Kay’s invited a few of her students for lunch. They arrive in a flurry of handshakes and kisses: three middle-aged Spaniards with bottles of wine tucked under their arms, speaking a mile a minute. Kay’s been busy in the kitchen, turning the chicken in the oven and keeping an eye on the rice cooker. She comes out to greet them and disappears again, a faint, aromatic cloud hanging behind her. Bianca’s getting dressed. Ana’s nowhere to be found. I’m standing in the dining room, grinning dumbly with my hands in my pockets, mindful of how I need to roll my R’s. They’re a friendly, boisterous bunch, though it’s quickly becoming clear that these three English students will be speaking very little English. I sit at Kay’s elbow while we eat, trying to follow along. Ignacio ... read more

I’ve spent a few days wandering the centro, coming to terms with the fact that - for all its appeal - Madrid tends to show its best face at night. By day there are angry jackhammers snarling on almost every street; clouds of dust float over the plazas. Kay explains that the city’s mayor - especially obsessed with leaving a legacy behind - is working hard to repave and refurbish every last inch of Madrid. Later, I’ll find out that the timing is no coincidence: the EU’s program to help struggling Spain back to its feet is set to expire at the end of the year, and all those funds earmarked for public works need to be spent before the calendar turns to 2007. The Prado is no exception. The country’s most famous museum is ... read more

It’s hard to imagine Poor Richard making himself at home in Spain. The man who found health, wealth and wisdom in “early to bed, early to rise,” wouldn’t know what to make of the erratic hours, the endless dinners, the mid-day siestas. One morning in Avila I decide to get an early start, leaving my pensión at half-past nine. I have some work to shoot off at the Internet Café, which apparently posts its horarios in the window as a suggestion. When the clerk totters in on four-inch heels at a quarter-past ten, wiping wisps of immaculate hair from her face, she all but gives me a look that says, “Boy, I’m sure glad I didn’t roll out of bed when you did.” By half-past ten the Internet’s on the blink, but she offers no ... read more

I’ve been so overwhelmed by kindness in Salamanca that I want to do myself grievous harm, like some medieval flagellant. Patrick and Karla have made a point of shepherding me around town, plying me with drinks and objecting fiercely when I even start to reach for my wallet. The fact that Karla tends bar hardly helps matters. There’s a beer waiting for me before I’ve even had time to take a seat, while Patrick - one of Heineken’s leading sales reps in France, it must be said - helps me through some of his company’s more obscure offerings. You’d be surprised just how much of a stranglehold the major manufacturers have on the beer market. Patrick likes to point out that Desperados - a wildly popular beer that, at 6% alc./vol., is like a cross ... read more

When I was backpacking around Mexico and Central America, trading starry-eyed plans for upcoming trips, there was something unfashionable about dropping the word “Europe” in casual conversation. Forks hit the ground; people threw their hands up, taking offense. I almost came to blows with one scruffy stoner, whose eyes snapped out of their narcotic stupor at the words “Eurail pass,” as if I’d just voted Republican. Honduras, Myanmar, the African bush: if you wanted to earn your travel stripes, you had to start racking up visas for countries that were all but convulsing from social unrest. Stable governments were - like flush toilets and periodontics - relics of some outdated, bourgeois, neo-colonial system. Never mind the Alhambra, the Acropolis, the treasures of the Uffizi: Europe was where stale pensioners - their bank accounts fattened by ... read more