Life As It Comes

Of My Time in Madrid8 Comments

I’m sitting in “El Retiro,” a grand and beautiful park commissioned by Felipe IV. The weather is beautiful, and reminds me of England and California, though the ocean is farther away here than the parts of California I’ve been to. It is warm and cool at the same time. The sun is direct and warm but not overpowering because of the strong, cool breeze. I can hear all sorts of birds singing and chirping. Though there is a breeze, things seem to barely be stirring. Runners, bikers, a dog walker, and people merely passing through the park are visible from my bench. I passed many “jovencitos,” no doubt on field trips, as I again walked passed “El Museo del Prado” and “El Real Jardin Botanico.”

But let me start at the beginning…..

Upon arriving, my first impressions of the Madrid Airport were that it is ultra-modern. Everything appeared to be a lightly stained wood, glass, or steel in appearance. First stop: the restroom. Many Spaniards were brushing their teeth and freshening up after their flights. The trip through customs was short. Very short. I showed him my passport, he stamped it, and that was it. I’m not sure if that’s because I was from the US, though it could have been because I was in the “otras nationalidades” line, and others seemed to be taking longer.

I picked up a metro map in the booth right before customs, but discarded it for a better one at the metro station. I asked someone for directions in Spanish, but he switched to English to explain how to take the metro from the airport to Atocha. He was sure I really meant Atocha Renfe, the train station. I boarded the metro at the airport, and was struck by how new it seemed. I was also struck by the fact that I had forgotten how great it was traveling around London this way. As I worked my way “al centro” though, the trains became more crowded and older.

I arrived at Atocha (I got off before Atocha Renfe), and I spotted right away “Hotel Medodia.” This hotel was in my Fodor’s guide as being a good value for the money and very centrally located. Double-check. My room was small, but comfortable and clean. My bathroom had a bidet. The man at the counter was irritated with my Spanish and the fact that I had no reservation, but he checked me in nonetheless. Belongings in a room - check. I left the hotel and began walking north along “El Paseo del Prado.” First I passed “El Real Jardin Botanico.” I decided to go in and take some pictures as a easy and relaxing first stop. 2 euros, I believe. Though the gardens were beautiful, I found myself sneezing like crazy with watery eyes and even coughing finally. I took several macro shots of the prettier flowers, but soon I had had all I could take and bailed in hopes of more allergen-free air, not before seeing everything though. Next, I kept walking North, thinking I might see the Prado. As I was walking past, I heard someone address me in Spanish who wanted to hand me something, which I ignored, but then someone with her addressed me in English. She asked, “Do you speak English? The Prado is closed today.” I do not believe this is what was being said to me in Spanish. This moment made me feel as though I were in Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, because it would be difficult to know exactly what language anyone spoke here, just by looking at them. Madrid feels (and looks) very culturally diverse, though nearly everyone speaks some Spanish, as far as I could tell, save some English and American people.

So, I continued up past the Prado, and I was trying to decide where to go next. I was hoping to see “Plaza Mayor” as well, but I could not exactly tell where I was, and I was feeling very moody and uncomfortable because of the man at the desk and my still rampant allergy attacks. I stopped at Starbucks. I managed to order my usual in Spanish - grande, no water, vanilla chai. I heard them repeat it and I saw later that it was written on the cup as I had ordered it, but I did not get exactly that. My cup was about half-full and had mostly warm milk, but it tasted good after sneezing so much. I also bought a “jamon y queso” sandwich.

By this time, having had some lunch (it was nearly 11 Madrid time), I was starting to feel a little better. I continued walking (past several metro stops, I realized later - not that I wanted to take them, but that it reveals the distance if you walk past several), through “Plaza del Sol” until I finally arrived at “Plaza Mayor.” It was large, enclosed on all four sides by apartments/shops, and filled on 2 ends with chairs for eating and relaxing. This was not exactly what I expected, thinking about it in advance. I pictured a large fountain around a circular area in the middle of downtown. As it was, I agree with Cory’s feeling that he felt as if he “had just seen the Alamo.” It snuck up on me, and actually I entered from a different corner than the sign which called it “Plaza Mayor” and thought it was just a memorial.

After all this, I made my way back to the hotel for a nap (from 14:00 to 18:30 Madrid time). Then, I went back out for some McDonald’s and a bottle of water.

Tuesday, I woke up feeling better about where I was, and I headed out early (after a quiet time) to get some tickets to the bull fight. I arrived at “Plaza de Toros” to find a line already forming, which grew much longer after I arrived. I had to feel a little “in the know” by being there so early (thanks Cory!). I stood in line for quite some time, having taken the metro and having arrived before 9. It took me a while to get up the courage to ask someone what time the window would open and whether the fight would be at 7 tonight, as my guide book said. I asked a man in front of me, and he replied in Spanish politely. After that, he turned to me again, and asked me if I spoke English. He started telling me about what holiday it was and about the “Solteros” which apparently is when you can see 1 bull against 1 matador. He pointed out another line for this nearby and suggested that I watch that as well. I told him that I had planned to see the Prado. He looked in his paper, and we saw that the Prado was open every day except Monday. Again, he turned around and offered to help me buy tickets, telling me about the prices and offering to have me sit with him and his friend. I gladly accepted. I asked him his name then, and he told me it was Paco. “Mucho gusto,” I said. He asked for two tickets at the window and a third for his friend (me). The ticket salesman misunderstood and put all three tickets together, so we paid with my 20 euro bill, and Paco counted out change to me exactly to pay me back, even though I told him in Spanish that he could keep it. He would have none of that.

