And

I forgot to mention the cutest character of them all, the Japanese obaachan (grandma) who climbed into the pool wearing a navy swimsuit and soft pink cap and, funnily enough, her inch-thick glasses. She had no qualms about ducking her head under water either, as she daintily crossed over my lane with a sumimasen (excuse me), water streaming down her lenses, and then got stuck trying to duck under the lane divider, ending up adrift like a lost starfish…

One of those non-days today.

Surfers, Goths and Beachcombers

Basically, today was filled with just those. The annual horror film festival is on over here, attracting a slew of, shall we say, interesting characters. Everywhere you look, bloodied fake extremities are encountered. I’ve had to stifle a scream more than once (they look really real!). To escape the madness I took a walk on the beach and spotted the surfers, loads of them, looking like a colony of penguins floating on the frothy bottle green waves. I ambled past them and was suddenly surrounded by a mob of beachcombers brandishing metal detectors and trying to get to the booty first. The goths, I guessed, must be known for their carelessness with precious metals…A surreal day, all in all.

Croc Dundee

every morning around this time, the owner of the bodega down the road walks his poodle –a grown man with a small dog, yes, but i’m going to let that slide– wearing a different pair of crocs with matching socks. red, blue, green, yellow…what’s that about, i wonder. his fashion contribution to the neighbourhood? or his wife’s idea of a cruel joke? today’s were lilac, by the way. and did i mention the matching socks?

Local Flavour

Here’s another classic local character: a middle aged man often seen riding a pillar box red bicycle, all kitted out in spandex and sporty shades (even on stormy days like today), whistling his usual opera tune at surprising volume. Today he topped off the performance with a black Ushanka hat –it’s less than ten degrees out after all…

Responsibilities Of The Tapas Eater

We went out for some tapas in the early evening yesterday. A nice, old fashioned bar with lots of wood and dodgy paintings. The mother and daughter running the place are super friendly and their tapas are the best. We ordered some tortilla, anchovies, olives and cured sheep’s cheese, with the prerequisite pan con tomate (warm bread with fresh tomatoes and olive oil. Good? you have no idea…). One glass of the local dry white each, good music, conversation… Everything needed for a good night out.

Enter an American tourist –city map in hand, jeans skirt, white trainers and white socks. She sat down next to us and proceeded to order rather loudly –this was clearly not her first stop of the night. But she seemed friendly enough, so we started chatting (ever since I saw ‘Paris, je t’aime’, I can’t help but start conversations with lone tourists from the US). Turned out she was a journalist over on a working holiday, and I ended up having an interesting, if not immensely convoluted, discussion with her.

When she got up to leave –a train to catch to Barcelona– the owner politely stopped her. Maybe she forgot to pay the bill, I thought. But no. The woman, friendly smile intact, pointed to the half eaten plate of serrano Iberico (ham) and said, Please finish that. The American woman replied, Oh, but I loved it! It was just a bit too greasy for me. Not good enough, apparently. No one ever leaves their food, the woman persisted, and if you do then I’ll feel bad. So the journalist picked the greasiest part off of the ham and ate the rest. Ok? She asked, still chewing. The owner shrugged and let her go. After she was gone, the woman turned to us and shook her head. What a pity, she said, and took the left over grease away.