Cambridge Blues

I couldn't have expected what would happen. The plane had landed at Luton airport on time and I was queueing up in the aisle, shuffling slowly towards the front exit. After I had murmured adiós to the extremely posh English steward and crossed the threshold of the door, I became aware of the hideous weather, which prompted the realisation that my fleece might not be enough to feel all snug and warm in the south of England in early spring. I jumped down the passenger steps with my eyes narrowed by way of protection against the drizzle and dashed across the tarmac for shelter. The light rain had speckled my glasses before I could reach the terminal gate, and my eyes, once they'd managed to adjust to see through the misty lenses, were confronted with the dilemma posed by the sign:
"<--International Flights | Domestic Flights-->". Funnily enough, it felt like home and I'd come from home, it had to be domestic; then again, the cold hinted otherwise. I followed the elderly couple I'd just spotted to the left instinctively. Confused as I was, it seemed like the right thing to do. Tut tut!... rusty brain... I kept considering the matter.

From the coach, I perceived Luton was a hilly town. Lost in thought, I heard my phone ring a while after I'd replaced my Spanish SIM card with my UK card on my mobile. Noreen's words on the phone got me relaxed and I leaned back in my seat and stared out of the window at a railway track that ran straight and parallel to the motorway about twenty metres away from it. I sat up, calmly raised my eyes and looked at the punched-out thick cotton-like cloud blanket that partially hid the blue sky. Then I lowered them a trifle and looked at the horizon. A pale green plain, as if it hadn't got enough water, spread before me and I knew Cambridge was near.

As I walked into Noreen and Alastair's flat, Noreen greeted me matter-of-factly and went on to explain she had come back from Israel the day before and was cleaning up the house. Alastair turned up from work about an hour later. Noreen announced, "Jose is here". "Is he? Where is he?", he replied. Not surprisingly, that was about all the excitement Alastair could display. I'm not an exciting character anyway, so I don't complain, I just state the fact.

I met Ana and John in our usual Caffè Nero at 10.30 on Saturday morning. We talked mostly, although not exclusively, about my tiny flat in Madrid over capuccinos and mochas for more than an hour. The conversation seemed quite short to me, but we all had things to do and had to move on, so we said goodbye and I hurried to meet Gill at the Cambridge Blue pub in Gwydir Street at 12.15pm. Again, I enjoyed myself a lot and time flew away. Having eaten a delicious hot ciabatta with melted brie and cranberry, my stomach was full when I went out of the pub and walked into the drizzle that had just begun to fall. In my hands I carried my bike basket and helmet, the post collected in the last three months and Tania's books.

Alastair, Noreen and I watched Sacha Baron Cohen's Borat for the second time that evening, after which Alastair drove us to the India House on Newnham Road. Noreen had organised a dinner with Tristan, Luisa, Marco and Alessio --and the girlfriends of the latter two, who were in Cambridge for a short visit--, and I had suggested an Indian restaurant. Elena had excused herself and said we'd meet up Sunday afternoon. I ordered my favourite curry dish (the excellent lamb rogan josh) and explained, among other things, how my blog had become an important part of my life, which most people found hard to believe -- this is just the beginning, though.

At 2.45pm on Sunday, after about an hour's swim at the Parkside pool, I couldn't spot Fengqiu in either the Borders Starbucks, where I wrongly thought we had agreed to meet, or the Starbucks next door to it. I phoned him. He had forgotten to put his clock forward and showed up at 3.15pm in the basement of Starbucks in Market Hill. We talked for about an hour about work, stress, life, motivation (and the lack of it:), the future, his identical twin brother who's going to come to Cambridge in June and whom I'll probably meet in a few months (it's going to be weird meeting two Fengqius, but, maaaan, I'm looking forward to it! :). Then we walked all the way to Gresham Road, where he had left his bicycle, and said a heartfelt goodbye. I walked up to Glisson Road and rang Elena's door bell. She wasn't at home and my mobile had run out of battery when Fengqiu had made his elegant entrance in the basement of Starbucks. I walked back towards the city centre and made a phone call from a booth in Parker's Piece. I had only jotted down Alastair's number, but he wouldn't pick up the phone. Wondering what I would do, I looked up and saw the OLEM church standing in front of me. It was almost five and the mass was about to start. I thought Elena may be there. She wasn't, yet I joined the service. Luckily, she had thought along the same lines: "Ciao!", she said with her ever-present smile when the sermon was about to finish. Surprised, I turned my head towards her and smiled, "Hi!". She placed herself on my left-hand side just before everyone stood up to pray the Creed. I opened the prayers book and we read from it as we used to do in the good old times, "We believe in one God, the Father, the All-Mighty...". Fengqiu's "boss" Andrea was sitting near us. I pointed out to Elena he was Italian and picked up on a tic he had in his neck, or at any rate he was moving it rhythmically.

