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Thursday, November 25, 2004 [continued from entry of November 23] Thirteen, fourteen years later, following a sudden impulse to book a cheap mid-February flight to Madrid, I found myself in the heart of a big Spanish city, experiencing something similar to what I experienced in London. Different, but similar. With a huge impact, channeling much of my existence over to the far side of the Atlantic, a part of the planet that's come to feel increasingly homelike. Not a development I'd foreseen. But then, that's life, isn't it? Packed with surprises. I didn't expect to be so affected by Como either, nor to find B. so affected. He's been talking about returning to northern Italy in the spring. "I am likely," he says, "to study Italian in advance, too, paying particular attention to restaurant dialogue." Dude, I am so with you re: the importance of mastering restaurant dialogue. Case in point: we experienced our one and only restaurant disaster that night in Merate -- post-Como love affair -- investigating two local joints recommended by hotel staff. The first greeted us with a full front parking lot, no available nearby street spaces. A favorable sign on one hand, popularity suggesting decent chow. On the other hand, if you can't come up with a parking space, who cares how good the chow is? After two unsuccessful passes, B. tossed in the towel, we drove to the other place. Plenty of parking there. Inside, despite an abundance of empty tables, they immediately seated us next to another couple, elbow to elbow. The folks after us -- clearly locals -- were ushered to a table free of neighbors. Bad sign. The place turned out to have no hard-copy menus, which might have been fine if we could communicate. The woman who came to take our order spoke no English, no Spanish, immediately called over the in-house English pro. Who, it turned out, spoke almost no English, and had us pegged as American tourists -- not worth exerting for -- offering only the most basic menu options (spaghetti, roast beef, veal). And me? Unhappy. Big time. With a major desire to get up and get the hell out of there, a signal I usually pay attention to. Instead, I stayed put, motivated, I think, by not wanting to come across as an obnoxious, ill-mannered tourist. Silly me. B. and I. both ordered a plate of spaghetti. While we waited, two males were seated to our other side, were given far more dining options, got served almost immediately, a good-looking plate of risotto and mushrooms appearing in the front of the guy next to me (not an option presented to us, I reminded myself, smoke beginning to billow from my ears). B. and I had ordered bottled water with our tourist food, his still, mine carbonated. They brought him a big honking bottle, brought me a little teeny toy-sized one. I stared at mine, massively displeased, knowing I had no one to blame but myself. B. was willing to bolt, head off to more promising dining -- I'd kept us there. And through all of this, B. acted like a bona fide mensch, willing to do whatever I wanted to make things better. The spaghetti showed, we ate, refused more courses, got the bill, paid up, fled. Went back to the place we'd been the night before -- the ice-cream comedy joint -- making everything better. Whew. Me: much happier. And grateful to B. for being a class act. [continued in following entry] Madrid, te quiero. rws 5:12 AM [+]
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