In the cafe...

I stepped into the cafe, eyes flexing for a moment under the florescent lighting. It was busier than usual and I felt all eyes upon me as I walked inside. "Hola Guapa!" shrieked one of the regular ludo ladies, "estas mas gorda! Que guapa!" I tried not to let her comments (which sank in stomach like a lead in a pool) effect me, reminding myself that it's a different culture here and perfectly acceptable to remark about people's weight.

"Baby!" excalims Angel with a smile as he places a caña on the bar for me. I give him a kiss and pull up a stool. Carlitos, the resident borracho, is sitting slightly hunched at the bar. His face lights up as I greet him with a kiss on the cheek, forgetting as usual that here it is 2 kisses; "3" says Angel's father "if the girl is pretty". Carlitos is a self-proclaimed "golfo"; he was quite the womanizer in his hay day apparently.

We converse for a few moments until my comprehension decreases, directly related to the amount of cubata (rum and coke) thrown back by Carlitos. The first time I met him was a depressing experience. I could understand only a small proportion of what he said; individual words barely connecting together. I thought my Spanish was so bad that I couldn't understand a simple conversation. I told Angel about it and he said "Ah Carlitos, yeah I can't understand him either. He must be speaking in Gallego" (the local dialect). We thought it over for a moment until Miriam, a native of La Coruña, who was listening to our conversation, reassured us that it was certainly not Gallego that he was speaking, and that she often had trouble understanding him as well.

It seemed that Carlitos habitually speaks in rambled, half drunken speech, recounting stories to no one in particular. This isn't his only bar of preference; he spends his days on his own personal pub crawl, "pasando de bares". If you speak to him in the early afternoon, the conversation is likely to be more lucid.

He is particularly ambiguous today, although I almost believe we are having a two-way conversation instead of two unrelated monologues colliding together, until after about ten minutes he stops, pausing to quote something that his wife has told him, eyes searching my face tentatively; "hablas español?" he asks. I can't imagine what language he thinks we have just spent a sizable chunk of our time butchering, but I now doubt that my responses have been registered.

I get the feeling of being observed as I turn around and the old man at the table behind flashes me a cheeky grin. "Carlitos! Are you bothering this young lady? You're not as young as you used to be you know" he states winking.

With this dig at his manhood Carlos responds by lifting up his trousers to show me his legs. "Footballers legs", he states proudly. "Legs of a 30-year old". I am invited to verify the excellent condition of his lower extremities. What a way to sweep a girl off her feet, I think to myself with a wry smile. The two men then proceed to fight over which of them will pay for my drink (which has already been given to me on the house).

Even though Angel stresses that my caña has already been taken care of, they insist on paying, and we end up with quite a beer pool. I move behind the bar to speak to my boyfriend and Carlos joins his cheeky adversary, Luis, and his companions. The four at the table have already gone through a considerable share of a bottle of vodka. As they order their fourth round of drinks, one of the ladies begins to give me an impromptu lesson on preparing "pulpo".

It's interesting to hear about the techniques involved in producing a good consistency octopus, from bashing it upon a surface to soften it, to the condiment of paprika and salt. I don't have the heart to tell her that I would never prepare this entire sea beast myself in my own kitchen. I just about manage to swallow down the tentacled, slimy creature when it is cut in bite sized pieces and seasoned on a plate; I even enjoy it as long as I don't think too much while I'm chewing.

Pulpo is the topic of conversation today as we are going to a "pulpada" tonight in a neighboring village. Honestly there is no English translation for this. "Octopus fest" is about the closest thing I can think of to describe an event which is basically a large outdoor tent with little stands selling octopus and red wine. There is music and dancing and general festivity all in the name of the octopus.

The lady at the table's eyes glisten as she enthuses "if you like that you must go to (some village I couldn't make out) - for the festival of the salmon!" "or" interjects her companion "to (I drew another blank) for the day of the trout!" Luis chimes in with "for me none of them are as good as the party of the wine in Betanzos."

With just about any excuse for a get-together, the Galicians have come to build up quite a repertoire of feasts to celebrate single foods. The evening ahead certainly promises to be an experience.

It is time for Carlitos to leave but not without a parting song. He is actually quite a good singer, as he belts out "te vas porque quiero que te vayas" by Luis Miguel. He is surprisingly more coherent in song and I feel as if he is dedicating the song to me as his blurring eyes bore into mine.

Luis joins in and they make quite the double act, filling the bar with their dulcet tones, accompanying the singing with hand movements and flicks of the legs.

Their companions join in and the little cafe is suddenly taken-over by a train of merry pensioners singing and dancing as they wave goodbye and wobble onto the street.

Friday night in La Coruna's just heating up.