Becoming local.

I set out on a mission last Wednesday: find a cobbler, and get my shoes repaired.

Some stitching in the leather uppers had come undone, and I knew it would be a quick fix. The biggest question was: how would I find someone in Madrid who could repair my shoes?

This turned out to be not a problem, actually. Cobblers are more of a thing in Europe, and Madrid is large city regardless. But I’m not in the habit of tracking down cobblers while abroad, so it felt like a real adventure.

Cobblers, like barbers, are people you only need of you’re a local. I imagine few tourists ever track down a cobbler to fix burst stitching or a detached sole. For one, it usually takes a few days to a week for the repairs to finish, and many travelers can’t wait. So taking the time to look one up and track it down felt like mastering some aspect of daily life. It felt like I’d established myself in my neighborhood.

As it turned out, there was a cobbler less than a quarter mile from my flat. Even so, I’d never wandered down those particular streets, and they felt narrower, and a bit dingier than the ones I was more used to on the other side of the road. They also seemed targeted to a more local group of people: your typical corner shop, your hole-in-the-wall flower stand.

I’ve noticed a pattern in Spanish shop signs. They all derive their names from whatever product it is they chiefly sell. This in itself would be normal enough, but they can get oddly specific, probably because they’re small and only do one thing.

You get fruit from the frutería, and flowers from a floristería. You wash your clothes at a lavandería, and (most importantly of all) you drink your beer at a cervecería. So after all this, I suppose it should not have surprised me when I showed up to the cobblers and found a faded awning above the shop with the word zapatería in peeling white paint.

I went inside. “Hola,” says the shop owner sounding tired. It’s just past noon, so he has another hour and a half till he closes up for the break that always seems to come between 2 and 4pm. I set my shoes down on the counter and point to the areas that need to be restitched. He leans forward, nods, rattles off a bunch of Spanish I don’t understand. I think I catch the word “Thursday,” and I think that means they day he’ll have them finished. I suddenly forget the day, and holding up two fingers I ask “Dos días?” (My Spanish is truly awful.) The shop keep nods and repeats what I’ve said.

He has me write down my phone number, presumably so he can call when they’re done. I know I won’t be able to talk to him, but I go through the gesture. Two days? I repeat, and he nods. I’m about to walk out when I remember another thing. “Y hora?” I ask. He speaks more Spanish that I don’t understand, shrugging and pointing to the counter in what I assume means “come back at about this same time.” “Gracias,” I say, heading out the door.

I didn’t realize my confusion about the day till I got home and realized it wasn’t Tuesday. Whether I’d misunderstood the day, or he’d just agreed with “two days” because it was obvious I hadn’t understood I’ll never know. But I waited two days and went back today for my shoes. There they were, neatly stitched, just as I’d asked.

It cost me €3. I wandered home, feeling proud.

Keep on keeping on.

Well that was short-lived.

I’ve given up on the whole night owl thing. It’s impossible, and it makes me miserable. I like seeing the city by daylight, but seeing as it’s still winter here, the sun sets about 7pm, which isn’t horribly early, but it’s still before I’m done with work. So I feel like I’m not getting to see the city as much as I’d like, except when it’s already dark. On the other hand, it made me feel for all those night owl folk who have to live according to early bird schedules. The good news is, I have a solution for you guys: move to Europe, but work for Americans.

Actually, I’ve discovered the hardest part of this particular working abroad experience has to do with syncing my schedule to my colleagues back home. I don’t intend to. I keep meaning to get up early, start my day at a reasonable time, and get several hours of work in before my stateside coworkers are out of bed. But instead, I keep putting off the start of my work day. No one’s asking for anything yet, so I may as well slip in a bit more reading, right?

Only slipping into this habit means I don’t start work till early afternoon, and then to get in a full day I’m working well into the evening. And after 9 or 10:00, I’m too tired to study Spanish. Which means that if it didn’t happen in the morning, it won’t happen at all. And most days, I’m not up to blogging, either, or anything but talking, or reading, or Netflix.

All this to say that: 3 weeks in to being in Madrid, I’ve spent 1 week jet lagged, 1 week reasonably productive, and 1 week crashing and burning. I feel like I should disclose this because I saw something on social media today talking about how easy it is to make life seem awesome when sometimes it’s not all as awesome as it seems. And there’s a lot of pressure, weirdly, to make working abroad in Spain for a couple months seem like the absolute dream.

