Bank Card Fails

After he counts out the sum I have requested to withdraw, the bank teller tells me that I will have to go see one of the other bank employees - obviously more important than the mere teller, because they have desks and receive the referrals from the teller - about my defective cash machine card.

The only bank person available is a woman with whom I've dealt before. Now, as then, she appears exasperated that I disturb her with my presence.

I explain in heavily-accented, pigeon Spanish, "My debit card doesn't work anymore. My wallet has a magnet. The magnet must have ruined the card." I demonstrate the magnetic clasping functionality of my wallet just in case I haven't been clear.

She twists up her lips and tells me that it's perfectly obvious what needs to be done. "You need to get a new wallet."

I know how this could go. I have got to butter her up.

I laugh, and agree that I will have to get a new wallet, but in the meantime, a new debit card would be very convenient. I hand her the debit card with the fucked magnetic strip and a piece of paper on which I have written all my pertinent details in order to expedite the debit card replacement process.

The bank lady exhales some of her exasperation and begins tapping at her computer terminal.

"Your live on So-and-So Street."

I agree.

"Building number 36."

"No, no, number 39." This time I disagree.

"It says here 36." She spits out and swivels the computer monitor so that I can see that in fact it does say my building number is 36. She looks me up and down and fixes me with a stare that dares me to challenge her. I think she's thinking I'm stupid and don't really know where I live.

Butter her. Butter her. You have to butter her up.

"That's strange. It's definitely 39, and I get all my bank statements and other bank mail without problems, I think."

She sighs heavily and begins tiptapping at her computer terminal again.

"Well, here it says 39." Her tone tells me maybe I'm not wrong about my building number and maybe I'm not as stupid as she first supposed. "I don't know why the other field would have '36'; it's 39 everywhere else. I'll have to fix this before I can issue a new debit card."

It takes 20 minutes of sighing and swiveling and muttering and calling to Luis at the other desk in order to change the erroneous 36 to the correct 39.

I wonder if I'll have to get a new PIN number as well.

Cement Metro'ed

I don't think the lady in the red shoes brought the box of cement onto The Metro*. The box of cement rushes me back to a failed (by me) project but then a salvaged (by a trained professional) later project. When I took on that project I bought bags of cement. Cement is a very complicated affair. There are all kinds. One needs to know what one is doing. The little box of cement in The Metro ...

What's it doing there?

... is an unconvincing size. I suspect that whoever bought that box of cement and then left it on the Madrid Metro did not know what they were doing. I suspect that that size of cement packaging is specifically marketed to us know-nothings. I am through with cement. I will only occasionally entertain thoughts of it; for example, when I am in the Metro and there happens to be a box of cement on the floor. I will allow myself to wonder if the woman in the red shoes has even noticed that there is a box of cement at her feet.

Her shoes are awfully red. I think.

I begin to wonder about shoes. I have lost a pair.

Misplaced. Please. Misplaced.

I last wore them on Sunday, I'm sure. They are a pair of slide-on, closed-toe Birkenstocks. I have two pairs exactly the same except that one is covered by leather and the other pair is covered in a woven material of muted checks. Both are meant to be proper shoes, but the pair with woven material looks like slippers. Too much like slippers for me to be comfortable wearing them outside. The woven material ones are my indoor shoes. They are my slippers. It's the other ones I have misplaced,

I've looked everywhere. Two times. Except where they are obviously.

*My Spanish teacher doesn't allow me to refer to the London Tube as "El Tubo" ... surely The Tube can't be 'El Metro'. My mouth twists up like a cat's ass. That just ain't right.

Autumn Blooms, Spring Looms

Madrileños have never much appreciated their springtime. "It goes straight from winter to summer. Or just about." They used to - and still do - claim. Autumn, on the other hand, was previously extolled as a season on which the other seasons ought to model themselves. Sunny and bright. Not too cold. Definitely not hot. Orange and yellow leaves. Crispness in the air. Yet, sunny and bright.

