"La famiglia"

“La famiglia” is the issue number one.

You live happily abroad. I used to say that Madrid is not too far from London to miss properly Spain. We used to come back for our holidays, constantly taking planes either to Madrid or Malaga, catching up with family and friends. At the end of the vacation, we flew away, reconnecting with our life back home.

You enjoyed the weather, the food, the family but somehow, leaving all that behind feels good as well. Great big families can be demanding, intrusive and of course, there are always misunderstandings. Feels good coming back home and discuss all those with your other friends, who absolutely take your part and understand you, and usually they’ve been as well already on those.

I must say, the only moment that you miss greatly not being home is when something happens and you are not there to help, to comfort or to say farewell to relatives gone. To keep company and to stick together. It hurts greatly because you are sad as well, but isolated with the grief and, worse, you feel really guilty about not being around, when needed.

At the beginning of your stay abroad, it is difficult too not being part of the family’s daily celebrations, like birthdays, etc, or being the last one to know what's going on over there. But year, after year, you finally accept the fact that you are an outsider and, it is just on those hard moments that, you miss being where you should.

More than a decade later, you decide to come back and, you expect being the centre of the universe. You are finally back! After all those years!!!! You expect loads of attention and catching up. But no, if enough time has passed, actually you would be precisely what you were the minute before landing: a wandering satellite. A very independent one. And again, let’s say, this doesn’t help to reconnect with your family, either.

It’s a bit crazy because you probably have been growing listening your parents say that you have to be independent and self-sufficient, and you mastered it. You are the most independent and self-sufficient person over the face of the world, but actually your folks would like you better if you need them. Much better. For anything. I kind of learned, not needing them, in fact, hurts them. This one really takes time to realise.

There are more things to learn, other surprises waiting: You actually soon will discover that your family has evolved, maybe it has many more members than when you left, and all them have found their place in the new system and you, the foreign member, are not where you dreamily thought. Actually, your place is taken. Like that.

You are not any more the only daughter, your kids are not any more the only grandchildren, the family routine is totally different, and somehow your family is struggling because your pack of five is actually too big in the three generations meals, already crowded.

If  your family hasn’t grown yet, and hence, you still have your space waiting for you, don’t relax because there is still one more challenge.

So, do you remember how, as a new couple, you struggle to find the way it works actually for both of you, in so many things? The first moments of living together are only endured because you are sooo in love that everything seems easier, but it’s not. You need to create “on the go” a new routine about how to deal with so many aspects of your daily life, that for some strange reason, were not done in a similar way in his or her house. Psychologists joke that a marriage is a battleground in which two families send their best warriors to determine which family’s culture will direct the couple’s life.

Keep that in mind, and send that couple abroad, maybe to one or two different countries, that of course, have changed and reshaped many things through the years. Now, put back those warriors to their families who, are literally horrified because, can’t recognise much on them. Neither team 1 or team 2. You actually do everything differently. 

For you, those changes are a beautiful result of your experiences, a richer life and many challenges assumed and overcome, but for your family members is just weird stuff you do, because a) you are weird, b) you are showing off how British you became and how little Spanish you are now c) you just do it to annoy others around.

You crave for empathy but, is actually a distrust what you get. And hence, you need to start building from there.

Don’t think that’s all, there is something else waiting for you there: You are back and you have become someone’s child again. This would mean that, they may told you off, and yes! sometimes they do. So, if you were expecting parents telling how proud they are of your achievements, how well you have been doing and, that they are amazed about all the challenges you faced beautifully. Wait there. For the rest of your life. They are actually prouder of the kids that stayed close to them. The closer, the better. Instead, they will come to tell you when you don’t fulfil their expectations.

