I am sitting in Pamplona overlooking Cathedral de Santa Maria la Real:
I am deep in Hemingway country. My sentences are becoming short and terse. Setting a mood. With possible hidden meanings. Or maybe it is just my Spanish, the meaning of which appears to be hidden from many. I am writing in my Silvine exercise book and I am hoping that the camareras will think I am the next Hemingway. They do not seem impressed though – am I trying too hard? Is it the cigar? I will get rid of it. That’s better. Actually, I am losing my Spanish – every time I walk into a bar or cafe, the people start to speak to me in English. What is it about me that makes people think I am English? Can´t understand it.