7. Hot Stuff

A good President starts with having many followers on her Facebook account. With three thumb movements, Chelsea launches her page and looks… and looks again…

"Did you see this?"

"I'm driving, dear. I can't look at your phone and, at the same time, guarantee your safety on the road. Can't you read it to me?"

"I have FIF. TY. THOU. SAND. FOLLOWERS! 50.000!"

"Don't be disappointed. This day isn't over yet."

"No, you don't understand. I started this morning with fifty followers. And now I have fifty thousand!"

"When we met this morning, I saw your potential. You deserve better than this. Don't worry. I promised to help you. My friend #2, The Nerd, gets all the images I shoot with the camera on my spiPhone. He makes cool seven-second videos of our hot material. He hacked your account, so you don't have to worry about uploading all that hot stuff by yourself; you're too busy with all your adventures. On your best-day-ever, you should just enjoy everything instead of losing half the day by telling others about it. But you already knew that, of course. When you're the President, your team runs your campaign, while you run the country."

"Fifty thousand followers! And they didn't even broadcast the Tostada commercial yet."

"TV is always behind. I'm sure the commercial is already on your account. The hottest news spreads like a prairie fire in August. Those 50.000 followers know what they're doing. They don't waste time on yesterday's news like the morning papers do."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I have to get used to that. My friend Sandra-Dee, the President's daughter, she has it all the time. She has to read on Twitter why her dad didn't come home for lunch or hear on the nine o'clock news why he cancelled her vacation."

"How many followers does Sandra-Dee have?"

Chelsea's imPhone interrupts our little chat. She looks at the screen: "It's Justin. My… boyfriend…"

"Well? Pick it up. He's probably just interested in you, wants to hear your voice, ask where you are and what you're doing, how you feel… Boyfriends do that, you know."

Chelsea puts her phone on the speaker and answers the call: "Hi… Justin."

"Hi, love. I was wondering… I've been wandering all night, you know, all alone, dialling about a thousand numbers lately, I almost jerked the phone off, off the wall that is, but nobody wanted to be with me, nobody wanted to come to my place for a chat and a… I need some hot stuff tonight, baby. So I thought of you. Long time no see. I was sort of wondering if you want to come over."

"I can't come, Justin. I'm in Spain right now."

"I can make you come, love. I know it's kinda late, but… you know… A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and there isn't really a better moment for it than right now, you know. You know, I was a little… absentminded the last time I saw you, love, but those Parker twins, with their long blond hair and their big boobies, you know, they didn't allow you to join the party, they sort of wanted me all for themselves, and who am I to say no? So, tell me, are you coming to my place or not? I'll give it to you like you've never had it before, love."

Chelsea's tone is rather cool: "The Parker twins are not available?"

"No, love. You know how cheap girls like them are; there's this new kid at school, Chris Grey, and now suddenly nobody remembers me. They sort of all run behind him like if he's the latest offer at fashion summer sale. They say he spanks the girls before he… and his dad is a cop, so he uses handcuffs… and his mom has a horse, so he uses her whip… I would never do that, you know. And you're not like that either. But, of course, if you like it, love, we can give it a try, just for fun, to see what it's like to be dominated by me…"

"You know, Justin, I really appreciate your call. It proves, once again, that you admire me, for being THE most unique person you know. I know I've always been like a mentor to you. And as a good mentor, I have some awesome advice for you, honest and sincere: go have sexual intercourse with yourself, Justin. Goodbye, Justin."

Bang!

Chelsea hangs Justin.

Justin is dead.

Buried.

Burnt.

Flambé.

Up in smoke.

Goodbye Justin.

"Duh!"

I don't even have to fake a surprise; I'm absolutely flabbergasted by this little performance. My mouth drops open, I stumble over my tongue, and finally, I manage to stutter: "That was… That was… AWESOME! How did you do that? That was absolutely awesome. Nobody ever dared to talk to him like that, but you… you just did it. You dumped him. You ditched him. You put him in his place, which is far, far, far below you…"

Chelsea tries to keep up appearances with an annoyed, arrogant look, but I see the twinkle in her eyes: she also enjoyed putting Justin back to where he belongs. I lift my hand for a high five. She looks at it, tries to convince herself that the Queen of the Jungle doesn't do high fives with her servant buffoons, but on second thought: who cares? If you're the Queen of the Jungle, you can get away with everything. Little victories like this deserve a celebration. She grins, slaps her right hand against mine, and shouts: "Take that, Justin LeBon!"

"Take that, Wild Boy. Satyagraha, baby! Here's one woman who says no. Here's one woman I admire and see as a mentor. I like to confess to this woman that I've learnt a lot from her today. You. Are. Awesome. Chelsea. I'm glad we're having such a wonderful time together. I hope you enjoy it too."

Show AND Tell. Let her hear how you feel. Let her respond. Listen to her. Share the emotions. You don't have to change others. Deep down inside, we're all the same. All you have to do is change yourself. Accept her as she is. Admire her for her strong points and laugh about the rest.

I haven't been absolutely honest. I haven't told anyone about the hate campaign The Nerd launched against Justin. He had to hack and crack and hi-jack social media accounts of Justin-followers, and publish lots of lies and fake news, to show-and-tell the world the truth about Justin. It was no coincidence that the Parker twins and all his other former followers decided suddenly that Justin was bad news. Without the help of The Nerd, Justin would never have called Chelsea. The basic of success lies in the preparation, and we prepared well: it worked.

For the first time today, Chelsea flashes an authentic smile of joy: "Yeah, I like this day too. I'm glad I finally ditched Justin. That horrible Mr Doria was right: if you're unique like me, you don't hang around with scum like Justin. Wild boys always shine; if I want to become the first female President of the USA, I need a man who stays in my shadow. Justin is bad for my reputation. Duh. Enough said. Don't look back. Look forward. I'm looking forward to what's coming next. What's coming next?"

Rostov! I thought I had scored a little point here, but there's no victory in having Justin being kicked out of the ring when Chelsea gives all the credits to Mr Doria. This day is getting worse and worse. I have to give myself a mental slap in the face, a figurative kick at the butt: don't look back, look forward. After all my failures, the future can only become better. I don't have time to learn from my mistakes. The show must go on.

"The plan is to have lunch now. In Spain, people eat their most important meal at mid-day, around two o'clock. We're close to a picturesque village. If I'm not mistaken, it has the perfect place for our lunch."

"Someone runs a five-star restaurant in a little village? I'm looking forward to seeing that. In America, the best restaurants are always in the centre of the biggest cities."

"In Spain, they don't need «best restaurant» lists; every restaurant is excellent here. The number of visitors is the only recommendation you need, and this… one… has… … a row… … … … … …"

The row in front of the entrance is larger than the village. That's because the village, El Bosque, is just a handful of houses around a crossroads, the food in restaurant Comedero El Refugio is free, and there are many poor, hungry people around here.

I prepared for this day. I picked this restaurant for a reason. Okay, okay, «free food» was a recommendation. The LSD has cut down budgets; first, they just asked the impossible from the field agents, but now they also order us to earn back at least the costs of our salary and expenses, while saving the world. I have 20 euros in my pocket. In Spain, that's enough for a three-course lunch for two people. We could have gone to any place, but I wanted to go here. I didn't pick this restaurant for being tight-fisted. It was a matter of politics.

Half the people who eat here every day are fugitives. In 2003, Spain was among the first European countries to support the USA and England in the war against Iraq, but that was the choice of the government and not of the Spanish people. Protests were ignored. The 11M-massacre at a Madrid train station (11 March 2004, payback from the ones who were bombed), and the elections a few days later changed everything. The new leaders withdrew the troops and decided to take care of the fugitives instead.

The other half of the customers are jobless and homeless natives. When the economic crisis broke out in 2008, Spain was among the countries that suffered the most. Spanish taxpayers lost their jobs and their houses. Fun for foreigners, forget family and friends? Of course not. The Comederos are open for everyone who doesn't have enough money to eat. In modern Western society, everybody should at least be able to get one decent meal per day. Supermarkets and street markets donate food that can't be sold the next day. Government and several non-profit organizations join forces, money and helping hands. The only missing link to success is a little bit of publicity; the media are not interested in helping the victims, they are convinced that all their readers and viewers are only interested in the glorious victories of our war heroes.

The idea was to eat here and show Chelsea the results of the acts of her father, to let her enter that part of the world that 'her kind of people' created. We're going to interrupt this best-day-ever for a political meeting. It's time to do some business here.

At least, that was the plan.

I'm not so sure anymore.

My stomach hurts.

