Cushion

1. At first it's exciting being an expat, of course, because it's a zillion times better than just leaving home, and you learn the codes of this country you picked, and you get used to being a foreigner; perhaps you even like it, because it gives you things to compare (where-I-come-from-we-do-this-so-much-better) reasons to bitch (deeply-ingrained-xenophobia-lalalala) and an accent to cultivate.

2. The hardest times come with the phone calls, somebody has died, grandparent, brother, friend. It's hard being far away, and easier too, because you're cushioned from the reality of what's just happened, of what's happening. And the practicalities, they're excellent for extra cushioning :I can't possibly go, not now, I can't leave work, and anyway ryanair will never have seats left for tonight/tomorrow, so the logistics of flying over there take precedence. I can't/won't have to face that grief.

3. actually I don't even think I want to talk about it so I'll sign off here, blogfolks. Don't let your friends and relatives near tall bridges, ok?

1. My excuse for not doing something is usually that I'm lazy, but this time, Blogfolks, it's just that I've been very busy.

2. I went to Madrid for two weeks, you see. In my decision to love most things about the country whose language I'm learning, I'd decided to love its capital city.

3. What's there not to love? It's as famous for its nighlife as I'm notorious within my circle of friends for my hatred of clubbing. The only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning is the thought of a lush breakfast, and the food in Madrid is rather shit. Friendly staff in a café in the morning can make my day, and Madrileños aren't exactly famed for their great sense of service. I rented a shithole of a flat (precious little light, not much more hot water, a flamenco-loving overweight upstairs neighbour) with two strangers and found classes to go to; then I proceeded to elect my favourites out of the 300 000 bars of Madrid.

4. In Spain they say that a bar can be judged from the quantity of crap on its floor. The more crap, the better that bar will be. Because in Spanish bars you eat with your drink, there are olive stones to spit out (onto the floor), gambas shells to drop (onto the floor), and various bits and pieces and morsels and crumbs, too.

5. Number one favourite: Cañas y tapas (off calle mayor): the nice cross-eyed waiter plied me with enough tapas with my beer at lunch that I wasn't even too drunk for my afternoon class.

6. To sever myself from a two week-diet of beer, tortilla española and coffee, tonight I went to the chip shop. I'm just a b ig, fried potato.

7. I have more to say, but I'm really too lazy. Hope you're well!

Bloggente, I've been in Madrid for two weeks and I might come back to Blighty tomorrow

If what they say is true and we are indeed what we eat, then I am turning into one gigantic tortilla espanola.

I'll tell you about the rest when I'm back. Be well!