The Beginning

I was welcomed into Salamanca by my 75 year- old host mother, Francisca. Nutty and young at heart, Mama Espanola led me through the rules of the house in a kind, yet firm manner, making sure I understand that I´m not allowed in the kitchen, I´m allowed 1 shower a day, and for reasons that I couldn´t translate and didn´t bother to probe into, that I must open the window blind in my room before leaving the house in the morning. Fair enough. Luckily, as she ademently expained to me, ME has a passion for cooking and I was promptly served homemade croquettes and cabage/ potato/ red sauce dish at 9 sharp. With flan for desert (packaged, but flan none the less). A great Spanish meal to welcome me. Then we were off for a walk to Plaza Mayor, but not before ME changed into her evening outfit and draped herself in gold jewellery. A ¨¡Que bonita!¨ earned me a giration of the hands and 2 kisses. Through her endless talking, I grew to appreciate my ME. She is a gossiping, joyous, nosy dancer. Dances Friday, Saturday, and Sunday- this she made clear to inform me that I will be eating dinner alone these nights while she swats away grandpas on the dance floor. One of whom we purposely walked through the park to spy on. Fair enough. ME is changing my views of old Spanish woman for the better. This is a women you would expect to be sitting on the plaza bench, happy for the sun and fresh air, in one of the rows of old women I often see and try to sneak pictures of here in Spain. But ME is no sitter, she is a dancer.