Our apartment, whilst not looking out on Las Ramblas, at least carried the noises from the tourists on the cobbled streets. The kitchen had bright blue tiles, and the narrow window looked out onto a small square. Some nights we heard the old men down there chatting, some nights there was music. Sometimes there was no noise at all, and I could just hear Milo breathing beside me in the darkness, see him smiling in his sleep.
The sun shone in through the bedroom in the morning, waking me to go to La Cocina, and Milo always made sure the cafetière was sitting on the side ready for me. I would spend my days training with different chefs, each with a different specialism. I’d make notes on ingredients, cooking methods, often needing to nudge some of the other trainees for the odd translation. My GCSE Spanish was not much help, further from Catalan that I expected. Some evenings we worked in the restaurants across the city, on a rotation. Some weeks it was the fish restaurant by the beach, others it was a vegetarian place in the city centre. I was engaged, and excited and alive.
Some nights Milo worked in the bar below our flat, helping them out with the odd cocktail, but mainly pouring wine for quiet patrons who wanted to read their papers. When I wasn’t working, I’d sit at the bar, making notes on all the flavours I’d learnt about that day, all the things I’d decided about how I wanted to cook. It was hard, and I wasn’t special, but I was just as good as everyone else. I deserved my place there, I believed that now.
During the day, Milo was studying too, restaurant management, so he’d meet me at the door to our apartment in the evenings with his latest cocktail, and together we’d critique it. Our alcohol cabinet verged on audacious, and we still didn’t agree on cubed versus crushed ice.
On Saturdays we’d tour around tapas bars, seeing what they did well, what they could do better. We didn’t write reviews. Instead, we drank too much red wine and laughed, making notes on what to try, what we could improve. On Sundays we went to the food market, wandering through the colourful, fresh fruit, with Milo trying to barter in broken Catalan whilst I smiled and laughed in the background. We cooked, dancing barefoot on the wooden floorboards along to the CD of love songs we’d received in the post. Clare Curtis, Letters to My Daughter. She’d asked my permission this time, to let me be part of her story, to let her be part of mine. Dad had helped her record them, in between swing dancing Jen right into an old-fashioned date. It was weird, for them as well as me, but they were happy. They both deserved that. Along with the CD came a cut-out from a glossy magazine. ‘Shocking engagement break-up!’ Seemed that contractual issues with the TV show had ended the engagement. I actually felt a little sorry for Rob, but I didn’t keep the article. He still had his TV show and his DJ’ing and his minor level of fame – everything he always wanted. And I had found exactly what I wanted too.
Milo and I knew this life wouldn’t last forever – Barcelona was no place to open a tapas restaurant, it was too full of excellent places already. When our studies were done with, we’d decided we’d look for a new town, search for the perfect space. After months of whinging from my mother, I’d accepted the royalties from ‘Baby Don’t Ask Me to Stay’, promising to use it to fund the bar. We already had guidebooks piled up in the corners, circling the venues with the best natural produce, the greatest wines. Bars where it was okay to treat a customer like your mate, and wear a bit of sparkle in the evenings. I was tempted to ask if we could call it Persephone’s, but I realized I’d spent enough time in the shadow of her name. Milo said we’d figure it out.
Until then, we had found a place to learn and love, and dream. And that was enough.