There are moments in life when you realise you’ve lost touch with your home country.
One of them is when you mistake a bidet for a sink — in front of a man who once saw you throw up behind a kebab van in Wolverhampton and still sends you birthday cards.
Let me explain.
Robert — or “Big Fresh Rob” as he’s known online now — was in the area. We hadn’t seen each other in years. He used to be one of those blokes who carried around a spare pair of socks just in case the night got unexpectedly long. We met when I was still living in England, both of us slumped over discount wine and a half-cooked dream. He’s in Spain now too, of course — hiding out in La Alpujarra, reinventing himself as some kind of eccentric mountain yogi with a blog, BigFresh.com, which is basically half-poetry, half-prophecy, and a lot of him getting tangled in emotional and literal olive nets.
So when he said he’d be passing through, we agreed on beers in that bar with the unreliable stools and questionable vermouth. He turned up wearing linen and optimism, both slightly creased.
The night went as you’d expect: laughter, memory potholes, tapas, another drink, deeper memories, the sudden reappearance of guilt, three shots, and someone playing Je t’aime on the jukebox. We made it through most of the old stories before one of us (me) started crying at a tortilla and declaring life “a caramelised onion of missed chances.” Rob just patted my arm and said, “It’s okay. I once flirted with a goat by accident.”
Anyway. I needed the bathroom. I was tipsy. The lights were confusing. There was a mirror that seemed to mock me. I found a small porcelain thing with a tap and did what I thought any civilised person would do: washed my hands in it.
A few seconds later, a woman walked in, clocked me elbow-deep in her bidet, and just… left. Silently. Like someone backing away from an open fire.
I stood there for a full minute, hands dripping, wondering how far I’d drifted from the rules of British plumbing. The towel was decorative. The soap was shaped like a duck. The bidet glared at me like I’d committed a cultural war crime.
Back at the table, I tried to explain, but Robert just nodded.
“You’re not the first,” he said. “I did worse. I once used a composting toilet while it was still composting.”
I have no idea what that meant. I didn’t ask.
We hugged goodbye on the pavement. He gave me a rosemary sprig from his pocket “for clarity” and told me to write about this. So here I am. Hungover. Slightly ashamed. Googling “what is a bidet actually for?” and wondering if maybe, just maybe, the French were right all along.
Marta hasn’t spoken to me since. Miquel sent me a gif of a sprinkler.
Robert’s already blogged the whole evening in haiku form.
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