I am not sure if it’s a good idea to fill you with some examples here, because, what if they read this entry???? but, I am so sure most of these are a classical when you are back, so we need to set at least three iconic examples:

1. "We used to see you more often when you were abroad” This one maybe is at the same level of the epic “this house is not a hotel” that you heard when you were in your late teens or twenties.  I guess this is a classic for the European Expat, usually checking in on holidays and expending all their free time and attention with their family.  Now everyone is disappointed because day to day life is more demanding, there is no much free time, and even, maybe your holidays are spent abroad, in the country you just left, to visit those friends and that part of your life.  No one wins here, I am telling you this.

·       2. Why you don’t work anymore? Are you looking? You need to find a job! (Hey come on, not that I’m asking you for money or anything!) Great pressure when you are in the middle of a mid-life crisis too!

·      3. Why your husband is always working?  The Londoner work-style is a different league. If you don’t show up in weekends, saying that you are actually working, no one will believe you. At least here, it would sound as a pathetic excuse to avoid commitment, miss meals and not turning up.

Of course the rest of their time, your beloved progenitors will actually be telling friends, neighbours and relatives and, almost everyone around, how happy they are that you are back!!!

Come on! They could lie to you too!!! 

Love for writing

Love for writing is packing an old Olivetti, making your suitcase insanely heavy to carry, but not being able to picture yourself, without its company, even during your holidays. Not wanting to renounce to the rhythmical lullaby of its keys, rocking your thoughts as you write. Or, the peaceful moment when you stop typing, actually kind of putting yourself on pause, and let your hands change automatically the filled page for a bright clear one, inviting again some more words in.

It couldn’t be a really good holiday if you can not sneak to write, leaving your family and your delightful grandnieces enjoying the pool and, finding those moments to sit by yourself in the terrace, with the sea at the background, and the house quiet. And then, in that perfect moment of calmness, let your imagination fly away but, actually, you end up grabbing it, to avoid getting it lost. Making your thoughts prisoners to the paper, but finding the way to present them in the most accurate, yet beautiful way, so they become more real: transitioning from your imagination to become a story.

I met the 80 year old gentleman this summer, but it was his daughter who told me about the typewriter journey from Rome to Malaga, packed as a child would take his teddy bear, to keep him company. And I could understand the man and, at the same time, I felt deeply moved by the story because, it is the same love that makes you pick just one pencil in an exquisitely displayed museum shop. It attracts you because you can picture yourself using it against some paper, leaving its traces behind, making words just look pretty, 2D plain monochromatic beauty. And you find that gracefully designed pencil so inspiring to help you connecting your brain with your hand, noticing the flow through your arm to its solid wood and, hearing the murmur of its tip, scratching slightly the paper.

Or the same love that wakes you in the middle of the night, to switch your computer on and type the story you need to tell before its momentum falls away and, you lose forever your idea, its strength and whatever thought inspired it.  And you can not stand that your story, slippery as a fish, may go forever to the kingdom of thoughts without you being able to bring it to this world, in a material, perceptive way that, at least for you, makes it more real.

Let It Be or Let It Go?

I am a big fan of the Beatles, I loved their songs since I am a teenager. I felt super lucky to live at walking distance to their famous studios in St. Johns Wood, having done thousands of times the iconic crossing at Abbey Road, either by car, waiting for the tourist to mimic the legendary picture or walking it, thinking that one day, I should be doing it myself. Somehow being that close, the crossing felt a bit mine.

At the beginning of my Teen Years, I learned by heart many of their songs, but it was “Yesterday” the one that made me vibrate. I used to sing it everywhere, karaoke, piano-bar or just in the middle of a busy street on top of a bench. Making a terrible figure of myself but, still not caring for a single moment what other people would think and, giving the most of myself in its performance. I must say I was a dreadful singer, but very enthusiastic! That one was the one and only song I ever sang in public.

Last evening my son was doing his homework. He had to listen “Let It Be” to analyse its instrumental music and some other facts about the song. He played it in my phone, full volume and so, we all could hear it. Suddenly, my other son, aged four, decided to sing along “Let It Go” instead, as a kind of war competition trying to be louder than the Beatles and, make the Frozen’s song win.