And it is! Don’t get me wrong. I am super happy to have worked out a way to live my life this way. And I feel like I’m whining when I say but this is HARD, you guys! Like somehow admitting that while in the middle of this cool thing means I’m unable to appreciate the joys of life.

But it’s also the truth. I had a bad week last week, simply as a result of being massively underproductive. This week has been a slow but steady recovery. It’s hard not to panic a little when I spent time earlier this week booking various weekend trips and realized that I only have two more weekends left in Madrid. The time! It flies! What if I don’t make the most of it!

Well, for starters, I’m pretty sure the time is flying by because I actually have made good use of quite a bit of it: I spent a weekend in New York, checked out the Prado, popped over to Toledo for a weekend, and have generally done a good job getting used to the everyday life of living here. I’m getting better at ordering food in restaurants, and I’ve even found a few places that I would like to go back to and settle into for a while.

So things don’t go perfectly. And because of all the expectations, the bumps in the road jolt more than otherwise. But you recover, and you do your morning exercise, and you read your book, and you take your walk, and you work your full day, and you write your blog. And after all that doing, you realize you actually are accomplishing the things you set out to do.

I’d like to think I’m getting better at balancing, as well. That I work to get all my things done in a day, but when I get to the end and I realize I’m not going to make it through all of them, I accept it. “I’ll do it tomorrow” isn’t always procrastination. Not if tomorrow comes, and you get up and do that thing.

Not every day is going to be a perfect, 5-star day of productivity. I won’t get in Spanish practice today. I’ve only put in 8,000 steps. And neither of those will change, because it’s nearly 11:00, and if I don’t settle down with a book I won’t get the sleep I need to be productive tomorrow.

But today was really good. And even though I didn’t get everything in, it’s helping me get back on track. I’ll do those other things tomorrow, and it will be good.

Until then, goodnight.

The better Toledo.

I hadn’t planned to visit Toledo when I arrived in Spain.

That’s mostly because I didn’t know where it was. Turns out, Toledo is super close to Madrid. As in: a half-hour ride by train. This came as awesome news to me! And it left me full of questions:

  • What’s in Toledo?
  • Is it a nice city?
  • Was it important?
  • What should I do when I’m there?
  • Is it worth going?

Basically, what all this should tell you is that I am profoundly ignorant of a lot of things in this amazing and beautiful country I’ve come to visit. My closest association with Toledo has been with it’s namesake in Ohio, a city about forty minutes south of my home town in Michigan, and the chief point of conflict during the Toledo War of 1835—proof that Michigan’s feud with Ohio has roots far deeper than football.

With a population of not quite 300,000, Toledo, Ohio is a reasonably sized midwestern town, good for its minor league baseball team and the occasional roaming Broadway performance. Somehow I expected its Spanish namesake to be much larger, but in reality, Spanish Toledo‘s historical consequence is far greater than it’s size might suggest. With a population wavering at the 84,000 mark, it feels almost diminutive. But oh boy, does it pack one heck of a historical wallop.

In short, it’s played host to a succession of rulers, from the Romans, to the Visigoths, the Moors, and the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V. That makes the art and culture of the place a fascinating blend of Arabic and European, which—I am coming to realize—is somewhat characteristic of Spain more broadly.

This became readily apparent almost as soon as I stepped off the train. The moment I walked into the station, I (and half the other passengers) paused to gawk at the stunning distinctive arches and stunning tile work on display.

Inside the Toledo train station.

Only, to be honest, it wasn’t actually on display. It was just there. Casually hanging out like it was no big deal. Honestly, Toledo: way to make a first impression.

Being, as usual, unprepared, I hadn’t made any particular plan for getting in to the city. Would I have to take a bus? Could I walk? I checked Google Maps, and the answer was yes: I could walk. I headed off in the appropriate direction, and a few hundred feet down the road the city came into view.

Why yes, that is a city I would like to go explore, thanks.

This is one of the few moments where I’ve looked at a city and thought: Oh yeah, I see why this would be of such great strategic importance. Not that I’m an ancient military commander by any means, but the whole thing is built on a big rock with a river making a natural moat around a decent chunk of it. Add in those walls you see and some fortified gates and bridges, and I’d definitely want this to be my medieval stronghold.

The Puente de Alcántara, the Roman bridge leading into the city.

I should also add that the moment I looked at the map on my phone, I knew this would be the place for me. Just check out those streets:

A map of the old part of the city, looking like the cross-section of a brain.

Hardly a straight line among them! You could get so lost in there! And all built on a giant freaking rock promising all the ups and downs and twists and turns? YES PLEASE.

