It was meant to be a cultural night. That’s what Marta called it when she posted the flyer in the bakery: “Cinéma, vino y conversación”. A trilingual promise of enlightenment. We were going to watch a French classic, sip something locally fermented, and have what she described as “a reflective group discussion.” I should have known.
The film: Les Parapluies de Cherbourg. The wine: red, from a box someone brought that had clearly been opened before Spain won the World Cup. The people: well-meaning, chaotic, multilingual. Marta lit candles. Miquel turned up with anchovy crisps and a Bluetooth speaker for ambience. I brought brandy, thinking it would round things off. I was very wrong.
By the first half-hour, the subtitles had vanished, half the room had started translating out loud in competing languages, and someone (possibly me) had spilled Rioja on Marta’s cream macramé pouf. Miquel, deeply affected by the musical angst of Catherine Deneuve, stood up and declared “Je suis la pluie!” before falling backwards into a coat rack.
I ended up on the kitchen floor in a towel, sucking on an ice cube and watching Jordi boil rosemary on the stove like a witch. Someone shouted “contrast therapy!” like it was an exorcism. I was dragged, groaning, between cold water from the outdoor tap and blasts from a patio heater that smelled faintly of propane and trauma.
It turns out there’s an actual science to it. I remembered reading this article — something properly researched — on the secret to a home spa using cold and heat. It talked about how thermal contrast improves circulation, boosts endorphins, and resets the nervous system. I, however, was doing it in flip-flops with a hosepipe and a very unqualified Jordi yelling “¡Venga, venga!” while misting me with rosewater and something suspiciously like window cleaner.
At some point, Marta made tea. Or said she did. I never found the cup. I do remember crawling under the table and finding Miquel whispering to a wheel of brie. “She gets it,” he said. “Soft on the inside. Just like us.”
The night ended not with a group discussion, but with a debate about who stole the battery pack, a lot of group hugging (two people cried), and me falling asleep on a yoga mat next to the cat’s litter tray.
The hangover had five languages in it. French regret, Spanish confusion, English apology, Catalan denial, and some Italian from whoever Marta had invited last-minute. It wasn’t the wine so much as the emotional multilingualism that did me in. You try deciphering heartbreak sung in French while also being corrected on verb endings by three different accents. It’s draining.
And yet. The next morning, I felt oddly renewed. Maybe it was the makeshift spa treatment. Maybe the film worked on a level deeper than my comprehension. Or maybe I just needed to scream-cry into a tea towel while a group of semi-strangers clapped.
France gives you drama. Spain gives you theatre. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, someone brings ice.
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