I was amused that he made the connection, because it just made me realise that both songs titles were so close in a way, with the same structure, cadence and, sharing two words out of three, even, two syllables out of three!  Both were holding a sharp, meaningful message, addressed for moments of trouble but, the similarities stop here, because their meaning is a very different action, sometimes even opposite.

In a more reflective line, I believe that actually both “let it be” and “let it go” were necessary in everyone’s life, like a dualism. It is crucial that you get the best balance between them. The war my little one was playing, it is actually a war we all play in our lives, especially in moments that we have to face change, maybe unexpected, unwanted or, just dramatic change.

I mean, if you think about it, this balance is being played constantly in our lives, but it’s done in a natural way, somehow unconsciously, as we grow and mature. It’s in those difficult moments of change when, finding the right proportion between both it's decisive, although this time, it takes a harder work, it’s quite demanding and yet essential to be able to move to the next step.

-“Which next step?” –you may ask.

It’s not over when you find your balance, you still need another song. This one is not as famous as the others but, it comes from one of our favourite movies, quite inspirational,  passing a clear message to educate kids –and adults- to be environmentally responsible: The Lorax (book available too!).

It was again my oldest who brought it over, last night, after playing the two songs and discussing a bit our taste in music for a while (little one defending firmly “Let it go” as a winner!).

-“Mummy, there is another one of these!”

And he hit it here –nice song-:

Yeah, of course, Let it grow!

“Let it grow, let it grow, you can’t reap what you don’t sow…” 

Eton Mess

Eton Mess is a classical.

A traditional English summer dessert, consisting of a mixture of strawberries, broken meringue and whipped cream. Utterly delicious. It is commonly believed it was originated at Eton’s dining tables more than one century ago.

Since last summer, you may find this dessert renamed to “Brexit” in menus around England. Making honour to the famous, acid and sharp British humour, many restaurants changed the pudding’s name, because most of the politicians involved in the Brexit chaos attended such prestigious school.

I am telling all this because, two years ago, when I was trying to figure out what to do with my life in Madrid, I thought the best idea would be working for the British Embassy. It really made a lot of sense to keep as close as possible to the country that hosted me for years, -reshaping myself in many ways- and, in a bigger scale, keeping in touch with the international community.

I was proudly holding a British passport, brand new and recently issued, and that was the main requirement to apply for a vacancy. Hence, I joined their data base and I was usually sent emails with the new vacancies available. 

A few months later, a very special job offer description was sent to me. This was back in February 2018, before witnessing again and again what a failure the whole Brexit process is been from the beginning till our days.

I can not be more thankful to the Gods, appreciate more that the planets didn’t align for me on this one, or that the universe had a different path, because I put all my efforts to be hired as a Brexit negotiator with the Spanish authorities!

Yes, I know.

I always considered myself very lucky and I couldn’t understand what was going on! Why I was not getting away with it this time, why they were not calling me back??? I thought it was a role made just for me: fluent in both languages, legal background, many years of experience as a lawyer, and a person with the true interest to seek for the best result! And I couldn’t believe the hiring people were not seeing that it mas ME who they needed.

Now I look backwards and I see. With the perspective that time gives us, is easy to get the accurate picture. Still, I can understand how difficult sometimes is to make the right move when your vision is blurry. I really feel moved by my old me acting childishly on denial, being reluctant to close the chapter and let go. It’s not so easy to accept the closure and move on. It takes a lot of maturity and guts, because it involves a very painful loss.

And then, I can imagine my life if I would have got the job. A desperate, uncertain and precarious  role at the Embassy, trying to figure out what to do, how to negotiate Brexit when Brexit doesn’t exist, no one knows what it means, no proposal so far been supported by the Parliament. It’s the XXI century chaos and I’d have been working for it!

Disaster!