I have a bad feeling about this.

Or perhaps I'm just hungry.

Chelsea looks at the queue and says: "All those people are standing in line to get a job in this restaurant? They must pay high salaries."

Almost without thinking, I answer: "They must have heard you're coming. After reading all those awesome things about you on Facebook, they stand in line to see you in person."

"They didn't come here to eat, Arse. Look at their clothes. A beggar dresses better."

The knot in my stomach gets worse. Without hope for success, I try to rescue myself out of the situation: "It's the current fashion. In other countries, it's jeans with holes, tattoos and purple hair. Here, it's shoes with holes, Dulce&Gamberra designer clothes in street market fashion, and your hair in the style just-back-from-the-coiffure-but-he-was-on-holiday. Don't you see how popular it is? Everybody wears the same. I hope they permit us to enter when they see you, in your expensive, elegant ensemble."

Chelsea looks at her handmade haute couture creation, wipes the worries off her face and decides: "If they cause problems, I'll call my father."

The car park is empty. Clients of this eatery don't come by car. Some men in the queue whistle at Chelsea and make remarks. I ignore them, open her door of the car, and escort her to the entrance, where a local policeman allows one to enter only after another left.

"I've made a reservation. Can you please inform the maître d'?"

The policeman looks at his watch: "It's 2 o'clock. The entire management is probably having lunch at the top floor of their ivory tower. Take your place at the end of the queue."

I try to fight back my upcoming panic: "Perhaps you can call Mister Jordi Cruz, the chef? He knows we're coming."

The policeman waves us inside. I need to calm down. There's nothing to worry about. It's just a hunch. It's just a lunch. Calm down. Everything will be fine. Nothing can go wrong.

The procedure here is simple. When you enter, you take an empty tray from the pile next to the door, and you move to counter 1 for your drink, your salad, your piece of bread, and your first plate. Then you find a seat and attack the world record of speed-eating. When your plates are empty, you go to counter 2 for your main dish plus dessert. Back at your seat, you try to win the second stage of the contest in making food disappear. When you've finished, you leave your dirty plates at counter 3 and make room for the next guest. Everybody knows about the line of hungry people outside. Everybody knows: if we all eat quickly, we all wait less time. There's not one single empty chair in the restaurant.

I ask Chelsea to wait in the hall while I try to find Mr Cruz. Jordi. He's only a few years older than I am, but he runs this place like Napoleon on a battlefield: "Watch those sardines, they're burning. Wash your hands, Pepe. We're running out of pasta here. How long do you need to cut those onions, Samantha? We don't have all day, you know."

I try not to be rude, but I do need Jordi to pay a little attention to me: "I've called. The daughter of the SoD? You remember?"

"Ah, yes. Eva, please, can you take our guests to the table in the corner and serve them? Don't pick your nose, Pepe. You're working with food. Your tomato sauce is burning, Samantha, I can smell it here!"

Eva speaks flawless English. She welcomes Chelsea and me, and shows us our seats, the last two empty chairs on a table for eight. When I made the arrangements, I asked for 'a mixed place'. More mixed is hardly possible.

Eva hands us the menu. Yes, this eatery has a menu. We can choose between three first dishes: pasta with tomato sauce, fish soup or fried aubergine with honey. The main dishes are vegetarian (chickpeas), fish (sardines) or meat (morcilla, which is a traditional fried blutwurst). For dessert, there's arroz con leche (rice with milk), natillas (vanilla custard) or caramel flan, a typical Spanish dessert and my personal favourite.

Chelsea looks at the slurping and smacking family (man, woman and a five-year-old boy) on our left, the elderly couple licking their plate on our right, and the student in front of us who uses his bread to clean the olive oil from his salad plate.

"Don't these people have manners? In Boston, they kick you out when you lick your plate.", Chelsea whispers behind her hand.

"In Boston, the food is not as good as here. If you don't lick your plate, the cook might think you didn't like it, and he'll throw you out. It's a culture-kind-of-thing. Throwing away good food is a capital crime in Spain."

"What would you like to drink?", Eva asks.

Chelsea orders a BrandiX cola. I almost ask for a beer; on second thought, I don't want to take any risk of being called a drunk during duty, so I ask for mineral water.

The other guests stand up to go to the counter for their first plate, but Eva says she will serve us all, with the compliments of the chef, and takes the order.