I woke up in the middle of the night. I could feel the Malaysian Wok fried Sate Duck Mee I had eaten with Elena and the Paraguayan zoologist José at the Dojo Noodle Bar that evening in my stomach. Then the nightmares began: my face was squeezed by a stretched palm that violently induced drowsiness in me. Seconds later I found myself, in revery, flying over Madrid. I remember seeing the Metrópolis building and then heading for Gran Vía.

I was knackered in the morning. Alastair offered to spend half an hour with me at the Engineering Department (Trumpington Street) after he'd finished at the dentist's. Actually, he gave me an hour and a half of his time in the end, for which he jumped up a few positions on my Top 10 list and I thank him hugely. Then I met Elena and we both walked with my bags from her house to the bus stop on Parkside (many thanks!!). I took leave of her and Cambridge at just past 1.10pm.

* * *

"Welcome on board this Easyjet flight to sunny Madrid", said the captain over the intercom, and my heart leapt. More accurately, it hopped on and off a quick optimism tour bus in melancholy land, which means you get a fleeting glimpse of happiness and a vast supply of miserable existence to reflect on and crave. I finished reading Nick Hornby's A Long Way Down in between naps and then I took a pleasurable long nap to make up for the wasted night.

At past eleven, with my watch set another hour forward, I'd locked my flat door and took some time to observe the improvement the construction workers had made in the last four days as I headed down the stairs of the building to go to Opencor on Ronda de Atocha for some groceries. Madrid was warm, or rather, warmer than Cambridge. The night was crystal clear, in a way that only Madrid can be. I was walking down my steep street when a drop of water hit my scalp. I blamed the air conditioners and carried on with my thinking. A few seconds later another drop, then another. I kept walking in the rain with my head bent down and my hands in my pockets. Cambridge was chasing me. I had the blues.


(I still have the outermost two double pages of the Daily Telegraph from Saturday, 24 February that Alastair gave me to wrap the mugs I brought along from Cambridge. I can't muster the courage to throw them away. Not yet.)

Farewell, Madrid

"Farewell", quoth I, "my humble home and plain !
Farewell, Madrid, thy Prado and thy springs
Distilling nectar and ambrosial rain !
Farewell, ye gay assemblies, pleasant things
To cheer one aching bosom, and delight
Two thousand faint, aspiring underlings !
Farewell, thou charming and deceitful site,
Where erst two giants great were set ablaze
By thunderbolt of Jove, in fiery might! [...]"

(Translation by James Young Gibson)

115  «Adiós», dije a la humilde choza mía;
        «adiós, Madrid; adiós tu Prado y fuentes,
        que manan néctar, llueven ambrosía;
        adiós, conversaciones suficientes
        a entretener un pecho cuidadoso
120  y a dos mil desvalidos pretendientes;
        adiós, sitio agradable y mentiroso,
        do fueron dos gigantes abrasados
        con el rayo de Júpiter fogoso;
        adiós, teatros públicos, honrados
125  por la ignorancia que ensalzada veo
        en cien mil disparates recitados;
        adiós, de San Felipe el gran paseo,
        donde si baja o sube el turco galgo,
        como en gaceta de Venecia leo;
130  adiós, hambre sotil de algún hidalgo,
        que por no verme ante tus puertas muerto,
        hoy de mi patria y de mí mismo salgo».

http://www.cervantesvirtual.com/servlet/SirveObras/05819517588047595332268/index.htm

See you on Monday!!