Further, how do you introduce yourself for any other position, trying to move to another job after the fiasco, explaining that last dark line on your C.V.? Or worse, socially at parties: when someone asks you –“So, what do you do?” And you answer: -“I have the right to remain in silence.”

I know myself and I would be snoozing my morning alarm forever. After all, I must admit, I was being very lucky!!!

Finchley Road

Not sure if you ever set a foot on that street. Busy, dark, heavy traffic, old shops, a bit doggy... First time I was there, I found it dreadful. And, although it has improved a lot in the last years, it is not really a nice street, let’s admit it. But, somehow and without realising, I got to love it.

Maybe it was the fact that I had to cross it daily on my way from home to school or, because my favourite supermarket was located there, or perhaps it was the fact that I found there too a Sicilian bakery -with the best brioches ever-, or a French-Japanese patisserie, with cakes to die for. 

I loved all those places and I treasure as well many memories of my kids crossing the road in the mornings, usually involving some drama. I can still recall lots of afternoons, coming back home, kids sometimes happy, sometimes quite tired, sometimes just hungry. Further, we have crossed it in all sorts of weather, from sunny to pouring, in the middle of winter snowstorms and, we have being treated too with dramatically colourful sunsets over the domes of South Hampstead's Mansion Houses. 

Step by step, day by day, I was getting close to this street, without being aware.

Two summers ago, we left for good, and the next autumn, we came back again for our first visit in town. I was at the crossing of Goldhurst Terrace with Finchley Road, surrounded by people speaking different native languages and, I suddenly felt so deeply how much I was missing living in London. I longed for the international atmosphere, the diversity, and even the doggy, dark and busy Finchley Road.

I met later my friends and I told them:

-“I must be doing very bad, because, you know what? I felt so nostalgic at Finchley Road”. 

They were laughing, and me too. It felt ridiculously silly, but it couldn’t be more true.

I know it’s quite puerile, it didn't stroke me as hard in other moments, such us looking again at any of my favourite highlights -the Big Ben, or Tower Bridge-, or enjoying the Heath, or dreaming about the open green countryside and the beautiful lavender fields. 

It was Finchley Road that made me feel so homesick. 

The British Pub

I remember surfing in the internet looking for menus, going through them and salivating with their dishes.

I remember discovering Sticky Toffee Pudding, after ignoring the dessert for years, since it sounded too naughty.

I remember discovering Bread and Butter Pudding, after ignoring the dessert for years, since it sounded too plain. (I got obsessed with this one!)

I remember trying for the first time Strawberries and Meringue, and believing it was the best combination ever.

I remember my first roasted duck.

I remember going to the channel to enjoy the battered Fish and Chips, but actually truly appreciating the mushy peas and being certain it would be my favourite mash ever.

I remember my first Sunday Roast, with its Yorkshire pudding, the runny meat and lovely steamed veggies with the gravy and, the horseradish sauce, so spicy it tickles your nose.

I remember snuggle up around a rich vegetable soup, a comforting Chicken Pot Pie or anything that actually would fill me up, rich and steamy.

I remember those yummy hamburgers -in the best brioche bun you may think of-, being just the bread itself a path to heaven.

I remember meeting with my office colleagues to enjoy the Friday Fish and Chips around a big table.

I remember sipping my tea (or red!), being hypnotised by the flames in the fireplace during winters, or drinking Pimm’s in the middle of a freshly blossoming spring, celebrating longer days, milder temperatures and, of course, at last, the sunshine.

I remember spending hours chatting while kids running on the gardens, in any spot of England. City or countryside. Asphalt or fields.

I remember our last trip to Cotswolds, our last lunch with friends, enjoying a nice roast, while kids were un-tidying books or trying the table games, and feeling the revelation of  what I should be totally doing once I would be back in Madrid:

Of course, we need the Pub.

The breakfast and brunches, the teas and dinners, the long lunches.

The Pub mania was with me for months, dreaming awake to have my own place to taste all those flavours so much loved and missed. 

