THE NARRATIVE ARC
Flying Chihuahua, Hidden Cat
No pets were harmed during the writing of this essay
When the locksmith arrives, I have a Chihuahua in one hand, a kilo of dog food in the other and there’s a dehydrated Doberman lying at my feet. Next to me is Merlin, a six-foot-tall Australian guy who leapt to my rescue wielding a screwdriver and a paperclip. Our bargaining position feels decidedly weak, but Merlin assures me we’re going to haggle.
This is coastal Barcelona, if I concentrate I can hear the sea rushing against the shore, and the door in front of me is not my own.
But wait, how did we get here?
Two weeks prior, I was sitting in a language school learning how to talk about routines and hobbies, when my classmate turned to me with an offer of employment. Wow. I thought. She must have been really impressed with my sophisticated questions.
“What you like do at weekend?” I had asked, murdering the present simple.
“Oh, only escalada,” she replied, using a word — meaning ‘rock-climbing’ — that to a beginner’s ear sounded suspiciously like ensalada.
(“What do you do to unwind?”
“Salads.”)
