“Management didn’t like me coaching the new skaters on partnering. They wanted them to figure it out themselves.”
“How does that make any sense? Thatsounds more like an accident waiting to happen.”
“It doesn’t make sense.” He shrugs. “I didn’t care what they said. I helped out the skaters until they decided not to renew my contract. Anyway, moving to Sequoia Valley was the best thing I could’ve done. I’m much happier.”
“I’m glad. Being happy is the most important thing of all.”
“Here, here.”
“La Latina is the heart of the old town. It’s either the oldest or second-oldest neighborhood in Madrid,” Fernando says two hours later.
We stroll down another narrow cobblestone street lined with three-story buildings. We’ve made so many turns, I’ve lost track of where we’re going. The entire area is a blend of old and modern. There are countless churches and museums, but also a large array of bars, cafes, and tapas restaurants.
“Are you sure this is the right way to your old apartment?”
“Sí. I may be terrible with directions, but I know La Latina as well as my hometown.”
“What drew you to this neighborhood?”
“I’d heard it was like a small town. Eighteen-year-old me was nervous about moving from my own town to the big city.”
“And how did it actually turn out?” I ask.
“My apartment building was great. I knew all my neighbors by first name. But most of the surrounding properties were vacation rentals.”
“That stinks.”
“It wasn’t too bad. The nightlife made up for it.” We make another turn. “This was my street. I lived on the second floor of the orange building over there.”
“Did you keep as many colorful flowerpots on the balcony as the owner has now?” I laugh.
“No, I’m terrible with plants. I forget to waterthem.”
“In your defense, I’m sure you were busy.”
“Sí, I was practicing on the ice four hours a day. And training another three hours a day at the gym. There wasn’t much time left over. Sundays were my only day off, and I used that time for sleeping.”
No wonder he’s always napping. That’s a lot of energy to expend. How much time does he spend at the gym now that he’s retired? He still looks like he’s in peak physical shape. Does he still practice stuff too?
At the end of the street, I smell garlic, olive oil, and roasting meat. My mouth begins to water and my stomach grumbles. Suddenly, food is all I can think about. “Oh, that smells so good.”
Fernando sniffs the air too. “That must be the Garcia family restaurant. They used to serve the best omelets and other local dishes. Do you feel like stopping there for lunch?”
“Yes!”
We enter a building that looks outdated, with peeling paint and faded lettering on the outside. The interior isn’t in much better shape. Fernando leads us inside to a small, dimly lit dining room with mismatched chairs and tables with checkered tablecloths. A single ceiling fan hums overhead.
I glance at Fernando skeptically, but before I can say anything, a stout older man with a thick mustache emerges from the kitchen. He’s wiping his hands on a worn apron when his eyes land on Fernando. His face lights up with recognition.
“¡Fernando! No puede ser, chico!” the man exclaims, rushing over to clasp his shoulders. The two men have a brief conversation in rapid Spanish. I wish I could follow what they’re saying, but I’m only able to pick up a few words here and there. How long has it been since they’ve seen one another?
Fernando places a hand lightly on my back and switches back to English. “Don Antonio, this is Ava. She’s visiting Spain, and I couldn’t let her leave without tasting your famous tortilla de patatas.”
Don Antonio nods approvingly, waving us toward a table nearthe window. “Coming right up. Sit, sit! I’ll bring you the best we have. Tortilla, gazpacho, jamón ibérico—you’ll eat like royalty.”
When my omelet arrives, all my earlier doubts are replaced by groans of delight. The tortilla is golden and thick, perfectly cooked with layers of tender potatoes and onion. The gazpacho is also cool and refreshing, the flavors bursting with the freshness of ripe tomatoes and crisp cucumbers.
“We need a place like this in Sequoia Valley,” I say as I cut a corner of my meal into small pieces.
