Grasp Slips

I am not the sort of person to have a nervous breakdown. That's what I think. That's why I'm taken aback by a fleeting moment of anxiety during which my grasp on my current reality is rendered tenuous by a little, fluffy white dog walking in front of me.

It is mid-morning, and I have finished with the gym. As usual, my pace is clipped. I'm in a hurry to get home, clean up, turn on the computer and begin my day's work. Today, however, I have a customer meeting so I will be stepping away from my desk and out of my house and I will be performing in front of an audience. The thought nauseates me. I don't think I am consciously thinking that far ahead. I don't rightly recall what I am thinking before I see the little, fluffy white dog. I watch its little legs work overtime to keep pace with the human feet to its left. I notice the black nylon lead and follow it's trajectory to the human hand on the other end. This is when all certainty flickers off . . . .

My God. Who are you? You with your 38 Kilo dog, your flat in Madrid, your husband in London, a job ... a job ... a job ... a meeting with potential clients, a meeting, which will be in a foreign language you make a mess of ... Is this you? This isn't you. Who are you?

. . . . then back on.

Stop thinking so fucking much, Ellie.

I take a deep breath. My moment of internal air-gulping panic doesn't seem to have made any outwardly manifestations. My gait has remained steady. I am still following the small, fluffy white dog. I begin to examine "my moment".

Whoa. That was weird. What's up with you? You'll be glad when The Man is here permanently. But what if there was no The Man? You can't rely on him to put an anchor on your drifting sense of self. What the fuck is up with you?

Although the tick (tock tick tock) of alarm has passed, I sense not is all right with the state of me. The tick in time that has passed forebodes a longer period of malaise. Malaise is far preferable to anxiety-laden bursts of adrenaline that have you wondering who you are. Now I am consciously thinking about the impending customer meeting. Clouds rumble through my gut. I'm scared. I am scared to go and visit a potential customer. When I get to the flat, I close myself in. I do not want to leave again. I tell myself that it is here where I know myself. I don't know who I will be there.

Get a grip.

The customer meeting comes and goes. I am returning on the Metro. The malaise now has free reign to wash over me; whereas before, it had to stay in check whilst we had company. I could cry. It is not the right time of the month for me to be feeling this way. This has me worried.

I give myself reassurances.

You are in a foreign country. You have a new position with your company. You are unsure of yourself most specifically in what you are doing professionally, in what has defined you your adult life. This is normal.

I hope so.

Arrivals

The penguin arrived on Thursday. It is still in its box, though the box has moved from just inside the front door, where the delivery people left it, to the dining room, where The Man moved it whilst he was here for the weekend. The Man asked if I wanted him to open the box and get the Penguin breathing, but I said no. It's been cool. Unseasonably cool for the latter half of June. There is no current need to bother the Penguin. I imagine that soon enough I will require the false, cool air of an artificial penguin.

An old friend arrived for a relatively spontaneous visit. She decided to take advantage of the freedom afforded her by the fact that her two small children accompanied their father on a visit to a large, South American country. My old friend holds two passports: English and Swiss. In light of the Swiss defeat over the Spanish in their first match of the World Cup, she was advised to travel on her English passport. My friend threw caution to the wind. She flew with the white-cross-on-red-background passport. The extraordinarily cautious advice turned out to be extraneous: the Swiss haven't had to show their passports when crossing into Spanish territory since they joined the Schengen Agreement. Furthermore, when my Swiss-English friend responded 'Switzerland' to a Spanish barman's query, she wasn't understood.

"Ah Swedish." He approved.

Apparently she gets that alot. Sweden trumps Switzerland. I don't like confusion so I jumped in.

"No, no. Es de Suiza. La enimiga."

He laughed and bought her a beer. No hard feelings.

I think about the fact that I don't have any friends from Honduras. As a matter of fact, I don't think I have even ever met anyone from Honduras. I feel a little bit guilty that I want Honduras to lose. They seem to have been through a lot as a country. Still, I hope they lose.

Questions Asked

Now it's time for part 2!

I started a list about a week ago. Well, actually about 10 days ago.

This is all I came up with:

1. Have you ever been waxed? If so, what part?

2. Did you feel badly when you heard that John Ritter had died?

3. Madonna: love her? hate her? indifferent?

4. What is your earliest memory?

I saved a word doc with these questions onto my desktop. I thought I would get around to rounding out the list. "I only need 10." I told myself. Something clever. Everyone else comes up with clever questions. A couple of zingers. Irreverent without being insulting.

The Word doc sat untouched on my desktop since I saved it.

Now I tell myself, "Fuck it." Just ask. Don't worry about being clever. Forget about the zingers.