I said that, right?

When I returned to Madrid earlier this year and my conversations with Madrileños turned to the weather and seasons to be applauded for a job well done, autumn was chastised. It used to be such a good season. "Not anymore." My Spanish friends warned. If Madrileños are to be believed, Autumn has taken after Spring: it has all but disappeared between summer and winter.

I don't think Madrileños are to be believed.

If this isn't autumn, what is it?

It's the end of October. The sun is shining. No overcoat required, but a sweater, yes. Maybe a scarf.

But don't forget the sunglasses!

It's the end of October and a most brilliant non-autumn autumn one might imagine.

It's autumn, and my father and his wife will be visiting in April. A couple of weeks ago, my father emailed me with the towns he would like to visit (he has been to all of them before; he doesn't want to try anything new) when he is here in the spring. He asked that I look into making accommodation arrangements in the towns he wants to visit. He has assured me that he will finance all accommodation even for My Man and me when / if we decide to join my father and his wife in their vernal peregrinations around Spain. My father has emailed me two times since to ask me if he owes me anything for the deposits I might have put down. This is his way of asking how the planning is coming along.

I repeat: it is the end of October.

Intercambio Summary

My first session with my Intercambio almost went off without a hitch. Unfortunately, just at the moment I was supposed to be logging onto to Skype and introducing myself to my new, Spanish friend, My Man called to me from other room. I had made myself a mug of steaming hot Horlicks and was nestled under the duvet in the guest-room-cum-office where I would initiate over-the-Internet contact with my Intercambio. Hearing The Man's summons from the other room, I bolted from the duvet and upset my mug of Horlicks in the process. Hot horlicks spilled onto the area rug and onto the wooden floor. I muttered, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" as much as one can mutter whilst simultaneously using exclamation points. Turns out The Man had nothing of importance to say. My horlicks was wasted for nothing. I was not in a good mood, but I put on a brave face. I think my new, Spanish, Internet friend was none the wiser.

I was in London for my 2nd session with my Intercambio, which really just goes to show how really cool technology is. I was at ease for the 2nd session. I had been through it all once before so I was comfortable with the drill. Plus, the change in time zone gave me an extra hour so I wasn't annoyed by the fact that I would be up later than I wanted to. Unfortunately, rather than comfort myself with Horlicks, I opted for a glass of wine as the beverage of choice to keep me company with my Intercambio. I am an adept drinker of wine. Before the call had even started, I think I had finished 1/2 a bottle. At one point my Intercambio sound worried. "Ellie ... Ellie ... can you hear me?" He woke me from the start of a possible doze. I pretended there had been a connection problem. I think my Spanish, Internet friend was none the wiser.

My third and most recent session with my Intercambio has been the most successful. I spilled no drinks. I limited my wine intake to 1 glass. I maintained consciousness throughout. I might be getting the hang of it.

I wonder what my Intercambio is doing on the other side of the Internet.

Childhood Remembered

Our childhood babysitter contacted me through Facebook. She used exclamation points after the first sentence: I found you!!! She then indicated that she had been looking for me on FB for years; she was so happy to have found me!!!!

My initial, internal reaction was a wee bit bitchy.

What was so hard? First name, last name, presto!!!

My first name, surname combination is unique enough.

Shouldn’t take years!!!

The Babysitter is just a couple years older than my eldest brother, so she didn't really sit him. According to The Babysitter and not contradicted by my memory or the more developed members of my family - ie those old enough to remember - The Babysitter spent all weekend every weekend for three years (my first three years) at our house looking after my middle brother and me.

I suppose in those days babysitting was a girl's job so my eldest brother got off the hook.

The Babysitter was so happy to have found me!!!!! She was also so happy to see how pretty I had grown. Apparently, it took my hair a long time to grow; my mother and The Babysitter, according to The Babysitter, had long conversations about the prognosis of my hair. They were worried it wouldn't ever grow, which would have been a shame because my mother was so beautiful and perfect and it would only be fair for me to be beautiful and perfect too, though it had been a risk, the whole adopting me thing. According to The Babysitter.

