Reading

1. I have never really understood the concept of “home.” Beyond a place to
sleep and protection from the elements, it hasn’t ever had much meaning
for me. I seem to have been running for much of my life. Usually away
from myself or messes I’ve created. But nine months ago I finally stopped
running. I moved to Madrid. I came home. And I discovered what that
word means.
It is one thing to be lucky enough to know the Madrid that offers the world
the Prado, Thyssen, Reina Sofia. Where you can wander in your lunch
break to see Guernica and then have a picnic in Retiro park, explore the
Royal Palace, drink a caña in plaza Mayor. It is a whole new level to fall in
love with Calles Cava Baja or Espiritu Santo – streets that perhaps to you
seem normal but to me are entirely magical. To see people
walking slowly (anathema in London), waiting for the traffic lights to
change before crossing the road (a first for me). To count the
extraordinary number of old couples holding hands. To chuckle at the
majesty of Serrano where you can buy a jacket for the same price as a
car. To take in some extraordinary theater at the Pavon Kamikaze,
eat croquetas that may literally change your life at Santerra, have a
croissant in Café Comercial that makes you laugh out loud it’s so good,
watch TV gold as Salvame professionals analyze the body language of
Letizia in front of a rapt audience.
The differences between here and the UK are astonishing. I am writing
this in my sick bed at 2am because I caught Brexit flu going back to UK for
three days. Back in Madrid, I called Adeslas. An hour later a doctor came
round to my home and gave me antibiotics. I pay €35 a month for health
insurance here (perhaps a luxury, but one I need because of past back
surgeries). In London I pay almost 10 times that. And even then doctors
won’t visit me at home without charging €200.
You may not believe me but I have no reason to lie when I tell you that
everything is better here. The trains, the Metro, the taxistas, the kindness
of strangers, the unhurried pace of life, the frankly alarming ability to insult
one another (forget mothers and sexual acts; you guys can do it using
fish, asparagus and milk – it’s an art form worthy of Cervantes), the
delicious language (Quisquilloso, rifirrafe, ñaca-ñaca, sollozo, zurdo,
tiquismiquis which may as well be my nickname, and on and on – your
dictionary is the verbal equivalent of Chopin. It really is the guay
del Paraguay), the impressive number of dedicated smokers as if to
proudly tell the medical community and self-righteous assholes of LA to
go fuck themselves. The live-and-let-live friendliness, cleanliness, open
heartedness of it all. The croqueta of the year award. Your respect for
books, for art, for music. For family time and rest. For the important
things.

2. The surprising number of talented people named Javier (Bardem,
Cámara, Calvo, Ambrossi, Manquillo, Del Pino, Marias, Perianes,
Navarrete, etc. etc. – can you guess what I’ll be naming my next son?).
You invented siestas and still you work longer hours than practically any
other country in Europe.
I have met strangers on the Metro with whom I have ended up playing
Beethoven, grandmothers who have made me torrijas and talked about
their previous life playing the piano, patients at psychiatric hospitals who
have stunned me with their bravery, a young kid who plays the piano far
better than I did at his age and who I’ve been lucky enough to give a few
free lessons to. Even Despacito sounds fucking great at 8.30am on the
Metro because it’s played on an accordion by an old man who is smiling, and
as I watch the other commuters on the train I can see how contagious that
smile is. I have spent hours wandering around the Carrefour de Penalver
overwhelmed by the colors and flavors and smells and freshness of it all,
seen tomatoes the size of footballs at the fruit shop around the corner
from my apartment, eaten cakes made for me by my neighbors who,
rather than complaining about the noise, ask me to play the piano a little
bit louder. I have discovered the genius of natillas.
And on and on.
There is so much good here. Oftentimes hidden away. I have seen first-
hand the extraordinary work done by organizations such as Fundación
Manantial, Save the Children, Fundación Vicki Bernadet, Plan
International and so many others, big and small, whose mission is to
shoulder some of pain of the world in which we live without asking for
thanks, praise, reward.
Yes there are problems. Of course there are. The frankly appalling,
offensive and barbaric laws on sexual assaults as evidenced by La
Manada; laws that simply must be changed. Drugs, homelessness,
trafficking, abuse, health cuts. The corruption of power. Politicians (please
can we just let Manuela Carmena abuela the shit out of Spain for a few
years and sort everything out?). The normal scourges of humanity since
time immemorial. But these things haven’t turned you hard, cold, ugly and
battened down as they have so many nations. They have instead opened
you up, shone a light on some of the purity and good in this world, and I
am so fucking proud to be a single, tiny, solitary figure wandering around
this country in wonder at her collective vitality.
This year I will be visiting Ibiza, Sitges, Seville, Granada, Costa Brava,
Pamploma, Cuenca, Vigo, Vitoria, Zaragoza and so many more amazing

3. places. I have been to dozens more cities over the past two years. I am a
foreigner, a guest, and as an Anglo-Saxon I don’t believe I have the right
to be political here but what I can say for an absolute fact is that whether I
have been in Barcelona, Gijón, Madrid, Bilbao, Santiago, Girona,
wherever, my experience has always been the same – warmth,
hospitality, smiles, openness. Different food perhaps (obviously
Valencian paella is the only authentic one. Ditto churros from Madrid
and salmorejo from Andalusia. Pretty much anything from San Sebastián
is the best you’ll eat; OK this is perhaps a dangerous game, which I’ll stop
now), different accents (I’m sorry Galicia but I don’t understand a single
word people say there – my bad), but the same giant hearts, same
insanely impressive work ethics, same hugs, same giant friendliness.
I love this country. I look up to her. Metaphorically and literally. I never
used to look up – I would walk about eyes glued either to the pavement or
to my phone. Here in Spain I gaze around me in awe. I see you, and your
reflection blinds me with its loveliness. I look up now. Because I feel safe.
And visible. And held. And welcome.
When I was in London recently I saw my psychiatrist Billy. He told me that
10 years ago he didn’t know if I’d live or die. And that even a year ago he
had serious and legitimate concerns about my well-being. But that right
now he hasn’t ever seen me this well. And you know what, Spain is largely
the reason.
And perhaps some will say that is because I have had some degree of
professional success, I sometimes stay in nice hotels and eat in nice
restaurants, perhaps people treat me differently. So let me end with this:
Many years ago (too many years ago) as a very young child, I would
come to Mallorca every year. We would stay in a shitty little apartment on
the beach in Peguera for a couple of weeks every August. I remember
those holidays as the safest, most perfect and incredible respite of my
childhood. I was lifted away from the war zone that was my rapey, violent,
monochrome existence in London and for a brief moment in time, aged
eight or nine, I could buy cigarettes (Fortuna for a few pesetas) from
Pedro in the tiny shop by the beach, drink warm Rioja (again, thanks
Pedro) looking up at the stars, go swimming, occasionally convince
someone with a boat to offer me a water-ski, enjoy the sunshine and,
most importantly, breathe in and inhale a feeling of shelter and protection.
More than 30 years later you are offering me the same thing. And I will
never be able to express my gratitude to you for that.