Bullfighting.

Ursula Von der Leyen calls me late one evening while I’m sitting naked on the bathroom floor filing my feet.

-I’m losing my mind! she blurts out with a loud sigh.

-Well, hello to you too, I reply, eyeing the little pile on the floor. Like grated Parmesan, I have time to think before Ursula starts again.

-We have to unite as Europeans. Work together and pull in the same direction. Otherwise, what’s the point of the whole union?

-Peace? I suggest.

-And how well has that worked, do you think? she retorts sarcastically. We need to let go of our local nationalities and see ourselves as part of something bigger. We may speak different languages and live in different climates, but we are Europeans, and we are incredibly strong together.

-Look, I’m in an awkward position right now, I try, but she cuts me off again.

-I’ve booked you a flight to Barcelona tomorrow. There’s a meeting with heads of state from across the union.

-What am I supposed to do there? I ask, getting to my feet, now baby-smooth.

-You need to help me find the tone and arguments that will make everyone set aside their differences, Ursula says, sounding, for the first time, a little pleading.

Barcelona is sweltering as always, but I’m sitting in a cool limousine with Ursula, who’s poring over a stack of documents ahead of the meeting.

-Why Spain? I ask as we pass the Sagrada Familia.

-Because they’re a functioning member state, and I want you to be inspired by a good example, Ursula says sternly.

At the fancy hotel in the Gothic Quarter, I find myself seated next to the Spanish president at dinner. I’d hoped his name would be Javier, a name I’ve developed a bit of a tic for. I love saying it out loud and hearing how the J is just a soft hiss, like a cat. Turns out his name is Pedro, as original and melodious as Anders.

Pedro speaks rather poor English, with such a heavy lisp that I wonder if he’s just had a root canal. I try to steer the conversation towards a shared European mentality when he suddenly starts waxing lyrical about bullfighting. Ursula notices my ingratiating smile fading and shoots me a warning look from across the table. Pedro goes on, elaborating on the matadors’ incredible skill and the audience’s boundless enthusiasm for the spectacle, until something inside me snaps.

-I always root for the bull to spear the matador, I interrupt, freezing the entire table. Ursula waves her fork desperately from the other side of the table to get my attention, but it’s too late.

-It happens, Pedro replies curtly.

-But rarely, right? First, a bunch of amateur murderers with spears wound the bull so it gets tired and weak. Then the puffed-up twat in a cape and spandex comes in and finishes the job with a sword.

-You don’t understand. It’s part of Spain’s cultural heritage.

-I didn’t know animal cruelty could be classified as cultural heritage. But you’re right, I’ll never understand it.

Ursula raises her glass for a toast, but neither Pedro nor I touch ours.

-And just because you’ve been doing something stupid for a long time doesn’t make it culture or defensible. Like slavery and the Inquisition, for example – you’ve stopped those, haven’t you? I continue. Ursula laughs nervously, trying to get me to shut up.

-Your food culture, on the other hand, you’ve stuck with. It’s baffling that you can’t do better with all the ingredients you have at your disposal. No, just drown everything in oil and serve it with a red wine that tastes like an old barrel.

Pedro leaves the table, his face bright red, stomping briskly towards the exit on his short, stubby legs. (This is completely irrelevant, but I choose to mention it for comedic effect.) I look at Ursula, who has slumped in her chair with a defeated expression.

-I think I’ve found the tone now, I say cheerfully. We should embrace our differences – that’s what makes the union strong.