After her initial contact, The Babysitter and I exchanged notes. Her notes were effusive, good-natured, and expressed earnest fondness for my middle brother and me. My middle brother, according to The Babysitter was an angel and so cute. (No one ever worried about his hair!)

My notes were shorter and tempered by a cynicism that I don't think the babysitter detected. For a fleeting moment I thought about writing her about what the little angel had done over so many years. (There's more to worry about than the rate of hair growth!!!). I didn’t really consider it. I was just being morbidly funny in my head.

Truth be told, I enjoyed the nostalgic reverie brought on by the recent exchange with The Babysitter. I am a nostalgic person. I like old family photos. I like old family stories. She provided new ones (of each). She seems to be a good person (if not a little God fearing), with a son of her own, named after the angel who did un-angelic things to me.

Boy, I could drop a bomb.

Bidet Dedicated

For Mondraussie.

Because it's always nice to know that we're not alone.

Book Done

The book is finished. I didn't like it as much of some of his others, but better than some of the other others. In sum, it was a good read. I sympathized with the characters; I laughed out loud two times; I turned the pages and resented the end of journeys into work because they called a temporary end to my reading time. I suppose that's a pretty good endorsement.

Mostly though, the book reawakened a dormant fantasy: that I might be a writer with stories to tell. He's writing for me (does this make me one of those groupies? Yuck!) But, I don't have the stories to tell ... only vignettes about blisters and dogs and struggles with urban plant life.

Maybe one day a story will come; if it does, I hope I am ready to recognize it and take the time for it. In the meantime, I am happy with my vignettes.

That is the fantasy. In real life I don't know if the writer's life is the one for me. It seems awfully asocial and quiet and laborious. I am social and loud and lazy. Not really, but maybe a little.

Blisters Pampered

When I awoke mid-flight, my eyes were crusty. I didn't want to rub the grit away because, since I would be heading to a client meeting straight from the airport, I had put on mascara. I didn't want to risk making myself look like a raccoon, or worse: a hungover, under-slept, party-girl.

The blister on my left heel, the one that I had broken open, started to itch.

"Will you remember this time?" I asked myself as I reproached my memory for having failed me. I never remember if you are supposed to pop blisters or leave them be in their slightly raised, slightly-full-of-their-watery-fluid state.

When we were hiking and one of the kids started to limp, my dad would light a match and run the sharp end of a sewing needle through the flame. "This sterilizes the needle." He instructed.* Then, despite fearful protestations, he would make the limper de-boot and would pierce the skin of the discovered blister. With the watery-fluid drained from the pinprick hole, he would apply a band-aid or some moleskin, and we would go on our way.

I considered the fact that my father popped blisters in my childhood and concluded that this must be the origin of my belief that one ought to pop blisters. The untouched and quiet blister on my right foot questioned this notion.

I continued on this train of thought whilst the little boy in the seat in front of mine dropped items through the space between the seat and the window. First his hat, then a blow up neck cushion.

What does a kid his age need with one of those anyway?

If my father opened a blister it was only so we could continue down our chosen path. He didn't just pinch a hole into the skin of a blister (like I had done). He performed minor surgery. He came prepared with a needle and matches and band-aids and maybe even moleskin!

I had torn a hole in the left hand blister; now it itched. I deserved it. I allowed myself to get annoyed by the little boy ahead because he served as a distraction to the itch.

*A memory that reminded me of another sterilization method employed by a man who came into a later stage of my life: my senior year of university, a boyfriend sterilised safety pins with his cologne before he made a similar pinprick to drain the thicker whiter puss from one of his (to be fair) occasional zits.

Crap Hamburger (Redux) & Beautiful Scents

When I wake up, my mouth isn't dry, my head doesn't throb, my stomach isn't queasy.

