Alicante, Spain
I arrived at la Casa de Jean at about 9:30 last night, an hour and a half late. The door of his 7th-floor apartment opened and he beckoned me in. Long hair, beard and smile, a French face with a Spanish voice. 'Hola!' 'Hola!' 'Que tal?' 'Muy, muy bien. Y tu?' 'Bueno. spanishspanishspanish' 'Perdon, no comprende.' 'Did you find me easily?' 'Yep, all good.'
He shows me round his house; the kitchen and breezy balcony, the outside zones where we must wear sl...