By the time we reached Madrid I was feeling pretty good about my relationship with Spain. Like we’d moved swiftly past the small-talk stage of acquaintance to a full-on loving embrace.
Of course Spain had every right to be embarrassed by me; I was still shaking out my map every few paces, striding around in Homyped sandals and inelegantly coping with the heat by collapsing in a red-faced sweaty heap every few hours.
And, while I’d mastered some basic Spanish (hola, gracias, sangria litro), our relationship was still rife with miscommunication. Spain offered me the chance to see the Palacio Real de Madrid; I responded with, “Cool, can I see the fake ones too?” I learned what to expect when visiting a patisseria (pastry), pasteleria (pastry), heladeria (ice cream) and panaderia (pastry). But then Spain would throw me for a loop: