Estoy aqui. Jet lag in full effect. But all went smoothly, considering. After the passport hurdle, there was the connection-in-Madrid hurdle: very tight, aggravated by slack US Air rep who said he couldn’t check my bags through to Almeria. Not true, of course, because they’d even been able to pull this trick off in Albuquerque, on my mom’s bags–but I didn’t know this for certain at the airport, and couldn’t dig in my heels.

At least I got to stew about this in the business-class lounge in Philly–Star Alliance Gold status in full effect!

As it happened, my bag was the very first one off the belt in Madrid. When does that happen? I feel like it should be the subject of a business-motivation book: First Off the Belt: Someone’s bag has to be–why not yours ?

I’m gratified to find that my impression of Spanish women, forged years ago, has not changed at all: they have terrible hair!

This is great for me–I fit right in! Last time I was here, I had just “gone blonde,” except the salon lady failed to tell me until after the job that I really needed a double process. So I had that distinctive orange hair that Japanese punk kids (and undernourished children) often sport.

With that, and my tight pants and my glasses, I got asked for directions all the time!

I did a little henna on my hair about a week ago, in preparation for this trip…and the magic is working! I already had to beg the stewardess for an immigration form.

Also, when I saw the chick on my Almeria flight with the big green square glasses and the super-tight bright-pink pants, I knew I’d made the right decision when I tossed my kelly green skinny-leg cords into my suitcase at the last minute.

This ramps up the pressure on my Spanish, but it’s worth it just to feel like my fashion sense is appreciated. Unlike in NYC, where poor grooming and bright colors mean people edge away from you on the subway.

As for my mom, she fits in OK–she’s wearing lots of black, and a scarf. But the dead giveaway is that she has white hair–not brassy orange or jet black. Also, she’s about a head taller than most of the older women on the street, and that’s something that pretty much never happens. In most other settings, she’s often mistaken for a gelfling.

After a big nap this afternoon, we immediately fell victim to Spanish dining times…roaming the street, starving, while waiting for tapas bars to open. We would’ve had a little sweet treat to pass the time, but all the seats at the cafes were already crammed with people enjoying their post-siesta pick-me-up, with churros and cafe con leche and juice on all the tables. Another reason to love Spain–two chances for breakfast!

And, once we got into the tapas window, I truly appreciated how great it is to be doing guidebook research here. Here, it’s totally legit, even expected, to have one drink in a place and leave. Everywhere else I go, I have to steel myself for the evening reviewing session, to cover as many places as possible: drinks and apps in one place, mains in another, maybe dessert in a third. But if I drink too much at the first place, and the food is good, my plan goes to hell immediately.

Tonight, I checked three places off my list in just a couple of hours, without feeling a twinge of regret or having to shrug apologetically at anyone when I asked for the bill.

For the record, my body is humming along on a diet of: blood-sausage stew on toast, bacalao fritters, green olives, delectably bouncy baby meatballs and octopus in garlic mayo so blindingly white it looked like whipped cream.

Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t have made that list.

I also ate half a clementine. That counts, right? Still, Beverly has the advantage: she ate the lettuce-leaf garnish that came with the fritters.