Did I dream it?

The half eaten hamburger is evidence of at least some of my previous symptoms. I cringe a little.

Work is on my mind. I have some follow up actions from yesterday afternoon's meeting. I run through the inventory of actions and classify them into "do immediately" (ie at the airport) or "wait til Monday". My goal is to not touch my computer when I get to Madrid ... except to send the emails I will draft at the airport ... until Monday.

If I am very efficient, I might finish all immediate tasks before I get on the plane, in which case I will be able to write a post or continue with John Irving's latest piece of fiction.*

I take a shower but don't wash my hair. My Man and I have planned a dinner out with some friends tonight, and I imagine I will want to shower again.

I'll wash my hair then.

Because I haven't washed my hair I don't feel as squeaky clean as I might. As is my habit when I am at airports and am not feeling my freshest, I go to the perfume counters in duty free to see if I can find a scent that will make me feel pretty. I try what I imagine to be a Japanese brand: Issey miyake (?). It's one in a light green bottle. There is a matching light red bottle next to it, but it says "floral". I don't feel like feeling like a flower. I can't tell what the green bottle is supposed to make me feel like. I'm living dangerously. I squirt the tester liberally around my neck and on my wrists.

The Japanese perfume is pleasing. I can envision myself buying it, if I actually remember the name. It wasn't cheap; it will have to be a treat.

I remind myself that I have a growing collection of perfumes at home and I am not to buy any more fragrances, not even of the expensive, pleasing Japanese variety, until I kill the two bottles that are lowest.

Shame!

I smell really good.

*Guess what: I was efficient!
Post Script: Guess what: The green bottle was just the cologne version of the pink perfume bottle! How about that. I love the Internet.

Old World Trams and A Crap Hamburger

A mixture of vague sensations slowly nudge me into consciousness. I think I might have to use the loo.

Just get up and go already.

My mouth is dry. My head throbs. My belly feels queasy.

Get some water already.

It's cozy comfortable - with the exception of my full bladder, dry mouth, throbbing head, and queasy stomach - and warm under the duvet. Before I went to bed, I opened the window to check the temperature. I concluded it would be pleasant to sleep with fresh air coming in through the window. The tram line, which runs directly in front of my hotel and under my window makes only a soft metal-upon-metal scraping sound followed by a heaving, let's-get-going sound. A pair of sounds I find oddly romantic from this muting distance.

The romantic trams have been quiet for some time when I wake up with the urge to pee and drink water. I run through the relatively short inventory of drinks responsible for the state of my mouth, head, and belly. Two beers (not pints, but rather a seemingly more sensible continental size) and a glass of red wine.

Those little beers are powerful.

It's true: I checked the alcohol content on the back of the bottle when they brought the first one. The Orval I had contained 6.2%. I was disproportionately buzzed after two beers.

I remember I should have a bottle of water in my bag. But then I wonder if I already drank it. I pull the duvet off and tiptoe through the pleasant chill to the desk where I deposited my bag last night. I scrummage around and am grateful for the bottle of water I bought but did not drink in Barajas.

I waddle to the toilet and notice the half eaten hamburger I had ordered from room service. I cringe a little.

That burger was shit.

I think the burger might have as much to do with my queasy stomach as the two beers and glass of wine. I go back to bed, sip some more water, and check the time. My watch is a runner,s watch with a lot of buttons. I have no idea how to adjust the time. It is still on UK time. I mentally add an hour. It's 2:15.

I am simultaneously glad to have more time to sleep and impatient for morning and my Saturday morning flight, which will take me back to The Dog and My Man.

Before I fall asleep, I remind myself to look for band-aids at the airport so I can cover up the symmetrical blisters that had me limping by the end of the day, the main reason I opted to stay in and order a shitty hamburger from the hotel kitchen.

I cringe a little again. I think I should remember to put an emergency Alka Seltzer sachet into my overnight bag. I sip some more water and fall asleep.

