The strange thing about coming across another language is the magic the words seem to have for the uninitiated. Many moons ago, when a schoolgirl, I remember thinking that 'poubelle' was a lovely word; it lingered on the tongue and sounded romantic; picture candles, a restaurant perhaps and the soft lingering of a gentle "pou-belle", not those hard lls and chs we had in welsh - must have been my mopey stage in my teens - but ofcourse, no frenchman/woman worth his salt would consider bin a lovely word. The same kind of scenario is repeating itself with spanish. You step into a personality that suits the word, in your little mind. So picture the figure stood bravely addressing his troops, the eve of a great battle, inspiring his men with strong words; one hand at the back, one loyally on the chest, declaiming 'Salida'; a frown, stern, serious voice. I took on the role. Madridians hurrying widely by were left to wonder if this was some post modernist ironic statement street art or had that short little woman lost her mind? As Rikki gently guided me away I fear he affirmed the latter.