Again, actually being in the city did not disappoint:

A narrow street in the more tourist-friendly part of town, a spire of the cathedral rising ahead.
Well lost at this point, my strategy basically being: Ooh! This street looks promising!

I had a few things I definitely wanted to see, but as I’d arrived late I knew I probably wouldn’t make it to all of them. I decided to head first to the Cathedral, as I understood it was not only an incredible piece of architecture but also housed a small-but-impressive museum with some more El Greco, and a Goya, and super famous and also gigantic monstrance.

I spent way longer inside than I’d intended, and because I’d rushed straight there I was feeling nearly faint from hunger. And then, by the time I’d finished eating, most of the other places I’d wanted to visit were closed. Most importantly, the Alcázar.

The Alcázar, the fortress which made Toledo such a strategic key.

Apparently, this has been a major fortress for years, and unlike some of the other castles I’ve visited, was actually used as such. It played a significant military role as recently as the Spanish Civil War, and I hear there are places where you can still find bullet holes in the walls from that conflict. Today, it houses a museum, crypt, and documentary room.

By this point I was also too late to visit the El Greco house, so instead I wandered around the city looking at the tourist shops. Most of the time, this isn’t of particular interest to me, but it turns out that souvenirs in Toledo are actually incredible, and may even be worth more than sentiment.

Toledo is famous for its steelwork, which wouldn’t sound like glamorous souvenir material until you see what they make of it:

Toledo is famous for its gold and steel. These decorative plates are made by hand, with the drawings inlaid in gold and the steel blackened afterward.
More examples of Toledo’s signature souvenir.

The black and gold form a truly stunning combination, as does the mixture of European and Arabic influence in the design. And these don’t come cheap: unlike what you find elsewhere, these are the kind of souvenirs that you might want to actually use.

Most of the rest of my time I spent wandering the city, taking pictures and admiring the views. One thing I appreciated about my sojourn from Madrid was getting a chance to see a bit of the Spanish countryside. I’d seen pictures, but part of me always feels pictures are portraying the most stereotypical features, and that the reality will be quite different.

In this instance, although pictures I’d seen showed the country to be fairly sparse and rugged, I’d yet expected there to be more trees and foliage. Instead, I was surprised by how much scrubs and bushes dominated the landscape.

The Río Tajo, which encircles a good two thirds of the city. This is about as lush as the land ever looks.
Looking out over the rugged, sparse countryside.
More rock, crowned by the Academia de Infantería, which I don’t think is actually meant for tourists.

In short, Toledo delighted me at every turn. And since I missed some of the key sights, I’ll have to make a return trip some other day.

I’m already looking forward to it.

Perseverance in the face of mild inconvenience.

This is the story of a mild setback.

Or really, a week of mild setbacks, each of them so inconsequential that to share them all in turn would be unutterably dull.

But in spite of how small and stupid they are, they add up. We all know this. We all have bad days and bad weeks where everything makes us glum and irascible, and because we know we’re out of sorts we feel intensely guilty about almost every interaction we have with the people around us, and that makes us feel unpleasant to be around, so we avoid people and end up more glum than before. And because we feel that way, doing the good things we intended to do that day or that week feel somehow insurmountable, which makes us especially less likely to do them, and then the bad feeling of having been lazy and lethargic makes us even more pissy, and the whole thing turns into this massive downward spiral from which usually the only escape is talking some hard sense into yourself about how you’re letting dumb things make you depressed, which is in truth only partially successful and only in the short term, because the reality is that a significant portion of these small things are important, even when they are little, and by dismissing them and beating yourself up about how “dumb” and “stupid” you’re being rather than addressing it, you’re actually letting that little thing fester and infect otherwise healthy areas of your life.

I’m trying to work on this, but the truth is that only perfect people never suffer from this problem. Which, at the same time, isn’t to say I’m helpless or without choice in these scenarios. Instead, I’d like to become better at recognizing the spiral early, of short-circuiting the gloom not by dismissing it or shoving it aside, but by confronting it head-on.

I’m writing this at the train station in Madrid. I came here this morning to make a day trip to Toledo, which is only about a half-hour away. I was tired this morning, as I have been all week, so I got out the door late and missed the train I’d meant to take. They leave every hour, so I simply bought the next available ticket and went to grab a coffee. It wasn’t till I’d gone through security and went to board the train that I realized the ticket I’d bought wasn’t for yet another hour: the current train had already been sold out when I’d purchased my ticket.

