I was really lucky for it had been so easy to get private students in the city of Cadiz. I had no idea English was such an important language. Word of mouth got out that a native speaker of English was available to tutor and before you knee it, I was trying to decipher spidery hand writing written by yet someone else who wanted to learn English. The notes were always signed and duly underlined with a flourish. Everyone seemed to know someone who wanted to learn English. Walk into the corner bar and Julio who would be preparing his famous pinchitos with just the right amount of paprika and garlic would tell you about someone from down the road whose cousin's best friend's brother really, really wanted to learn English. "He wrote his address for you." Julio handed me a transparent, crumpled paper serviette. "There, there’s his signature.” He pointed to something that looks like an abstract painting. “You can do the lessons here, if ...
A Memoir of Spain during the 70s and 80s.