So here goes an extemporaneous asking of meme questions.

5. Are you following the World Cup? If so, who are you supporting?

6. Do you think Rassles had a good time in Ireland? Do you think she's going to tell us all about it? Damn. What if she has already and you just haven't caught up on your blog reading? Fuck it! Keep calm and carry on!

7. Would you ever go in for laser (permanent) hair removal? If so, where?

8. Do you prefer (ie - have or had a better relationship with) your mom or your dad?

9. If you were ruler of the universe, what fate would you prescribe to George W.?

10. What final question should go here?

All the usual suspects have played, and you're the ones I'd most like to pick over with in-courteous scrutiny. So if you are reading, do me a favour, all of you guys .... pick a question, or 2, or 10 and answer (in the comments or on your blog) so I can get a stomachful of you to know you a bit better.

Kisses!

Questions Answered

I suppose it's time to answer some questions.

1. You have magical powers and can go back in time to the concert of your choice. Who is it?
The answer depends on whether or not I can go back stage and make whoopie with one of the troupe!

2. You must choose between two candidates to be Ruler of the World. One is a cat. One is a dog. Who do you vote for and why?
I vote Dog. I hope that I have the right to vote for a harem of cats to act as the checks & balance against Dog; but even if I don't, I'm certain Dog will not become a tyrant. I'm not so sure about Cat.

3. Mountains or beach?
Mountains. Not even batting an eye.

4. Are you interested at all in the local politics where you live, or do you only pay attention in national elections?
I wouldn't have said I'm interested in local politics, but when you ask the question and make me think (really think!) about it, I must be interested in the regional soap operas that play out in townhalls and city councils. I often find myself watching those sadly public TV channels that replay town hall meetings. Dull as dirt, but I get hooked! (Have not found the equivalent in Spain TV viewing).

5. You have the opportunity to tell off the person you most despise without any repercussions. Do you? Who is it?
I think it over; I rehearse the telling off; I lose sleep over it; I don't deliver. Even without repercussions. I'm a coward.

6. Do you have too much stuff or not enough stuff?
Just the right amount of stuff.

7. The house is on fire. What do you grab first (excluding people and pets)?
My laptop and passport.

8. What place in the world would you visit again and again?
Taos, New Mexico.

9. Do you ALWAYS answer the phone, or just let it ring?
The phone's ringing?

10. Does your family know about your blog?
I was going to say, 'nope' but realised that would be discounting The Man when really he's the most important part of my family! He knows about it. He doesn't read it. Bastard.

Image Reaffirmed

The weather has turned. The past few days have been hot with heavy, thick air. I have proven my ability to adapt to my new climate by lowering the 'persiana' to protect the cool air of my flat from the mischievous sun who is out there just waiting to play havoc. But, today, the temperature drops; clouds obviate the need to lower my persiana.

¡Olé!

I know the heat will be back.

I buy a penguin.

I will pay for it over the next 12 months.

I had thought that I would try to face down the heat, but My Man insisted we splash out for some faux-cool air. He's a hot-blooded thing and could certainly put up with a few degrees above burning, but he said he couldn't bear both me (a wilting flower) and The Dog (a panting, black-furred beast) in Madrid's summer heat.

"Get a penguin!" he bellowed.

So, I do.

I go to the place I know will help me: El Corte Inglés.

The penguins are at the top of the escalators.

Excellent. I won't have to search!

I inspect one that I had researched on the internet. It looks good, but I have questions. I look around for someone who will help me. I see two Corte Inglés woman leaning against the till a few feet away. One of them is on the phone. The other is looking out into space. I could swear that she is looking right at me.

Isn't she going to come over and ask me if she can help.

I know I look, if not lost, then like a person with questions. The Corte Inglés woman who is looking, if not at me, into space, continues to look into space. She is absolutely not going to come over to help me.

Of course not. What do you expect?

I admit defeat. I saunter over to the till and ask if she can help. She heaves a sigh. I have put her out. But, yes she can answer my questions.

By the end of the transaction she seems appeased. I have spent more than she thought I was going to. I have taken less of her time than she thought I would. I am out of her hair, trouble-free.

The Corte Inglés women give Spain a bad name.

Injury Consequences

Did that man just wink at me?

I'm wearing the new pair of shoes I bought in Dusseldorf a couple of weeks back. 40 years (almost + 1) of being a woman, yet I have little experience with heels. Not that I'm a trainer (sneaker) type: I've usually found stylish, feminine shoe-wear, without heel.

All these years I've been smug.

I have good sense.

