Teñen algún prato típico do país?

I’m ravenous. Skin still sticky from the last flight into La Coruna. I’m surrounded by people I only met a few days ago, yet there’s already a warm sense of companionship among us all. Laid out in front of me; a welcome dinner. I eye up the tortilla and begin to devour it. It’s served alongside empanadas - a Galician classic stuffed with tuna, some plump mussels and thin slices of local cured sausage and cheese. Every mouthful reminds me I’m back in Spain, here to teach in my favourite place in the world.

There’s a bar afterwards. Giddy, satisfied smiles. Jokes about lesson planning, war stories from CELTA. When they finally begin to clear the terrace, it’s early in the morning. It’s very early.

The cafeteria at the residence occasionally opens as a restaurant for locals in our neighbourhood. There’s a reason for this: the food is good. Sunday lunch is pork stew with fried potatoes and salad. There’s no messing around here. The pork is tender, heady with garlic and herbs, and it helps revive senses that may have been lost the previous evening.

By 10am on Monday I’m already teaching. There wasn’t the promised school tour, just a brief introduction to my mentor, Sergio, and then straight into class. They’re working to a syllabus I’ve never been briefed on, there’s a mention of past simple but other than that I’m flapping in the deep end. I try to remember the students’ names but nothing seems to go in. They all beam at me like they’ve never seen an English person before. Eleven-year-old Spanish kids are fun, curious and in relentless need of stimulus. I’m incessantly reminding myself that this is their world and I’m the one entering it. Sergio has them under control and this thought composes me until he tells me that he’s leaving for England the next day. I brush this aside until I ‘m reunited with class Quinta B the following day. Monday had been a breeze, nothing but a sea of calm. I’d been with them the day before. They’d sat down at their desks; they’d talked when their names were called out. But not on Tuesday. Not without Sergio.

There were three teachers in that Tuesday class: myself, my colleague Josh and the actual teacher who was looking out for us. It was never to be a fair battle and the kids defiantly won. All I can vaguely recall are the sounds and an incident with a pair of scissors. And whilst I may be exaggerating here a little bit for effect, Quinta B and I are now buddies. They’ve got the best kids, some difficult ones yes, but they all sit next to someone who wants to learn and do the right thing. Whether they actually sit at their desks or on top of them is another matter. One of them told me that he doesn’t like to work because people think he’s just silly all the time. But he knows English and when we speak together he’s actually damn good at it.

Friday comes all too quickly. As school winds down the weekend approaches, I find myself with a free period, sandwiched around our long siesta break. I grab a buddy and soon we’re gulping down a delicious lentil stew, savouring tasty morsels of pulpo (octopus) and mopping up the olive oil from the freshest of anchovies with a thick crusty loaf. It’s not been a bad first week in La Coruna. Not a bad week at all.