Breakfast of an optimist

As an optimist, morning is my favourite time of the day; especially at weekends when I can ease into the world at my leisure.  But my first words always reveal me as a little tongue-tied.  They stumble out of my mouth greeting recipients with aural chaos. 

 

This morning, it was the man from upstairs, organising his electric scooter and an assortment of suitcases on the street outside our front door.  If I’m tongue-tied in English, imagine the problems I have with Spanish.

 

“Buenas tardes!” I offered with a smile.  Good afternoon.

 

He looked up from under his broad-brimmed hat, seeing it was his strange English neighbour, and grinned.

 

“Buenos dias!” he replied, emphasising the dias!

 

In the time it took to step into the street and close the door, I was error-checking, recalculating and forming the correction, but momentum was carrying me in the direction of the café.

 

The man was lifting his scooter away from the doorstep.  “Que tal?” he enquired after me.

 

“Muy-en!” my disorganised response.  “Muy bien!” I tried again – tangled in a confusion of well-meaning emotion and embarrassment.

 

Recovering a little, I asked “Y tu?”

 

“Muy bien!” he sang back with an intonation that barely requires words.

 

I guessed he was waiting for a lift – maybe the young woman who often assists him to the elevator with his shopping.  The luggage suggested a trip away from the city.
 
These are the times I wish my Spanish was strong enough to stop and chat.  I wondered if I should help with his things, but he seemed self-contained and well at ease – perfectly happy.  I paused to run the thought around once more.
 
This small drama played itself out in seconds – my feet were already orientated towards breakfast. 

 

“Hasta luego!”

 

“Hasta luego!” he grinned back, pronouncing it in the local “Allo!”

 

…

 

And so I sit in the café, contemplating the day ahead and thinking that this is as good as anything life has to offer an optimist.

 

Across the road, shutters are being cautiously raised – the eyelids of Madrileños emerging from sleep.

 

They look out at the steady build-up of traffic on Calle de Alcala; delivery vans easing into side streets; small groups of dedicated runners on corners, and the café across the road slowly filling.

 

It’s time to swallow the last of my coffee and vanish into the day.