This is not a political blog

I actually hate discussing politics. Please understand it, I come from a Mediterranean country and for a very long time, politics around me have been a joke. No one taking the job seriously and citizens playing it like football hooligans: showing team-support and lots of confrontation with the opposition, yet forgetting to follow up their elected government and the un-fulfilled promises.

Nowadays, it feels like this is going around almost everywhere. Some of the Prime Ministers and Presidents elected kept  me wondering why someone will pick such morons, buy their crap and be satisfied about it? The reality is that no one really is, and most of the time, we just settle in the “least-worse” scenario. Ancient Greece would be soooo disappointed of what this century has made with Democracy.

Coming back to the blog, I call it Brexit diaries, because, as many other non-English-Londoners, I was deeply hit by Brexit’s stroke. I felt the pain the next morning after the Referendum. I was seriously shocked with the result. I still am. 

Further, Brexit has impacted London severely. Lots of families leaving the city: economy isn’t growing, Sterling is down, companies are not taking risks and, there is an overall uncertainty that makes you feel like it would be better if you are not the last one leaving the wrecked ship.

In this way, Brexit has created a lot of Expatish.  Most of them will walk or, are actually going now through the painful road of forgetting such an amazing place and resettling at home, or somewhere else. 

As you may imagine, it was making pressure in our pros and cons list, when we discussed about leaving the city. I must say that list is still accurate, but it has taken many months to digest. I kept saying we did a very reasonable job, looking at every aspect and taking a properly balanced decision, but my heart was not following this process. No. My heart was cornered by reason, but still beating as strong as ever, filling my body with an acute, incisive sadness. 

At least, I learned never to underestimate again my powerful heart, when taking important decisions. :)

School run

Yesterday, first day of school.

Madrid, not London. Immense joy to see again all those familiar faces, warm welcome back kisses and hugs. Feeling of community. Enjoying September greatly.

Nothing went as expected, unforeseen traffic jam and no parking spaces got me more than half an hour in the car, for a ride that must last only five minutes. I have to quick out my older kids with the engine on, no kisses, no pictures and no proud rewarding moment of being the wonderful mummy.

I arrived to school 15 minutes late with my little one, but still, it felt so good. Being back and feeling home, at home. Feeling the belonging and not the misplacement, not missing any more other friends and other streets.

I must admit, my kids attend a British school in Spain. Hence, half/half: a bit like us. So, this helps a lot. Spanglish in every corner, many foreign families and plenty of Expatish.

My husband’s clan was probably a bit disappointed that our kids did not join daddy’s old school. Great reputation and all second generation in the family attending it. My kids could have been with the cousins, either in the class or at least at the recess. In a way, I could feel the downside as well. Old teachers welcoming my children and kind of invading the junior school with nine new kids (in between all of us), proudly carrying family’s name again through corridors and classrooms.

Anyway, it didn’t feel right for us. My kids are half British, have strong accent when talking Spanish, and would struggle with the culture and the language. On the other hand, I wanted to keep them in the British culture, reinforcing English or at least, making sure they don’t lose fluency.

You never know when you choose the school. You kind of bet for the place, but only get to know it later.  Nevertheless, I knew for me it was really important that they could breathe a bit London’s atmosphere: diversity, different confessions, people coming and going, because I deeply appreciate the values all that brings and because, in this global world, I think they are going to be very useful.

This is a good example of what coming back means:  knowing who you were, learning who you are and taking the decisions that actually suit you. To this day, I haven’t regret a second my choice and, it has actually helped me greatly (not only my kids) to settle back home.

Craziness, desperation or actually normal, expected behaviour?

Writing all this entries makes me feel crazy, desperate, weird and nuts. I have been feeling like this for a while now and it was such a relief to discover this (Go! Hit the link!):

https://2009-2017.state.gov/m/fsi/tc/c56075.htm

It's the document the American government had put together for its expats coming back home. It has all the research you may expect and it’s so professionally written.