Unlike many other train stations, the one here in Madrid doesn’t feel very welcoming. The outside is nice, but the inside feels more like an airport, with a security check point, and check-in desks, and little departure screens that you have to keep in sight as you wait for them to finally announce your platform number. If I could pick a place to spend an hour, I’d much rather do so outside, where the weather is fine and the city beautiful. But now that I’ve gone through security I feel I can’t leave.

I went back to the waiting area and sat down. The bright green linoleum irritated me. I wanted to be sure of my departure platform, so that I could stay close to it, but it hadn’t been announced. I wanted to relax, but everything was just so slightly off that I couldn’t. Gloom. Doom.

I checked Facebook: a post of mine from a year ago popped up. I had written:

I had a moment this evening where I thought “I could do that aspirational thing that will make me happy in the long run.

But I bet I could also find a way to waste time on the Internet.”

I succeeded.

Guess I’ll have to live with that for today.

I have choices. Sometimes I make the ones I’m not proud of.

Environment is important. It does impact your mood, your ability to concentrate, your productivity. It’s also true that an increased sense of anxiety impairs your memory, making it more difficult to recall information and to retain whatever it is you’re studying. It’s why I rarely work when I travel.

Those factors are real, but at the end of the day, making the most of your situation means finding a way to deal with them. Today, my solution was to write this blog.

There is no lesson here—or at least not one I’ve learned. Bad feelings are hard to shake, and I will still have days when I can’t focus, when I’m tired, when some minor problem is nagging at the back of my mind, when I make the choice I’m not proud of.

And I’ll likely still feel guilty for allowing these things to throw me off when so many other people struggle with much greater problems and somehow still keep going. This is just a small reminder that even when you can’t control everything, you don’t have to be helpless.

And things do turn around, sometimes quite quickly. I made a choice I’m proud of today. And I’m in Spain, on a train bound for Toledo.

It’s a fine day. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

10,000 steps.

I started running a pedometer shortly after I arrived in Madrid.

This was part curiosity, part health goal, part desire to measure and track various habits and behaviors. I’d read that it’s recommended to walk about 10,000 steps a day, but that many Americans only manage closer to 3,500 due to our driving habits and generally more sedentary lifestyles.

This passed my sniff test, as I know from experience how my own habits shift between the United States and when I’m abroad. I’ve written before about my love for walking, and the sheer walkability of many European cities is part of what draws me back. I hate driving everywhere, the entire experience of navigating traffic, searching for parking spots, walking to and from my car through parking lots. I often feel like the parking lots themselves increase the need for cars, because they spread everything so far apart that they make areas less walkable. Part of what thrills my imagination at the thought of autonomous vehicles is that it may mark the end of parking lots.

So I was curious to see, here in Spain, how much I would walk, and how quickly I might burst that 10,000-step barrier in a day. It turns out that it’s very easy to accomplish on any given day, but much harder to do consistently.

Essentially, we’re talking about 5 miles of walking. That sounds like much more than it actually is. Almost any time I leave my flat, I’m likely to pound out 3- or 4,000 steps, just from walking to and from the grocery store (and wandering around inside trying to find some surprisingly elusive ingredient).

And yet, if I don’t particularly do anything in a day, it’s all to easy to miss that mark. It’s essentially the difference between one good walk and two. Did I not leave my flat at all? 3000 steps. Did I leave it once to walk to a coffee shop or do some grocery shopping? 6000 steps. Did I have a good day today? 10,000 steps.

Literally: there is a super high correlation between how many steps I walked, and how good of a day I had. And it’s not just because “walking” is code for “exploring this amazing European city where I happen to be living at the moment” (although that’s obviously a factor). No, it also has quite a bit to do with fresh air, sunlight, blood flowing through my brain.

I’m not sure where I’ll go walking once I’m back home. I’ve tried parks, and they’re nice when I remember to drive to them. Up and down the road can be a bit repetitive. Obviously, whenever I’m downtown I have plenty of walking to do. But I miss exploring. I miss wandering. I miss the feeling of endless discovery that comes when I step out my door, choose a direction, and head down the street.

It’s no wonder 10,000 steps go by so quickly.

A very ignorant impression of El Prado.

I don’t know much about art history.

