THE PATTER OF THE SPANISH
Madrid, 12 June 2024 My flight was delayed because of some trivial issue with seat allocation, and I spent a restless hour fumbling and shifting in my narrow Ryanair seat while we sat on the tarmac, engines off. The idle waiting around, the rattling of the metro that brought me to Puerta del sol in Madrid's city centre, and the warm dust rising from the streets where I’ve been walking in search of a place to have lunch, have given me a mild heachache. Madrid is quite hot in mid-June, baked under the seemingly ever-shining sun. It might be the two years I have spent under the fickle Irish weather speaking, but my senses appear to be keenly alert here; I am acutely aware of the prickling heat on my bare arms, the mild throbbing oppression on my feet, the Spanish lisp dangling from my ears, and the rumbling protest of my empty stomach... It is past midday, and food is only just being prepared as I walk into Achuri , a suburban restaurant that was recommended to me. When I wander in,
