shots. I do love this bird though, and he has become my Tennessee cardinal; my elusive colourful bird who taunts me every other day, flaunting his bright sapphire feathers at me, teasing me with flitting close and then far, never stopping long enough for me to get a decent shot. I haven't seen this bird outside of Madrid and I am quite curious as to what he is, so I will perhaps do some research, squinting at the shoddy photos I have, and come up with a species to satisfy my avian curiosity.

The mission for today, however, is Museo del Prado; one of Europe's premier and oldest art museums. There are two collections on display today - the permanent collection, featuring artists such as Rembrandt, Poussin, Goya; and the temporary exhibitions, one of which is a tribute to El Greco, and includes his works but also works of other artists inspired by him. Picasso, for example.

I do love a good art gallery. I spent hours walking the quiet halls, climbing the old winding staircases and discovering what felt like hidden chambers tucked away inside bigger rooms. The El Greco exhibition was spectacular, his work made my heart fill with feelings of awe, joy, sadness and amazement. If you are unfamiliar with The Adoration of the Name of Jesus, or An Old Gentleman, or Lady in a Fur Wrap; I suggest you make yourself familiar, if and when possible. The talent, the precision, the passion, the ability to tell as story through brushstroke and manipulation of colour and texture is amazing. I don't normally wax lyrical about art, I think a great deal of it is a great deal of wankery.. but some art is just so captivating it truly deserves a mention. At any rate, after I had spent a good hour in the El Greco exhibition alone, absorbing all the works inspired by Jesus Christ and the events surrounding his life, I was probably full-up on what I have dubbed "Jesus art". Sadly, the Prado had different ideas for me. Full you say? Oh no! You can see more! More! MORE! MOOORRREE!!

I ended up leaving the Prado after another hour, because I simply could not survive any more paintings of Jesus on the cross, Jesus' ascension, Jesus being received by God and cherubs and angels and other creepy child-like entities. It seemed everywhere I turned there was JC, looking mournfully at me with bloody wounds to his scrawny pasty body. It began to completely overshadow the experience of the art for me, so I stepped out into the stunning gardens outside, took a few deep breaths of fresh late-summer air, and began the long walk home.

More sunshine, more small children smiling up at me, more little dogs trotting along the footpath, more fast-spoken Spanish, a left, a few rights, and I was home again.

M x

Day One of Solo Madrid

Now that the weekend is over, and my beloved has gone back to work, I find myself with at least eight hours a day in which to explore Madrid solo. I think we all know I'm good at solo travel; so this is hardly a problem. Where to start, is more the problem. I have my usual Lonely Planet guide to the city, and Trip Advisor has lots of suggestions for me as well. I decide that walking is my best bet, and head off in a vague direction of North-West. I have tried explaining to my boyfriend that I have an excellent sense of direction; we'll see, shall we? Soon I am deep in the Retiro barrio (neighbourhood), and feeling reasonably confident that I am heading in the right direction, I continue pounding pavement, until eventually - yes! I see Parque del Retiro - the beautifully landscaped inner-city park he took me to the day prior, to look at the rose gardens. Such a romantic. The map of our neighbourhood is coming together in my head nicely, and feeling confident, I spend some time wandering through Retiro park. It is just so beautiful, with the autumn colours beginning to creep into the otherwise lush and dense foliage luxuriously lining hundreds of trees. The sand pathways are a subtle contrast to the brilliance of the blue sky, the soothing greenery and the black lacework of the metal fences and lamp posts that line the park's paths. Birds live here, happily and plentifully, and my heart soars to hear their singing; it is at this moment that I know I will spend a lot of time in Parque del Retiro.

I spend probably a good forty-five minutes wandering through the park, using my bird-brain to guide me to the centre of Madrid. I saw some beautiful statues atop buildings yesterday that I really want to capture decent photographs of, and the afternoon sun was doing them no justice yesterday, so armed with my beloved Nikon, I keep winding my way West until eventually I see Puerta de Alcalá; one of the gates of Madrid. It is a landmark; a shining beacon telling me I am indeed going the right way and my sense of direction is working fine. Filled with a deep happiness and satisfaction at making it this far (I mean come on, let's face it - I don't read Spanish very well, and I don't even know what the places I want to get to are called at this point so it's not like I can stop and ask for directions), I continue past the beautiful monument that used to be part of an extensive city wall system, built in 1778. I'm deep in downtown territory now, and am rewarded with more and more historical buildings kept in mint condition, until I reach the piece de résistance - the Plaza de Cibeles. I cannot begin to tell you how beautiful it is; the fountain in the centre of the roundabout, the white buildings surrounding it on three sides, the quaint and terribly private park on the other. I stop for a few moments to take it in, to absorb its beauty, and finally to take a few photos that I know will do it no justice, but hopefully will at least be refreshers for my memory in months to come.

I walk another half an hour, and am suddenly acutely aware that I haven't eaten anything at all today, and it is easily 1pm. I am filled with a sense of purpose; I must find the Mercardo san Miguel, and I simply must eat as much tapas there as I can possibly manage. West! West! Keep moving west! I arrive at the Mercardo and am overwhelmed by choice. I know I have to try new things, but the gulas and croquetas are on my "must eat again" list.. and so I do. I eat and eat until I can no longer; stuffed olives, cured meats, cheese, beautifully presented tapas for as little as 1 Euro. Finally, I have had my fill, met two French tourists and decide it would be a good idea to walk off the near-overindulgence of lunch. I spend my afternoon walking downtown Madrid and smiling; smiling at the other tourists, smiling at the locals going about their business, smiling at the beautiful blue sky and the warmth of summer's last days on my skin. I see all the litter, the homeless, the filth and grunge and grit in the historical streets, but I see the beauty, the hope of newly constructed buildings, the smiles on the many latino faces that I go past. Madrid is beginning to feel quite comfortable to me, and I've only been here a handful of days. A sign of good things to come.

M x

Madrid... Latinos... Latin America... America?

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.