The student recommends the pasta. Chelsea and I follow his advice.

"For the main dish, we have the choice between—"

Eva gets interrupted by Chelsea: "I want a Twenty Pounder hamburger with French fries and mayonnaise, and for dessert, I want ice cream with strawberry and whipped cream."

Eva smiles and explains: "This isn't an American restaurant. This is a Spanish restaurant. When you're in another country, it's nice to taste things you can't eat at home. The Spanish kitchen is the best in the world and—"

"The American kitchen is the best of the best of the best. American hamburgers conquer the world. Is there a Spanish restaurant in Moscow? Is there a Spanish restaurant in Beijing? Is there a Spanish restaurant on the South Pole? No. But MacAbre has a restaurant in all those places."

I'm losing my patience. I'm losing my temper too: "The hamburger is not American food but German food; the name comes from Hamburg, a town in the northern part of Germany, and MacAbre doesn't have a restaurant here in El Bosque, so you can choose between a Spanish vegetarian plate, a Spanish fish dish, and a Spanish plate with meat. If you don't like it, there's nothing else."

My stomach hurts. It was a mistake to come here. Chelsea will not like the food, she'll argue with everyone, she will start a fight, throwing plates around, she will call her daddy and order him to bomb this village…

The family man suggests: "Take the meat. It's a treat. If you don't agree, you give it to me."

All the others nod. If you don't try it, you'll never know if you like it, and they've tried everything from the Spanish cocina. While Chelsea stubbornly ignores all the friendly help, I order the morcilla for both of us. Everyone else joins us, except the student, who doesn't eat pork and orders the chickpeas. Eva leaves and returns half a second later with our salad, bread and drinks.

I turn to Chelsea and lower my voice, so the others can't hear me: "This isn't just lunch. It's a game. The game is called «becoming the next President of the USA». These people are voters. On our left, we have the typical working-class family. On our right, we have the average elderly couple. In front of us, we have the intellectual young generation, the future of our country. A good President is able to inspire them, to make them like her, perhaps even let them vote for her on her Facebook page. One rule: you are not allowed to tell them anything about your father or your plans to become the next President. The camera of my spiPhone grabs both images and sound. I place it in the middle of the table so it records close-ups of everyone. You have three courses to convince the world. It's a game. It's fun. You have zero votes now, so you can never lose. Are you ready?"

Chelsea is surprised. She puts her hand over mine (and the spiPhone camera) and whispers: "Are you sure I can do this?"

I nod: "If you can't do this, who can? Politics is just a big stage, full of actors. You want to be an actress, don't you? This is your chance. Be friendly and patient."

Chelsea smiles at the camera, smiles at me, smiles at her voters, and starts with the best line ever: "Hello. My name is Chelsea. What's your name?"

The student stands up to shake hands: "I'm Bashar. I'm from the Middle East. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, Bashar."

The elderly man follows Bashar's example: "I'm Enrique, and this is my wife, Angélica. We're from New Mexico. Well, in fact, we're from Old Mexico, but we can't go back there, and they kicked us out of New Mexico too, so that's why we ended up here."

The family on the left doesn't speak English (and Bashar and Chelsea don't speak Spanish) so we switch to Spanglish, translating while we speak or translating others until we all understand each other.

"I'm Gonzalo. Nice to meet you."

"I'm Elena. This is our son, Pablito. We're from Sevilla, but when mi marido lost his job, we couldn't pay the mortgage anymore, and we lost our house too. We live here in the barracks for five years now."

Chelsea doesn't understand: "The Baracks? Did Obama do that to you?"

Elena explains: "No, the barracks are houses, rooms, made of wood, temporary houses, built for homeless people who don't have enough money for a decent living. Without a job, and with 25% of the country unemployed, this is our best option. And with the free meal we get here every day, I'd even say we're lucky to live in a country that takes care of those who have nothing."

Angélica agrees: "Lucky. That's the right word indeed. We lived in a village in Mexico, but there was a war going on between drug lords. One day, they killed our only son. We fled to New Mexico, on the other side of the border. We worked a double job. My husband was a carpenter and a gardener, and I worked as a waitress and a babysitter. It was hard work, but we were happy, until we became too old. We didn't have a pension, and this new President made us leave because we…"

Her husband puts his arm around her: "Don't think about that, Angélica. We're in Spain now. People are different here."