EMT (Eres Mu' Tonto)

El Corte Inglés de Castellana and AZCA

A Latin American woman was crossing the southward lanes of Calle de Embajadores (Ambassadors Street) next to Glorieta de Embajadores when one of the plastic bags she was carrying from the Maxi-Dia opposite the street ripped open and dropped some of its contents. The green light was already flashing as she struggled to pick up most of her stuff. At long last, she ran to the pavement and left a box of eggs behind on the asphalt. Cars started to move and excitement soared among the people waiting on our side of the street to cross. There was a respectful silence all along, though, only interrupted by the irrepressible sudden expressions of emotion. You could feel the mounting tension as cars drew nearer the eggs, and people's relief when they had just missed them. When we saw an oncoming red bus we all knew that would be the end of the eggs and expected to hear the crack. I narrowed my eyes. However, they were saved miraculously and the light turned back to green. The moral of the story is very simple, so I won't insist on it. I will point out instead that I was carrying my fruit and veg trolley home and Madalina hadn't called by the time of this unfortunate incident. Later on I'd go to Atocha to take some photographs on the day before the third anniversary of the train blasts and Madalina would call.

I was at Cuatro Caminos in the afternoon when my phone rang.
     'Hi. Where are you?', she asked.
     'I'm at Nuevos ministerios', I said. I was actually at Cuatro Caminos, but walking down Calle de Raimundo Fernández Villaverde towards Nuevos Ministerios, so I won't regard myself as a liar.

Calle de Raimundo Fernández Villaverde towards Nuevos Ministerios

     'What are you doing there?'
     'I have to buy some stuff'. I didn't want to spill the beans, and whoever knows me, knows I have a tendency to spill them. I needed to change the subject. 'Where are you?'
     'I'm in the centre, Gran Vía. Are we going to meet up at eight'
     'Yes, but I don't reckon I'll be able to make it to the centre. I still have to spend some time here. Why don't you come to Nuevos Ministerios?'
     'No, it's quite a long way and I'm tired'
     'Ok, then I suppose I can't see you at eight. Actually', I chuckled, 'I need to go to La Vaguada after I've finished here. Why don't we meet up there? They have shops. I suppose that if you're in the centre, you'll probably buy some books and you can sit on the metro for just over half an hour and read!'
     'No, I don't want to go to La Vaguada, it's too far. I'm going to stay in the centre. If you don't want to meet me, fine'
     'Ok, I'm going to go to La Vaguada because I have things I need to do there today and I'll try to be in the centre as soon as possible, ok? See you la'er!'. I didn't actually say "see you la'er". This is just a literary licence. I can't even pronounce it. What I said was "Hala, hasta luego", and not "Venga, hasta luego" because I'm not Madrileño and I was in the UK when this "fashionable" way of saying goodbye caught on in Galicia. In October I went to Galicia and heard people abusing the word "Venga" and it freaked the hell out of me. I remember I thought to myself while they were going on with their Venga, Venga, Venga, "What on earth is that about?".

I always lose my bearings in El Corte Inglés at Nuevos Ministerios. I had to ask a woman in the perfume department where the books section was. She said, "turn left, go downstairs and then follow the corridor". I saw the queue almost immediately and inspected it thoroughly. I was kind of embarrassed, but I pushed myself and bought the book. Finally I joined the queue and waited. My turn came. I handed the book to the man that was standing next to the writer and stood still until he beckoned to me. I said, 'Hi. It is for myself. My name is José Manuel'. He nodded. 'What do you do?', he asked me. 'I'm a researcher'. 'In what field?' 'Photonics'. 'Ah! I'm very happy for you! You are lucky!" I was making faces as if to say, "Well, it's not what you think. It's just all right!", but didn't get to say anything. Again, those who know me, know I'm not very loquacious, especially under pressure, and this man was starting to demand too much out of me. I just wanted my book signed and leg it!! If you want to hear the truth, I'd noticed people used to talk to him for quite a long time when I was in the queue, and I'm not going to deny that it had made me feel a bit uneasy, but I expected he'd say nothing to me if I didn't speak to him. My hypothesis wasn't working too well. 'That's because you're a fool', he added, and lowered his head and started writing. He lifted his head after a while and looked at me. Then he lowered it again and kept writing. When he finished, he signed the message, closed the book and handed it to me. "You don't attach too much importance to it because you're a fool, but allow me to give it importance myself", he concluded with a smile. I thanked him and left. One would think I thanked him for calling me a fool, but actually I thanked him for signing my book. He wasn't much mistaken in any case, so I should have congratulated him for finding out so quickly.


I saw Madalina later on that day, I'm not such a b*****d, and showed her the book after dinner in VIPS. She complained, "why didn't you tell me?". I said, "I told you to come but you didn't want to".