Modern Call

I've agreed to take a call. It's scheduled to start in 45 minutes.

No, 2 minutes have passed. It's due to start in 43 minutes.

I don't know the person with whom I'm going to speak. I know that he is studying English and will be taking tests to qualify for some sort of English expertise or another. I know that he's got children, the reason why the call will start so late: after the children have gone to bed. He seems to be very motivated and organised. He has given me the topics about which he would like to speak, in English. For 45 minutes we will speak my language. For 45 minutes we will speak his language. We will speak through headphones attached to our computers, which will use voice over IP to bring two strangers together over a common protocol.

This is a strange circumstance, and I feel a sense of dread as the minutes tick away. I don't really fancy talking to a stranger. I don't really fancy being on the phone for an hour and 1/2, but I suppose this is a good way to keep up some Spanish speaking momentum now that I am back at work, talking mostly English through my headset to colleagues across a small stretch of water.

36 minutes.

This isn't a perilous excursion: the man who will be on the other side of Skype is a friend of a friend. And, he has children.

In case you forgot.

The topics (for English) tonight have to do with a recent strike, an aging population, and a couple of other current events that I can't remember at this very moment.

32 minutes.

I better check my email so I remember those other two topics. I don't want to let my Skype partner down. I don't want him to tell our common friend that I wasn't prepared. When he asked me what I wanted to talk about, I felt a little bit lame. "I suppose I'd like to start with basics. I'll tell you about myself, my job, my family and you can tell me about yourself, your job, and children."

Apparently, my Skype partner is a bit of a whore. He has Skype calls scheduled on Mondays, Tuesday, and Wednesdays. On Monday, it's Boston. On Tuesday, it's South Africa. On Wednesday, it's a guy from New Orleans who's living in Manchester now. I'm his Thursday girl, and I live no more than 10 miles away. We've agreed, distance is safer over Skype.

28 Minutes.

Lemons Sliced

The woman behind the bar complains.

"Truthfully," she says as her hand gesticulates upwards with frustration, "I am really starting to get fed up with the injustice of it."

She is an old and dear friend. She is beautiful. Olive skin and dark, glossy hair (I have not seen any gray, but she says they freakishly pop up close to either side of her part). Big, brown eyes and full lips. And attitude. A whole lot of attitude. The attitude that comes from healthy confidence, so you admire it and wish you had it.

You're comfortable in your own skin now. But it wasn't always this way. You were shy and awkward and suffered low self-esteem.

My friend has the attitude of a woman who has never lacked confidence. She's also kind of a rocker chick. She has emptied the dishwasher behind the bar and dried any water remnants from the steaming glasses. She slices open the netting that holds a dozen lemons she bought from the Chinese-run fruit shop next door. The lemons are next. A cutting-board appears.

"I'm sick of it."

She hacks off the end of a lemon.

The 'it' that she's sick of, the injustice that has her well and truly fed up is: with age, an attractive man continues to be an attractive man to women of all ages; whereas the appeal of an attractive woman fades exponentially. I can do nothing but agree. I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips in a kind of 'that's life' type of expression. There's a bit of truth in that lemon....

There's a bit of comfort in my ability to accept these unfortunate circumstances.

I wonder if it will be harder for her to swallow because she's always been so aware of her beauty?

My Man, who has been quietly listening, puts down his beer and shakes his head. He does not believe us. He has always been a man to appreciate an ageless beauty (and in fact carries a torch for Helen Mirren). What he's not getting is our friend's sentiment: that beauty isn't ageless and women feel its loss before men.

All of this makes me think about a phrase an Indian friend in London shared with us.

"Black don't crack." she said as she stroked her unblemished, smooth skin. "It's a fact. It's the natural oils in darker skin."

We share this with our friend behind the bar. She looks surprised for a moment, then glad.

"Menos mal." she says as she realises her olive skin may be resilient.

She looks at me. "I'm sorry, Ellie."