Bashar grabs her hand: "Don't cry. People drop bombs on my country. They killed my parents and destroyed our house. We all have reasons to cry. It's better to look for reasons to celebrate. Today is a fantastic day, and tomorrow can only become better."

Eva confirms the fantastic day with a tray full of plates: "Today, we celebrate tagliatelle with tomato sauce, and fish soup. Be careful. This is hot stuff."

Enrique takes a little flask out of his pocket: "No, the real hot stuff comes from Mexico. We like our food spicy. Anyone else wants a few drops of Tabasco?"

The tagliatelle isn't the typical dried stuff from a package; it's freshly made and delicious. The tomato sauce tastes fresh too, like the tomatoes, the onions and the green herbs were still on the fields this morning. I look around, suspiciously, but the plates on all the other tables show the same: everyone gets the same food.

"This fish soup is delicious. Would it be strange if I asked the recipe?", Angélica asks.

"This pasta is delicious too. You were right about Spanish restaurants, Arse. I've never had better pasta than this. I'm starving.", Chelsea says.

Everybody is in a good mood. Eating together has that effect on people. I think about how much tax money we waste 'to defend ourselves'. Imagine our leaders used it to buy food, inviting all our enemies to sit at our table and have dinner together, giving us a chance to get to know each other instead of fighting each other. Even wild animals can learn not to bite the hand that feeds them. Every oasis in the desert is a no-combat zone where the lion and the lamb drink together, peacefully. World peace, thanks to a sauce with fresh tomatoes, onions and green herbs? My professional alertness and suspicion get overwhelmed by the glorious feeling of winning a war with a plate of pasta.

Eva fills the table with our main dishes: "Morcilla de Ronda with fresh vegetables and fried potatoes."

"This smells delicious." - "I can't believe my nose." - "Morcilla, like my mother made it." - "It feels like it's my birthday, sitting here, eating my heart out."

Only Chelsea doesn't trust her senses of smell and taste. She trusts her green eyes. This looks strange: "What's this?"

"It's a delicacy. Fresh blutwurst. They eat it in Spain, and also in every country south of the Rio Grande. Even in China and the Philippines, it's a popular dish.", I explain.

Angélica knows about cooking too: "In Mexico, they call it moronga. In England, your country, they call it black pudding. But nobody cooks it as they do here in Spain."

Gonzalo smiles at Chelsea, proud of the products from his country. His Spanish culture turns cooking into an art form: "Yes, the Spanish kitchen is our major tourist attraction, especially for the British like you. I've never visited London, but they say the food is awful there."

Chelsea looks in horror at her bloody plate while she answers, distracted: "Oh, I'm not from London. I'm from Boston. I'm American."

The world stops.

Five forks fall out of five paralysed hands.

Five metallic clangs on five full plates.

Five hundred guests stop eating.

A deadly silence falls.

Like a bomb.

Ready to explode.

One spark is enough.

Politics is hot stuff.

Chelsea licks the tomato sauce from her fingers: "What? Did I say something wrong?"

"Your bankers caused the economic crisis that made us lose our jobs and our houses."

"Your president declared us illegal and kicked us out of our homes."

"Your people bombed my hometown and killed my parents."

Icy silence.

I'm in the middle of the battle. I picked this place, so Chelsea could feel the pain her father and his colleagues caused to hard-working, innocent people all over the world. My morals about good and bad order me to help those hard-working people. But it's also my mission to give Chelsea her best-day-ever, so right now I should stand up and defend her. In every scenario, I should act. I can't. I just sit here and look at my plate, try to act as if nothing has happened, try to concentrate on my food, and my table manners, and…

Why is everybody looking at me?

The world is like it is.

Is everything suddenly my fault?

No.

But it is my job to make the world a better place, and there's no better place to start than here at this table. I should not ignore the tension, I should not walk away, and most of all, I should not be afraid to cause an international crisis, which will be unavoidable when Chelsea grabs her phone and calls her dad, with the urgent request to bomb this stupid restaurant and this stupid centre for refugees and this whole stupid country full of people who refuse to understand how superior the ones with the bombs are.

The secret of life is to find out what you're good at. You have your entire childhood to try out everything, to get experience and to learn the skills you'll need, so for the rest of your life, you can do what you can do best. It doesn't matter if you're going to be a star or a father, a cleaner or a spy: you'll be successful if you can give your best and enjoy it. You can't always get what you want, but you're free to make the best choice, trying to get what you need to become happy and successful.