Just like Chris :)

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Northeast   Judging by how you talk you are probably from north Jersey, New York City, Connecticut or Rhode Island. Chances are, if you are from New York City (and not those other places) people would probably be able to tell if they actually heard you speak.
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Der Himmel über Madrid (2)

Metrópolis and Grassy buildings (click on the picture to enlarge)

Puerta del Sol

Real Casa de Correos (Puerta del Sol)

Alcalá 16 (BBVA)

Alcalá 16

Calle Sevilla from Calle de la Virgen de los Peligros (BBVA and Banesto)

Calle Alcalá

Gran Vía (as the sign says in Spanish, "English" and Japanese)

Gran Vía and Calle del Caballero de Gracia

Banco de España

Calle Alcalá

Calle Alcalá

Alcalá 49 (Instituto Cervantes)

For information about the buildings in these photographs, go to http://www.alexmadrid.es/

Atocha

11 March Memorial (click and read the messages)

My face is warm. A painfully bright sun has finally touched my pale skin after a couple of years.

On 11 March 2005 I got up early, caught the metro at Francos Rodríguez Station, got off at Plaza de Santo Domingo and walked down Calle Veneras towards Plaza de San Martín. At 7:38 sharp, the bells in every belfry in town started to toll in unison. I remember San Ginés's bell getting increasingly loud on my way to Calle del Arenal, then gradually fading away and giving in to the Royal Post Office's as I approached Puerta del Sol. The streets, usually bustling at any other time of the day, were empty and quiet and the strokes echoed across the centre of Madrid with a plaintive melody. It felt like a city in mourning and, in a way, it managed to pass its overwhelming sorrow on to you.

Two years later, the much-anticipated 11 March Memorial would be, at long last, inaugurated at 11 am (noon in the end?) on a splendid sunny Sunday morning. At 10.45 I was walking down Paseo de la Infanta Isabel when a policeman blocked my way and enquired where I was going. Clasping the straps of my backpack, I replied enthusiastically I was going to the inauguration of the monument. After having interrupted my sleep and got up earlier than I should on a Sunday, his words really hurt; he said, "I'm sorry, you can't pass until the event is over". Despondent, I turned on my heels, walked up Paseo del Prado, turned left into Plaza de Murillo and got into El Retiro Park. I sat on a bench around the Forest of Remembrance and read the Sunday newspaper with the only disturbance of the footballers behind my back and the occasional football being kicked out of the field, which I kindly threw back over the fence following their requests. The Forest of Remembrance, a grove of 192 cypress and olive trees planted on the first anniversary of the terror bombings --one for each of the fatal victims--, I had visited once before shortly after its inauguration in 2005 and I was pleasantly surprised at how green and well preserved it was after all this time.

Forest of Remembrance (Bosque del Recuerdo)

Roses next to an olive tree

******

11 March Memorial covered with a curtain (10/03)

Around twelve I left the park through the Fallen Angel's Gate and walked down Calle de Alfonso XII. My first impression when I saw it was that of disappointment: it didn't look much different from the previous day, when it was covered with a curtain. I heard a woman say disdainfully, What a disappointment! They could have put a beautiful statue! That thing doesn't say anything to me! I went up the grandstand assembled south of the monument for the authorities or the victims' families, which served as a vantage point, and watched the scene. A group of women went on about how ugly it was --it's ugly, ugly, ugly!--. People started to gather around the Spanish flag next to the monument, while wreaths were being leaned against the glass walls of the structure, and chanted slogans generally in favour of the government: El pueblo unido jamás será vencido (A united people will never be defeated), No a la guerra (No to war), Queremos saber quién ha sido (We want to know who did it), Fascistas (Fascists), Zapatero, no estás solo (Zapatero, you are not alone), Los de ayer, ¿dónde están? (Those from yesterday, where are they?), Hemos venido, no nos han traido (We have come, we haven't been brought here - in reference to the people brought to Madrid on chartered buses for the demonstration against the government's anti-terrorist policy organised by the Popular Party)... There were detractors as well, but these were silenced by the majority of left-wingers, more often than not resorting to insults and racist remarks, which I didn't think were civilised or commendable. As I was taking notes of what was going on, an old man next to me asked me whether I was a journalist. I smiled and said, "No, I'm making notes for my blog". He said, "Ah, your blog... a diary", and started giving me his opinion of what was going on: he lashed out against former president Felipe González, the ubiquitous corruption, the unions' leaders (why didn't they take part in the demonstrations against terrorism when most of the victims in the train blasts they say to represent were workers?), the politicians that lived in exile during the Franco regime and then came back to lead our lives (and get rich), most of the time against the ideals they had defended before, and betraying those who had trusted them, ruining their hopes, and the memory of those who fought for those ideals and were killed. He remembered a conversation he had had the day before with a man who hurled insults against Ángel Acebes and José María Aznar. He had invited him to think twice before uttering those atrocities and endorse Antonio Machado's words: ¿Tu verdad? ¿Mi verdad? / ¡No!; ¡la verdad! / ¡Y vamos juntos a buscarla! (Your truth? My truth? / No!; the truth! / And let's look out for it together). As a farewell he jokingly said, "And tell me if ever in your whole life, and I hope you'll live to be eighty, you find someone who wants to be the president of a neighbourhood association!"

