Senora sits behind me and proffers pickled anchovies when husband's not looking. Outside, golden morning sun casts long shadows over scorched fields and crumbling houses. Inside, we are given headsets. Whereas north European trains have tables for people's laptops, Spanish trains have videos to while away the time. I switch to classical music channel and avoid buffet car.
Pickled anchovies turn to plump olives.
Madrid is full of art galleries and traffic. At Prado, snaking queues of nattily dressed Spanish in tailored suits, boaters and scarves. Seems de rigueur to not put arms in jacket, affecting matador look. Have never queued up to go into a nightclub at 7am either. But one does crazy things when one's just met someone who gives one earthquakes in one's heart.