While walking down a street in the neighborhood of plaza de espana, my mom keeps looking at my face, not talking. We stop to cross the narrow street. I can feel her eyes on me although I'm not looking at her, I know that she's scrutinizing my complexion, spotting the pimple.
"That's a big bump," she remarks.
I pause a moment, trying to veil my irritation. Patience with my parents, or with anyone in my family, does not come easy.
"I know," I say.
We keep walking down the hill in these quiet back streets and eventually make our way to the metro station. I realize that we have taken the longer route from our hotel by accident, but I do not let on that I know this.
We had a squabble of annoyance on day two of our trip, giving it a dose of reality.
I believe I prefer arguing with my mother while navigating the metro stations in Madrid on self-declared holidays. Much more exciting while walking through the beautiful capital than while on the phone from opposite coasts of the US, whilst we engage in our respective toils of work and errands.
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