I wanted to become a spy. I wanted to stay in the shadows. I wanted to be the best-kept secret of the LSD. But I also wanted this mission, and now the world wants me to do the impossible.

If you know what you want, if you're certain of your dream, if you're able to visualise your goal, you can make the impossible happen. But you need to act. You have to overcome your fear. And it's fear that's holding me back, fear of making a mistake and causing an international crisis. My spiPhone in the middle of the table records everything. It makes the interested rest of the world an eager witness of this meeting, all willing to see how I avoid World War Three.

Chelsea acts.

When the rest of the world attacks you, there's no better defence than an offence: "Duh! You don't know me…"

Chelsea looks at the camera and decides there was never a better moment to announce her upcoming presidency. She stands up, climbs on her chair, mumbles: "Whatever.", smiles with confidence at her audience and starts: "Dear… Everybody."

I have no better idea than to translate her words into Spanish: "Querido todo el mundo."

"When I look at all this… I feel sad. You don't have jobs, you don't have a house, you don't have clothes, and… you have to eat THIS!"

She makes a face and points at her plate: "I say: it's enough. This can't be tolerated. We have to stand up and say NO! We have to say to our presidents: STOP! We have to ACT! Don't worry if you don't know what to do. Just vote for me, Chelsea for President. And when we all do that, together, I will make sure we all get a better life. Everybody will get a job. Everybody will get a loan, so they can buy a house. All this misery will disappear FOREVER!"

I don't know how she does it, but after my translation, some people applaud. The support helps Chelsea to feel more confident: "No more blood on our hands. No more blood on our tables. I will make a law to guarantee that everybody, every day, will eat the best of the best of the best: pizza, macaroni and cheese, French fries and hamburger. DUH!"

I don't even have to translate these last words. Her body language, her confidence, her radiant smile, everything contributes to the crowd's excitement. I stand up and applaud. A fast-growing number of hands on the other tables follows my example. Most of them didn't understand one word of what Chelsea said, but who cares? There's a politician here who stands up for the poor, the homeless and the fugitives. That's reason enough to give hope to the hopeless.

Chelsea bows to thank her audience, sits down at her chair, makes a gesture to Eva, and whispers: "Can you get me another plate of that pasta with tomato sauce? I just found out it's against my religion to eat this."

As some sort of peace treaty, she gives all the others on our table a piece of her morcilla, and then excuses herself to go to the bathroom. Nobody says anything. I feel responsible. After all, it's entirely my fault.

Bashar is sceptical: "She'll make a law so everybody can buy a house? George W. did that in 2002. It caused eight years of worldwide economic crisis. Don't those Americans learn from their mistakes?"

Enrique takes his side: "Politicians should learn to listen instead of telling others what to do."

We're not making progress here. I feel for these people, but complaining won't solve their problems: "I know. You've all suffered, because of other people's mistakes, but I hope you also understand that Chelsea is not the one to blame. She didn't cause any crisis, she didn't build any walls, and she didn't drop those bombs. Chelsea didn't destroy our past, but she has the potential to improve our future. Don't make the same mistakes as those who caused your problems. We, victims, frustrated, must end all the hatred. Forgive Chelsea for her childish innocence. Help her understand this complicated world she's growing up in. If you want change, change yourself. It might give us all a chance."

Bashar has his doubts: "Do you believe that? Do you really think someone like her can make a difference? She will never think about others. All she thinks about is herself. All politicians are the same. First, they give you promising words to get your vote, and after Election Day, they do what they like."

"That's not true. Look around you. There are still people who care. Don't blame stupid people for being born stupid. You and I were born stupid too. We should give them time, so they can learn. We should help them and teach them. And above all, we should not make the same mistakes of hate and intolerance as those who harmed us."

Enrique takes my side: "He's right, Bashar. You, me, my wife, Gonzalo and his family, we all want the same. We should not listen to those who try to harm us. We should help those who try to help us. This girl has nothing to do with the world being like it is. Being angry at her, or ignoring her, won't solve our problems. Don't complain about what others do to you; concentrate on what you can do for others."

I've heard that before. You can't change the world. All you can do is change yourself.

