A Tale of Two Cities: The Bullfight Leg

Feet having barely hit the ground in London, I traversed the border into the wilds of Kent to replenish the heart centre with a visit to a dear old friend who recently had a very much needed, wanted and loved baby.  The sweetest cherub with whom my husband imprinted "Twilight-style" on sight.  Have a word!!  Ending with dinner at a 16th century pub - only in Enlgand! - we readied ourselves for the more visceral environment of the Spanish capital - Madrid.  Seething with red passion - my cousin-in-law is a card carrying communist -we decided to keep the fact we are both partial to MacDonald's Happy Meals to ourselves and partisanned our way into the Bullfight leg of this trip.

My family, every single member of, is a Spaniard thoroughbred.  Half hail from the celtic north (Galicia) and half from the very centre of the archipielago (Madrid).  I also have blood relatives in Catalonia, The Basque Country and The Canary Islands.  Tempting as it was to disappear to the islands, it was Madrid we committed to this time. Arriving in 39 degree heat, I was at home, my husband was in hell (why are we not in the Canaries?oh he was mad) and the nipper just very very confused.

My cousin - the communist - had vacated his appartment for us - bless his red socks and had moved with his wife to my aunt's house a few streets away for the week.  Actually it sort of served a dual purpose.  See, my aunt has just lost her son -  another cousin, my favourite - everyone's favourite - who had died in his sleep a few months earlier at the age of 49.  She is beside herself with grief and the company will have done her the world of good, all things considered. 

This recently deceased cousin was a recovering heroin addict, fact is, it was a wonder he'd made it this long.  But he had finally kicked the habit only to kick the bucket.  It's odd and tragic and at once utterly expected that he should die on one of the first nights out in 20 years.  An agoraphobic, obsessive-compulsive, manic depressive finally musters the energy and courage to visit a friend and stay over - to not wake up.  It's like he knew and wanted to spare his mother the horror of finding him dead.  (Of course he lived at home.)

Unluckiest man in Madrid, he never really found his stride and told me once he simply didn't feel like he was of this world.  Very interesting fellow.  He's now in an urn nestled among his mother's prized china in the living room.  Where else? Apparently he was also claustrophic so a casket and ground burial was out of the question.

So it was that kind of week. Tea and sympathy.  Suffocating heat and Himalayan treks across the city to visit Goya and Velazquez at El Prado museum; Picasso and Miro at Reina Sofia; Burlesque street performers in El Retiro park and tapas, tapas and more tapas.  Late nights and free porn on TV.  Delightful.

And visits to a childhood open air pool in south Madrid.  My favourite.

Though I retain and very much honour my Spanish roots, I felt very foreign this time round,  like I have drifted too far from my ancestry and yet it seems very natural.  I'm a nomad - not by design - this was decided by my parents who chose to immigrate to the UK where I was born half human, half Vulcan.  I've always been a foreigner in this sense - in the UK, here in Canada and now again in Spain - it's normal for me now. 

Coming back to Canada then didn't really feel that awful.  I realise that home is where the heart is and the heart is where happiness is.  Happiness is what I make it.  Don't get me wrong - my heart isn't in Canada but I know now that if I can carve a little happiness then I'll always be home.