I land on a plane. I get on my legs. I call my friends. Straight up from there I’m against the fence. Tapas. Jamon. A beer why not and a red pack of cigarettes. Dinners. Reunions. Tertulias. A year of dreamt well served drinks. Spanish chicks. Old posh dress code politesse. Fallen leafs. Sober cold. Saturdayz pacharanes at Malasaña. Coconut Bar arvo. Shopping round around Chueca & Barrio Salamanca. Nights out. Hugs. Big smiles. Old Spain.