OMG! I read it and felt soooooo relieved! I was not crazy after all. I was not a spoiled person not being able to enjoy and appreciate all of the good things my new life had. My little heart was working properly and my brain too! I was just following the expected path I was supposed to advance.

I wanted to shout it to the world, and that’s why I am writing this blog. How come I hadn’t ever heard about Reverse Culture Shock? All I have read was the clichéd articles in magazines about obstacles and challenges you would find if you come back home after an adventure abroad. But that did not apply me! It was not an adventure abroad, in my case it was a life abroad!! I hated the articles, because they minimised the experience and the situation and I could not see myself there, connect there.

And then my friend C, gave me what I needed. I went to see her this summer, in my last visit to London, because I had to make up with her. Last time I saw her, in Madrid back in October, we enjoyed a morning together. At least I did, not sure about them! One of the best things when you move back is having visits from the friends you left behind. Really it’s not the same going yourself back to meet them; having them in your new home is the absolute treat.

As I was saying, they found the usually highly-spirited Julia, deep down the hole. Sad, lost and although not regretting having come back, really explaining how damned hard it was. BOOM! Because later that morning they told me they were actually leaving London and coming back to their country.

I felt horrible for having exposed so crudely my miseries. So, next time I was in London, I had to see her to tell her that, after all, everything seemed perfectly nice and I was enjoying being back in Spain. Hooray! That I had overcome whatever I was going through and I guessed it was just a matter of time.

-“I was sure, you will end up sorting it out, Julia- she replied. Of course it looked to me like a phase you were going through”. And then, she gave me the best present she could. My super wise friend C. kept saying:

-“Actually, I have read about Reverse Culture Shock to know how to prepare myself for the change”.

-“Wait, what?”- Startled big eyes on my face.

-“Reverse Culture Shock. You know, it has even a name to describe what a person goes through when going back home after experiencing enough time abroad”.

Bless her!  One really must to have a friend like C in one’s life: reflective, wise and so cultivated. Happy and easy to jump in deep conversation, even if there’s been months since last time you saw her and you know you just have an hour or so together. So, we move on to discuss again deeply other subject that doesn’t come into this blog, but may need its own: women in the forties and related issues. Poor C! 

She still wants to see me again, she says. 

Mens sana in corpore sano.

It all started by a brilliant suggestion. I was fruitlessly looking for a job, sending my CV to every open position in any legal department, and figuring out, with hope and fear, how much my life would change in case I’d be successful. I had spent the last two years, either in maternity leave or transition year for our move overseas, and now it was time to come back to work.

I was close sometimes, others not even replied. I wanted to believe it was the weight of the gap in my cv, but not the fact that my professional life could not be interesting, or worse, that, after all those years of quite an impressive professional ascension, someone may think that I was not skilled enough. I tried to comfort myself thinking that maybe the reason was that, in Spain, you don’t looked committed enough when you have left your work aside for a couple of years. This country is still quite behind regarding conciliation, women at work and maternity leave -as most of them, let's be frank here. Whatever the reason was, for the first time in my life, I wasn’t called back. And, although it buys you extra time with your kids –be always optimistic-, it hurts.

So, Mr. Right asked me, why don’t you start doing some exercise? You will soon find a job (what a sweetheart!) and you will regret not using all the free time you have now to get fit. Fair enough. That was how I started and, I must say the exercise helped me greatly healing all my homesickness.

So I started in a little gym, cosy and so well staffed. I took my exercise routine seriously. I was running, I was working out, I was giving it the most of myself, sweating my pains away. For the first time in my life, I was actually looking forward to going to the gym, putting my trainers on and going for it. And so, I did.

It’s been eighteen months now.

It has its perks, you know. Let’s allow vanity intrude here. I look at myself in the mirror and I like what I see. I am over forty, being pregnant three times, and I wish I had this body back in my twenties. Defined, toned and damn hard! I feel super proud because I never thought it would be me the one with the nice body. I’ve been always more the kind of girl with a pretty face and a nice smile.