At this point, I’ve been to a lot of art museums, but my knowledge comes mostly from what I read in the informational placards and my own personal feelings. For a while, this seemed like a fine way to do things. Then I had a few chances to overhear a guided tour and realized that, on my own, I don’t really appreciate what I’m looking at. It’s not just art, it’s also history, and boy oh boy is there a lot of it. So what you’re going to read here are my very semi-educated reflections on some of the most important and influential works in western art. I wish I had more to offer, but I’m not being falsely modest when I say I don’t really know what I’m talking about.

That said, on this trip, I had the good fortune to be guided through the museum by my friend Francesco, who is a) Italian (useful for when you’re viewing Italian art), and b) very good with art history. So, for instance, he explained to me the difference between the Italian school of painting and the Dutch, how the baroque style shifted over time, Raphael‘s masterful draftsmanship, Titian‘s attention to color, and Caravaggio‘s influential use of chiaroscuro. At one point, Francesco gestured toward a painting: “This painting is very famous, for no particular reason,” he tells me, which is a characteristic evaluation. Probably the next best thing after a well-informed guide is an opinionated one, and in this instance I was lucky to have both.

For my part, I felt most attracted to the works of El Greco, Velázquez, and Goya. Of the three, Velázquez is the most traditional (although I feel that is not the best word to use here), and his painting Las Meninas is one of the most famous on display in the museum. I only just now learned from the Wikapedia page that it “has long been recognized as one of the most important paintings in Western art history.” Which, again, shows you how much I know: I liked it and thought it was super cool and a bit of a mind-trip. Had no idea it was quite that important.

Velázquez, Las Meninas
Not only are they looking at you, but Velázquez has painted himself painting the painting you are looking at, and in the background you can see the reflection of the viewers viewing the painting in a mirror. That’s some serious fourth-wall-breaking shit going on right there.

El Greco came as much of a surprise to me as to his contemporaries. After halls and halls of precise aesthetics, the color and imagination come as a shock to the system. Many of the other artists we looked at shared chains of influence that ran in a direct line from one artist to the next. Meanwhile, El Greco belongs to a group of painters who won’t appear for another two to three hundred years. To borrow commentary from Francesco, when most people talk about such-and-such an artist or this-or-that painting being “ahead of its time” or “a precursor to X movement,” it feels like a bit of an exaggeration. With El Greco, you are without doubt looking at the precursor to Expressionism and Cubism—at the turn of the 17th century. I still can’t wrap my head around that.

El Greco, The Adoration of the Shepherds
I’m not sure anyone has ever painted a more shocking, vivid, fantastical portrayal of the nativity.

Out of everyone, I was most keen to see Goya. He was the painter I remembered most from what little art history I took in high school, and the only one I had read about since. As with everything else on display, El Prado did not let me down. While I greatly admired his portraits, I was mostly interested in his Black Paintings, specifically that of Saturn Devouring his Son. In his lighter or more formal moments, I detect a strong undercurrent of irony running through Goya’s work. His portraits of the royal family are so brutally honest, you almost wonder how he kept his job. Only in a few instances do Goya’s portraits seem to express a genuine admiration for the subject. As a whole, Goya’s paintings seem compulsively sincere.

Goya, Charles IV of Spain and His Family
Goya’s not very flattering portrait of the Spanish royal family. Note the influence of Las Meninas: Goya has painted himself painting the painting in the background.

Perhaps this is why I feel so drawn to his more horrifying subjects. Goya captures humanity, even in the midst of terror and suffering. His Disasters of War series depicting the brutality of the Peninsular War are one such example, as are his paintings The Second of May 1808 and its pair, The Third of May 1808. But his Black Paintings feel like a descent into some of the bleakest recesses of the human psyche, a deeply disturbed and deeply private expression of Goya’s soul. Painted directly on the walls of his house, he may never have intended them for public display. Perhaps that is why they make me feel as if I should turn away and look closer at the same time.

Goya, Saturn Devouring his Son
Probably one of the most graphic and horrifying paintings in Western art. Morbidly, also one of my favorite.

Somehow, even after 6 hours of intense exploration, we managed to miss Bosch, and we ran out of time to check out a temporary Goya exhibit upstairs. Fortunately, the museum is free for the last two open hours every day, so I’ll have a chance to go back.

Which I intend to do, several times. Great art humbles me, places me in a position of awe that very few other things are able to do. There is a deep beauty, even if the darkest subjects, which stuns me. I find myself paralyzed by wonder.

The octopus dinner.

I made Octopus for dinner last Wednesday.

What’s more, I invited friends over and served it to them!

This turned out to be, altogether, a far more unnerving task that I originally envisioned. To recap, during one of my first grocery store trips in Spain, I came across octopus in the meat section and decided I had to cook something with it.