Then I joined the queue to the memorial.

My visual DNA

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Der Himmel über Madrid

Puerta del Sol (click on the picture to expand)

I've seen a wonderful sky in Ciudad Universitaria (looking west) at 19:15. I didn't have my camera with me. This weekend I set out on the search for the perfect sky in the grand streets of the centre of Madrid... I thought I'd found it, but it was actually here.

Calle Sevilla from Plaza de Canalejas

Calle Alcalá

Puerta del Sol

(To be continued)

El visillo de mi salita

On Sunday morning I hung the curtains in both the sitting/dining room and bathroom. On Saturday night I accidentally made some cuts in one of the curtains when the metal curtain rod fell on one of them like a javelin:

I was quite pleased with the bathroom curtain. After hanging it, I looked at my work and I rested satisfied: I liked my little flat much better. Apart from the above-mentioned cuts in the fabric, I didn't like the sitting/dining room curtain so much. What do you think of it?

First conclusion: it would have been better if it were longer, down to the floor. The rest of conclusions are up to you! Let me know what you think (in English, Spanish, Italian...).

This morning in Lavapiés metro station I spotted this ad (almost literal, as far as my memory allows):

"My recipe of whiskey turkey is very simple:

I cook the turkey while I drink the whiskey.

Get to know Jamie Oliver

The irreverent genius of world cuisine

Saturdays at 16.30 on Localia TV*"

PS. Note Alastair's Next pedometer and Tania's thermometer.

PPS. I don't get Localia.

Karakoram Highway

Near my house, on Calle de San Eugenio 7, there used to be a press owned by a don Juan de la Cuesta where the editio princeps of the second part of Miguel de Cervantes's The Most Ingenious Knight Don Quixote de la Mancha was printed in 1615. On 23 April 1616 Cervantes died* --coincidentally William Shakespeare also died on that date, but not on the same day: Britain was still using the Julian calendar, whereas Spain had already adopted the Gregorian calendar*-- and was buried in the Convent of the Discalced (barefoot) Trinitarian nuns on Calle de Lope de Vega (formerly known as Calle de Cantarranas), although his death certificate is kept not far away, on the corner of Calle de Atocha and San Sebastián, at the eponymous church where nineteen years later, on the 28th of August, the remains of Lope de Vega, the playwright of Fuenteovejuna, who ironically had died in Calle de Cervantes (formerly, Calle de Francos) the previous day, would receive a Christian burial in a niche in the presbytery vault. That's the church I go to every Sunday.

Near my house there are also two peep shows flanking Calle de San Eugenio: Show Center Hollywood (Atocha 70) and Mundo Fantástico (Atocha 80). On Saturday afternoon I reached the eastern end of Calle de San Eugenio and turned left into Calle de Atocha. The pavement narrows next to the metro station entrance and I found my way blocked by two youngsters, probably in their late teens, each carrying a motorcycle helmet in their hands. They walked in front of me for a dozen metres until, on Atocha 70, they turned left into Show Center Hollywood. Out of the corner of my (left) eye, for a split second, I could perceive a certain feeling of uneasiness in their faces, just as I sensed the leftovers of my depleted innocence twitch to death. Unless... could it possibly be that that image was just a product of my imagination, which struggled to accept that they were the kind of people who attend those shows? Even at the risk of appearing like a real yokel in front of you, I must admit I had entertained thoughts such as, 'how funny is it that I got a house so close to two peep shows, that's something I can show off and joke about' before, but I had never seen anyone going in or coming out of them and I suppose I expected regular visitors to be more like, say, slimy dirty old men or a bunch of noisy and uninhibited stag-doers... As a matter of fact, I had never thought anybody would use them. Dumbfounded and embarrassed, I never turned my head to look at them.

