Madrid in November

Madrid in November. Cold. The Spanish of Spain is like snakes, all this "thhh". My Slovakian friend Zita lives in a cupboard and learns Spanish at an anarchist squat, and the rest of her classmates are Russian. "Thita," the instructor would say to her. The Russians squawked and laughed. We went to a sandwich shop near the museum. Hair of the dog, you can order a cana (that is can-ya by the way), which is a small beer, and they give you a tiny plate of something. Mussels, chorizo, bread. "Order the escalope," said Zita, "It means scallops." A sandwich arrived, stuffed thick with deep fried pork. "Woops," said Zita. The barman wrapped it and we gave it to a thin old man, begging on the corner of Retiro Park. 'Grathias!" He said, a look of joy on his face. This surprised me, cuz once I tried to give a French Canadian begging some maple sugar candy he looked disgusted. Maybe he didn't like sweets. When I had a look at the Presidential Palace, there was a street violinist playing the theme song from Titanic. Mucho Dramatico.