Here’s what it looked like when I bought it in the store:

A culinary dare, if ever I saw one.

Looking all neat and shrink-wrapped like that, I really didn’t think this would be such a challenge. After all, from subsequent reading I have since learned that sometimes the octopus comes whole, with the beak still intact, and you have to remove it yourself along with the head. So I figured starting with what looked like already cleaned octopus would be mostly a mental effort. I googled a few recipes, and eventually settled on one that Food & Wine specifically billed as “a smart, delicious, Spanish-inflected way to cook octopus.

Sounded great to me. At this point, I noticed the recipe called for about twice the weight in octopus as I had. I considered doing a half-portion, but then while picking up the rest of the ingredients I needed, I noticed my more local grocery store also carried octopus. So I bought more. Because obviously.

Again, at this point I felt pretty certain that all I had to do was get over the idea of cooking octopus, and the actual preparation part would not be so bad. Unfortunately, the moment I cut open the package I discovered otherwise. The octopus had a distinct smell—a more pungent, oceanic smell than I expected—and was covered in a gelatinous slime, as if the brain fluid had leaked out and solidified after packaging, or the tentacles had secreted their own embalming fluid. I wasn’t sure what to do: was this stuff normal? Natural? A preservation byproduct?

What’s more, although the beak had been removed, half of the head was still attached. Because, as it turns out, what I had purchased were actually two halves of octopus. I wasn’t sure whether I should try cooking the head, and after a few moments reflection I decided that it didn’t look all that tasty and maybe the tentacles would be as much as any of us dare stomach anyway. So I rinsed everything off, hacked the tentacles from the head, and when I was done it looked almost like what I had expected to work with from the start.

octopus tentacles copped and ready to boil
Eight rinsed octopus tentacles, ready to cook.

For the record, the hardest part of rinsing the octopus off was that one point I think I nearly stuck my finger into its brain and dropped the whole thing in the sink.

The octopus heads, which I threw away. Pretty sure you can see the brains there.

The first part of the recipe called for boiling a pot of water with a copped onion and three bay leaves, dipping the octopus tentacles into the water 3 times each, and then simmering them for about an hour. For the record, almost every recipe I looked at began in this way, with variations on the stock ingredients and with the same tip of dipping the tentacles to help them keep their shape. The stock smelled nice, and by the time they were done I felt pretty sure (again) that the hard part was over.

Here’s what they looked like, drained.

The drained octopus, after an hour simmering in onion and bay leaves. As you can see, the purplish skin was practically falling off.

The next step involved removing the octopus skin without losing the suckers. Again, most recipes called for this step, and said you could pretty much just wipe the skin off. By the time I took the octopus out of the water, the skin was, indeed, practically falling off. What I didn’t expect was how gooey it would feel. My octopus anatomy is pretty bad, but it felt like I was not only rubbing away the thin purplish skin, but a layer of fat underneath. All while trying to keep the suckers intact.

Rubbing the octopus skin off with a fork. Apparently you can do this with a paper towel, too.

When I had finished, the round and chewy inner portion of the tentacle remained. I chopped it up into pits, and finished off the recipe. This cubing and boiling potatoes, chopping up some chorizo, cooking the chorizo for a bit in a pan, and then throwing the octopus and the potatoes in to brown them up and turn them golden.

Here are the results:

The complete recipe. Couldn’t tell from the directions if the chorizo was meant to be chopped in this fashion, but it turned out well.

I felt a bit nervous serving the above to my friends, which is perhaps why I kept the chorizo generously sprinkled on top. My guests, however, seemed far less apprehensive than I. Indeed, every one of them ate their full portion and told me it was fantastic. So I guess that’s a win for me?

For my part, after cooking the whole meal I found I wasn’t hungry enough to eat most of it. It did really taste good, though. The octopus had a somewhat chewy texture, but then so has most octopus I’ve eaten. It tasted salty, and fishy, and (of course) a little bit like chicken.

Would I try cooking octopus again? Actually yes. But next time, I want to be able to grill it, as I think the crispy outer texture is what makes it taste so good.

The biggest thing I learned from this experience is that I really want to try some more Spanish recipes. Particularly seafood. I’ve never gotten up the nerve to try cooking things like mussels or prawns, but it seems like it could be a rewarding skill to have. And I do truly love paella, which often calls for both.

When will I try this? Who knows. Hopefully soon.

In the meantime, the remains of my octopus dinner await me in the fridge.