But it’s not just that, it’s not only that you look good and that helps feeling good. What it’s really important is that I feel immensely proud because after decades of wasting monthly the cost of my gym’s fee, I finally committed to it and conquered it. And that makes me feel powerful and at the same time satisfied that, at least all the time I’ve been adjusting, was not a totally waste of time and energy.

I can not take all the credit, though. This time I did not do this alone. Once a week I had a personal trainer by my side. I never thought I would need one and it felt really spoiled but this was the key to success. They were pushing my limits higher, and constantly repeating me that I could do it, and –whatever is more important- probing themselves right!!

Really, if you are low, put a PT in your life, all this positive feedback works wonders in everyone; I will take them home, so they coach me for the rest of my day. Furthermore, and this is a real treat, they LISTEN to you! Poor people, there is not much choice for them, I must say. They are stuck with you for an hour with no escape line. Only way to keep your mouth shut is increasing the weight and reps till you’re breathless. In my case, they must almost torment me to agony!!

But even if they do, it is FUN pain! It's not torture like all those lessons with my old style P.E. teacher, whose technics were more mocking us and calling us names. I have enjoyed and still do, every session and as well, leaving the gym, noticing that my head works better, with much more clarity and calmness.

Can you get a better deal?

The cookbooks and other food related obsessions

I am an emotional eater. I know it sounds very freaky, but I perfectly remember the moment when I discovered most of my favourite flavours, where I was and who was with me. I greatly appreciate when someone cook for me with some care and enthusiasm. I can feel the love there and I greatly fall from it.

Of course I need to mention my grandmas here. Both amazing cooks. To be fair with the past, maybe one was better than the other, but I must say, to me all their meals tasted amazingly well. Further than their fragrant dishes, I could taste the dedication and love involved, either for their sophisticated feasts to their daily kitchen.

I find men in the kitchen really attractive. They don’t cook in the same way of grandmas, certainly, but I liked the fact that there is a lot of concentration going on, accuracy, technic and an occasional sip of wine. Absorption but in a relaxed, exhilarated way. At least my husband cooks this way. He enjoys to lock himself in the kitchen, where no one else is allowed. Please don’t try to help, there! No distractions or interruptions. Just he and his pans. I mean, if you are ready to follow orders, you are welcome. But don’t try to help in this kind of feminine way that involves suggestions or tips. No. No. You’ll be kick out in no time.

It’s printed in my memory, the first time that my date decided to cook for me, I found it so sweet and was greatly moved, mainly because the outcome was a real disaster. And how bad you need to be to mess up a tomato sauced spaghetti? Specially, when you are Italian!!! Bless him. My dear P.! Doesn’t matter, he was good at other stuff so, I totally forgive his terrible cooking. But, come on, let's not get distracted here...

Anyway, all this introduction is just to tell you that I was about to leave London and I knew I would be suffering badly, missing all my favourite recipes, scents, tastes and textures. From London’s top quality international cuisine to British comfort food. From savoury to sweet. From curries to pastries. From sushi to hummus. And I was right.

So, I prepared myself for that, and I bought just cook books, as my own farewell present. Seven in total. Over 2000 pages of mouth-watering pictures, through- out described technics and, unfortunately, impossible ingredients.  It kind of backfired, because thanks to them I started longing for my beloved Waitrose, the Chinese supermarkets and the popular farmers markets, so in these two years I barely have tried a recipe. But I still find a lot of comfort just going through the pages, looking at the pictures and using them as old family albums, reconnecting somehow with past gratification and friends long gone.

Never mind, I had other urges and greater dreams to heal my nostalgic needs. All I could think at the time was to bring The British pub to Spain. Best business idea ever. How come no one has thought about it yet?

But my British pub mania deserves another entry.