I thought I was being sensible by wearing espadrilles. Now I watch the feet of the women in front of me as they ascend the steps to exit the Metro. I wince when I see the espadrilles or flat ballets.

They think they're being sensible. They have no idea.

My injury is responsible for my change of heart. I'm keen to run. I can't. Every time I leave the house, I have to consider my shoes carefully. Plantar Fascitis is a stupid yet painful and long to heal (up to 2 years!) injury.

Don't trust your flats, ladies. Fucking flats!

40 (+1) years of wearing 'sensible' shoes, and suddenly I'm thrust into a new market. Heals aren't necessarily the answer, but for my specific condition, a heal is better than a flat. I need to relearn how to walk.

The shoes from Dusseldorf are part of my new regime. I tried them on as a whim at the airport. They fit like a glove. They feel so good. At the time of purchase, I didn't pay much attention to how they flattered my ankles.

But they do! They really do! I have nice ankles!

I gave them a test drive when I got back to Madrid: The Dog's evening (23:00) walk; a short jaunt to a tree for a piss. I wobbled a bit. I thought I had made a mistake. Subsequent wearings have assuaged my fears.

I can walk in these shoes! And they really do flatter my ankles!

I am wearing my new, ankle-flattering shoes when, as I enter the Corte Inglés (yes, I'm still going there!), a man winks at me.

Did that man just wink at me?

There really is no question, but I am so surprised by the boldness of the gesture that I have to wonder. I don't feel as attractive to Spanish men as I do to English men. English men might not be bold, but they have their own way of checking you out and making you feel attractive, despite your 40 (+1) years and marital status.

Maybe they're just awkward, so it's obvious. Oh, that's just the reputation.

I write off the winker as a one-off.

2 days later and I am walking to Argüelles from San Bernardo. I had been in the metro, but the brown line is shut between San Bernardo and Argüelles . . .

It's not just The Tube that causes these inconveniences!

. . . it's a longer walk than I would have dared in my new shoes, but I'm doing ok.

I wait at the crosswalk so I move to the shady side of the street. When the light changes, a motorbike comes to a stop as I start to cross.

"Dios mio. Qué pedazo de mujer." [My God! What a piece of woman.]

What the?

I'm not quite as taken aback as I was with the winker. I at least have the presence of mind to act cool.

I giggle inside. I try not to show it. I chalk it up to the shoes.*

*Which are, by the way, nothing to write home about. They're nothing 'Sex in the City' ... God, how I hate that series. ... they're a simple, summer pair of shoes with an arch ...that flatters my ankles.

I See People

As I'm crossing c/ Princesa (Princess Street) I spot the man with no arms. It's the first time I really register him. He's been there before, in the same spot, against the building in between two doorways: one leading to a young women's boutique fashion store and the other to a mobile phone shop. The man with no arms has assumed the same position as he has the other times I have noticed him but not registered him. He is on his knees; obviously, his non-arms don't reach out to ask for alms for the armless. Non-arms can't do such things. I haven't seen it, but I assume there is some kind of receptacle at his knees where we are meant to show our sympathy.

Today is hot; not as hot as yesterday, but still. It's warm.

I register the man with no arms because today he has taken his shirt off (the armless get hot too) and his naked stubs cannot be ignored. On one hand you want to look; on the other, you want to look away.

I'm thinking about the armless man when I turn the corner and spot a matronly woman snapping open a fan.

I have a fan! Maybe I'll finally get to use it.

I have a fan, which was given to me by my 7th grade algebra teacher. Her name was Mary Anne Smithson. She had wheat-coloured hair and freckles across her cheeks and her nose. I was startled when I found out that she spoke fluent Spanish by virtue of being 1/2 Venezuelan.

How can she have such a name? Why's she look so all-American?

I was too young to understand such things.

Mary Ann babysat me when my parents went out of town. She taught me to make chocolate chip cookies. And to savour the cookie dough in modest quantities. Mary Ann was probably 27 when I first met her. She met a man who was the captain of a sailboat. She married him and went off to be a cook on that sailboat. From time to time the boat brought her home, and she brought me exotic gifts like the fan I've never really used (and the coolest pair of colourful, knit socks from Turkey).

The fan is sandlewood and smells lovely when you flick it open. I like flicking it open and flicking it shut again. It snaps in place with such decisiveness; it gives me confidence.

I see the young African man (or 'old boy' or 'teenager') who is standing in front of the bread shop and trying to sell copies of La Farola. He never tries his pitch with me. He smiles shyly and says hello. I think he likes me. I think he's ashamed to be selling a homeless magazine on the street; hitting up the same old people time and time again. I think he needs something to give him confidence.

At least he has arms.