No big issue really

I just made it! Malaga Airport has 2 terminals and I've always had to go to Terminal 2 to meet arrivals, which is where I automatically went yesterday morning. I got there at half-past 10, she'd landed at 5 past. Heck! She's early, but probably not off the aircraft yet. Good, I just have to settle down and wait. Settle down? Who am I kidding? I didn't want to have a cup of airport tea or coffee so I stood and watched the arrivals board doing its bit for a few minutes with, in the corner of my eye "SUxxx Moscu Llegada(T1) 10:05" repeatedly flashing away towards me. Then I noticed at the top of the board "LLegadas/Arrivals T2" T2? What's with that "T1" at the end of the Moscow flight details? Unease crept into my demeanour. Somethings wrong here. Find someone, quick, and ask. No-one official around. As I scoured the area looking for anything to do with a "T1" I saw it, above me; a big sign "Llegadas/Arrivals T1" pointing back the way I'd come. I didn't know, honestly, that there WAS a T1 Arrivals Hall let alone WHERE it is. Letting the handbrake off my new shoes, I pointed them in the direction of the big arrow above me and began to accelerate. When you are in a hurry (and I do mean a hurry, even a hurried hurry) Malaga Airport becomes a ginormous dinosaur of a place and it seemed to me that T1 must be the other end of town let alone the airport with the amount of walking I was having to do but I found it eventually only to see the "Arrivals" directions disappear just when I didn't need them to. Ah! An information desk!
"Is this the right place for the Moscow arrival?"
"Yes sir. Over there", was the answer with point behind me, "they are coming through now."
Gulp. If the Red Lion were still open she'd probably already be sitting at the bar I thought but, having spun round I noticed some familiar garb trundling a trolley away down the hall, 20 metres from me, looking as lost as I had been slightly earlier.

Looking me up and down her hello came out as "Zapatos nuevos!!" with further approval about the shirt and trousers, both of which she'd chosen for me in times past.
"Hello Larisa!"
"Hoy tu dia libre? o no?"
"No, Hello!"
"Por que no?"
"Three months have passed, things are different. Hello!"
"Cuando es ahora?"
"Mondays. HELLO!!"
Her disappointment was tangible, having had confirmation straight from the horses mouth about something that, I'm sure, she actually already knew despite me not having told her personally. Streets have ears you might say.

With her plans for today, and probably tomorrow, going up in smoke we caught the train, whereupon she pressed on with The Big Issue:
"Are you free all day on Mondays?"
"No. I've said before that my day off is actually more of a night off. But I can wangle things to be free from about midday until opening time on Tuesday."
Satisfied with that she got her camera out and began showing me her life in The Crimea for the last 3 months. Snowy. And then began to fret about the fact that neither of her mobiles were working (problems with the accounts and 3 months of none use.) In Fuengirola she plonked me down at a cafe table, sent the waiter for a Cafe con Leche for me while she went to the bank for some cash. 20 minutes later she came back with more problems. "I can't get any money, my bankcard isn't working." No doubt more to do with being away for 3 months. The 220 must have forgotten what I look like because the trip to Calahonda in its care was uneventful other than the fact that I asked after Katia:
"Why don't you call her? You never do"
"She wouldn't want to hear from me!"
"You should call her every once-in-a-while"

"We'll get some shopping in for something to eat, and some wine?" she said as we climbed the hill towards the local supermarket.
"OK" I replied, "but just one bagful, there's enough stuff here" (the cases I was on about) "to cope with already!" She must be stone-deaf because 3 bags came through the checkout ("no pasanada" towards my glum expression), followed by a re-arrangement of responsibilities over who lugged what on up the hill and home.

With my shirt covered by a teatowel I was put to work frying some splattery pork while she prepared a tuna salad and fried a couple of eggs.
"We wouldn't do this back home."
"That's because you are English and know nothing about food!"
Then The Big Issue was raised again...
"what time do you work tonight?"
"8"
"When do you have to leave?"
"About 6 I reckon"
"Time for some Vodka then, REAL Vodka."
Produced from her suitcase, brown in colour, with 3 chilli peppers floating around and flavoured with Honey we downed 3 shots each (never an even number) through the rest of a lazy afternoon in the Spanish sunshine on the terrace and before I left she topped me up with a half-share of an Aeroflot Flight Meal that she'd brought off the plane.

She's going to call on Monday. In the meantime I'm to start preparing for a trip to The Crimea later this year, Viktor is really insistent that I (we) should go apparantly.