Down Calle de Atocha, past the Reina Sofía Modern Art Museum and the under-construction floating-in-thin-air (just an illusion) Caixafórum building up Calle del Cenicero (Ashtray Street), Puerta de Atocha station stands majestically in the middle of construction work. On the eastern side of it, at the entrance of Cercanías Renfe (commuter trains) on Avenida de la Ciudad de Barcelona, the 11 March Memorial awaits, hidden behind a cylindrical white curtain, its inauguration this Sunday. Inside the station, a dismal male voice keeps announcing the next trains to depart from each platform on the PA. I just hope the "voice" gets more cheerful on Monday next week.

--------

A man on the yellow line (L3) was reading a Lonely Planet guide to the Karakoram Highway this morning. I could just read "Kara... Highway" and wondered "where's that???". I squinted but I couldn't make it out. I decided to wait: when he closed the book to get off the train I would be able to read the complete title, I thought to myself. So I stood still at a relatively short distance from him and didn't take my eyes off the book the whole journey. I needed to be disciplined and, more importantly, quick or I risked to miss it. A woman got between us. I threw a quick dirty look at her and she moved. I kept looking. Made an attempt to lower myself but I sensed he sensed the movement -too obvious-, although he didn't surreptitiously tilt the book to let me read it. Finally, at the last station, he closed the book and I got my prize: Karakoram Highway!!

For those of you who are uncultured like me, "the Karakoram Highway is the highest paved international road in the world. It connects China and Pakistan across the Karakoram mountain range, through the Khunjerab Pass, at an altitude of 4,693 metres (15,397 feet), by far the highest paved international border crossing in the world. It connects China's Xinjiang region with Pakistan's Northern Areas and also serves as a popular tourist attraction" (Wikipedia)*. Obviously, not everybody has Julien's geography knowledge. I was impressed when I asked him at lunchtime the other day what they called Myanmar in French (actually I said "Maynmar" if I remember right), and he said "Birmanie".

Un monitor Sony Bravia de 26"

Fantaseando un poco, Tania y yo hemos pensado que podría ser posible acogerse a las ayudas que concede el Ministerio de Industria, Turismo y Comercio (MITYC) para incentivar el uso de Internet y aumentar la proporción de hogares TIC. A tal fin, el ministerio facilita la compra de equipos informáticos mediante préstamos con tipo de interés del 0%, que, para el caso de jóvenes "menores de 35 años" y estudiantes universitarios, pueden ser de hasta cinco años y con una financiación de hasta el 100% de la inversión con un tope de 3000 €.

A mi portátil, el pobre, a sus dos años de edad, ya le ha salido su tercera franja vertical y la superficie de pantalla visible se va reduciendo drásticamente. No tenía pensado comprarme una nueva CPU, pero ya que me he enterado de estas ayudas y no las conceden a menos que te compres una, pues quizá valga la pena hacerlo. Y pensando en que la FNAC ya no financia gratuitamente las compras a 12 meses (que solo era una promoción de navidad), quizá se podría incluir en el pack, como periférico, un monitor Sony Bravia de 26" de la serie P de 1000 euritos. De esta manera matamos dos pájaros de un tiro: el ministerio consigue un nuevo hogar TIC (de 20 metros cuadrados, eso sí) y yo me puedo permitir una televisión Bravia.

Lo consultaré... Trampas tampoco quiero (que conste).

Mon canapé bleu

A picture is worth a thousand words:

Not so uncomfortable after all:

The most comfortable:

The room looks so small with it inside! Thinking about how small it looked got me depressed yesterday. Now I'm getting used to the sight of it, it's starting to grow on me. Let me fantasise for a while: my cousin's TV table in front, a lamp next to it, my Bravia :) TV attached to a wall somewhere, a painting on the wall behind it, a little carpet to the left of it... it's going to look great!! (and it'll be very cheap to furnish :)) Wait and see!!!

Addendum: 1) the house is small (I've said it lots of times), but that's not a reason for it to look bad; 2) the walls are pink, yes, THE WHOLE HOUSE IS PINK, FOR GOD'S SAKE!!, and what? No easy jokes, please! My house is beautiful and I'll like it for the next year :)

PS. He editado el título. François ha dicho que mon sofa bleu en francés suena cursi.