Bashar isn't convinced yet: "You don't understand, Enrique. There's a war going on. I'm not talking about that little quarrel in my country; that's just a form of aggressive negotiations between two tribes over some natural resources. I'm talking about the economic campaign for Planet Earth, where advertising and marketing are the main martial arts of the nobles in their ivory towers, in their war for maximum profit against the working class, punishing them with lifelong forced labour against a minimum wage or less. The winners get less work and more money, so they can play video games and work on their popularity on Facebook. Is that worth fighting for?"

Gonzalo puts his hand on the head of his little boy: "This is worth fighting for. Our main weapon is education. You, as a student, should be the vanguard. Stop blaming others. Be the change you like to see in the world."

His simple gesture makes it suddenly all so clear to me. Chelsea's words echo in my mind: «you don't know me». She was right. I looked at her like I look at everybody, with the irrational idea that we're all the same, that we all have the same desires, the same background, the same culture, and the same values. All these people here at this table share the same experience: we've all come from a social environment with loving parents, with friends and colleagues who care for each other.

Chelsea's mother is an alcoholic and a junkie. Her father is a workaholic. She spends her childhood at elite schools with private teachers. She has no real friends; she uses the word «friend» to refer to complete strangers who clicked a button on her Facebook account. Her TV taught Chelsea her values, with non-stop violence, commercials, conflict, and «image is everything» messages. It's not her fault she's born into an American culture where money and status seem more important than friendship and love. She thinks that having sex is the same thing as making love. For being part of the rich elite, she'll never doubt anything she's learnt, and she'll never have any motivation to change.

I can't change her. She can only change herself, but she will never have the necessity to do so. All I can do is give her what she wants and hope for the best, although I feel like a man who hopes that the rats in his house will leave if he gives them something to eat.

"Can you all, please, do me a favour? I can't explain all the details, but I'm on your side, working on a solution. It would help a lot if you all tell Chelsea how wonderful she is, and how you enjoyed her speech, and that you would all vote for her to become the next President of America."

I wave the upcoming hurricane of protests away: "Please. I've listened to you. I'm on your side. Trust me. You can't expect others to love you, if you don't love them first. I ask you to support Chelsea. It might make a big difference. Okay? Do we have a deal?"

At that moment, Chelsea returns to our table, seeing nothing but the hot plate with pasta, waiting for her: "This pasta is really awesome."

"Your speech was awesome." - "Nobody ever did something like that for us." - "If you would run for President, I would vote for you." - "Yes, me too." - "Only a woman can solve all those problems that men have created." - "You can make a difference."

Chelsea is surprised by all this spontaneous support: "Wow. Well… Thank you. You can vote for me on my Facebook page, you know. I really appreciate it. It's a pleasure knowing you. You're all nice people." She glances at my spiPhone and smiles at the camera.

The nice people are indeed nice people, and the nice food also contributes to the nice lunch. Gonzalo tells some jokes, Bashar and Enrique tell about the construction of the barracks they're both working on, Angélica and I exchange recipes, and even Chelsea seems to enjoy our lunch.

When Eva comes to ask what we would like for dessert, Chelsea can't decide: "I would like to try them all. Can't I have three desserts? I've had two first plates too."

"Try the flan.", I advise.

"If you like, I give you half of my arroz con leche. You shared your morcilla with me.", Elena says.

"You can have half of my natillas too. You also gave me a part of your food.", Gonzalo says.

"A good idea. I share my arroz con leche with you too, if you give me a bit of your flan.", Bashar says.

We didn't talk about this when she was away. There was no plan or agreement to share our dessert with Chelsea. It just happens. When you do nice people a favour, they like to return it to you. Chelsea shared her morcilla with us, and now she gets her three desserts.

My stomach feels a lot better. Perhaps it wasn't fear, or stress, or worry. Perhaps I was just hungry. Hunger does strange things to people. Hot stuff on a plate has so much healing power.

Would it be a good idea to replace the barbed wire between Israel and Gaza with the largest dinner table in the world? When the rich countries provide the food, would it give the fighting parties a chance to get to know each other and eat in peace? We don't even need leaders to start the peace process, just some initiative from good people from both sides, making a start and showing the world via Facebook how easy it is. If you cook the pasta and I grow the tomatoes, we can eat pasta with tomato sauce together.

Sometimes, hope is not enough.

Sometimes, someone has to act to make a change.

Too bad you can't change other people…