Ambulando

I can remember the first time I had papadum.
It was at a crazy flat party in Cardiff thrown from some Indian guys that spent part of the night frying them for us to gulp beer and what other spirits were available on a prepared stomach.
Plain papadom spicy and no sauce with it. Greasy food for grossy night.
It was when the universal sangria used to be done. A big bucket in the entrance hall where everyone was throwing into the spirits they brought, been either dry or sweet sherry, cheap whiskey, blank labelled vodka and, weirdest of all, Lambrusco Bianco.
And the parties always saw us drunk, but still able to stand, looking for salty food and for that can of cheap beer we thought not worth drinking at the beginning of the night.
In that particular occasion I ended up in the kitchen, in a threesome dance with a big black African guy moaning on the British racism and a Spanish girl from Minorca singing the only Italian song she knew, Vasco Rossi’s Alba Chiara.
What happened after the party I cannot remember, but I wish I could guess.
But I remember I shaved my goatie for that night.
So I have papadum again tonight, in an Indian restaurant selling pizza 4 stagioni alongside afghani chicken and the always present tandoori. And George Michael’s bad covers on the sound system.
And I had my beard shaven, two days ago, by an hairdresser without a clue. I actually just ask to save my head, I was starting to resemble a middle aged postal functionary (why a postal one? I have no idea) from a distance. Or at least I felt like.
But he went on, actually down, and I realized the damage when it was too late, so I tried to savage that bit of facial hairs he did not already touched.
Little consolation, I came to look more Tuco. And I feel a little better.