Then, Paco left, and I was told to follow by his older friend to the other line and we bought tickets for 1 euro to an event which was to be at noon (it was shortly after 10). We bought these tickets (after much arguing about people jumping in front of us in line), and then he took me around to the back of the arena to stand in line. He left me with a lady who had been behind us in line, and then left for quite some time. I stood in line for nearly two hours with this lady while she kept telling people that I did not understand Spanish when they would ask me questions. (One lady had asked me earlier for directions when I first arrived at “La Plaza de Toros,” but Paco had answered for me.) I think the lady behind me asked me if it was my first time at the bull fight, and my babysitter lady answered simply that it was and that I did not understand. I thought about saying “I understand more than I can speak,” but I thought that would have invited more conversation that would prove my babysitter correct, so I kept quiet. At last “el viejo” (the old one, as I’ll call him) came back, and many people accused him of jumping in front of them in line. I told them in Spanish that he was with me, and he argued with them for quite some time defending his honor. At last, we could enter. Inside, we crowded around railings over pits where the bulls were ushered in and out of beneath us. El viejo wrote some numbers of the bulls on a sheet of paper and scribbled some notes which I could not read (more due to his handwriting).

El viejo asked me in Spanish (he knew no English), “Isn’t this fun? Do you like it?” I told him it was, and we left. We looked at the horses, which some caballeros had been breaking in as we were waiting in line. Then, we looked into the horse enfermeria (the horse “hospital” for the sick or more likely injured horses). El viejo held his nose and waved his hand as he looked at me. He spoke to me only a little in Spanish, and communicated with me a lot in hand motions. The sick horses did smell bad.

I hopped back on the metro (feeling more confident now about knowing my way around and being able to communicate), and I made my way to the Prado.

The main exhibit was for Tintoretto, which was fascinating. He had many paintings of a Biblical nature. Joseph and Potiphar’s wife, Jesus washing the disciples feet, the last supper, et cetera. It was moving. Also, the painting of washing his disciples feet was particularly interesting, because it was painted in perspective, and seemed to have more depth if viewed from the right. It also had many other elements (a dog, which represented loyalty and the disciples pulling off each other’s footwear). Other paintings were of saints and even Greco-Roman lore. In this exhibit, I saw an Italian girl who I had seen before on the metro. She spoke Spanish quite well, but asked for an Italian audioguide. Strangely, they did not have one. They did have English.

The rest of the museum (the rest of this floor, the bottom floor, and a portion of the top floor) were dedicated to many different artists, among them Goya and others of which I had heard.

(A man just walked past me as I’m writing this saying in Spanish, “Here you sleep. You don’t work here, you sleep.”)

Several paintings were amazing. There was one of Christ that was particularly striking. I wish I could remember the artist now. I had locked my backpack in the lockers, so I did not have anything with which to write - another was of Saint Jeronimo the Penitent.

After leaving the Prado, I made my way back to the hotel (I had not yet eaten at all, and it was nearly 4). I dropped off my belongings (I wasn’t sure if you could have cameras in the bullfight, and I didn’t want my camera taken from me), and then I stopped by a market (most of these were owned by Chinese, ironically enough) and bought some granola bars (of which I ate several) and a huge bottle of water.

(Even now sometimes when I write I want to say the Spanish words or spell something like it would be in Spanish.)

I arrived at the bull fight and waited exactly where Paco and el viejo had said to meet. While I was waiting, a blind woman came by selling lottery tickets. A man on the bench with me observed out loud that since she was blind, someone could just come along and take everything. I agreed. Many politicians were giving speeches during this time, and there were many booths set up for people to buy souvenirs and goodies. Eventually el viejo came and told me I was early but then wondered off somewhere. It got to be 6:40, and I did not wait any longer for Paco. My big water had started to get the better of me. I went inside, found the aseo, and I went upstairs to my seat. It was a good thing I hadn’t brought my backpack. The seats were steep and thin, and you sat with your legs straddling someone’s back. Paco and his friend arrived. Paco’s friend looked English, but only spoken it brokenly and with the expected accent. Paco explained to me the significance of the number 3 in bullfighting, pointed out where the king would sit, and made many other interesting comments. He also brought with him lots and lots of food in a backpack. He gave each of the three of us bread and ham to make a sandwich and a coke as well. Then, he offered the extra ham to others around us. Also, he had pumpkin seeds and sunflower seeds. He offered me a handful of pumpkin seeds as well as several others. The sunflower seeds he kept to himself. I noticed the Spaniards only ate the insides of the pumpkin seeds while I ate the whole thing. I must have looked strange.

The bull fight was very interesting. The bulls would come out, and the toreros (”bull fighter helper” as Paco called them) would peek out from wooden walls inside the ring and wave their pink and yellow capes to get the bull to run from one side to the other. Once the bull was worn out a little, the band would play a fanfare, and the caballeros would come out. The bull would ram the horses (who were blindfolded), and the caballeros would spear them. The toreros would try to coerce the bull away from the horse by flashing their capes. Another fanfare. The toreros would have two small spears and raise them above their heads and then ride sideways toward the bull as it was charging to stab it in the back. After this, the band would play another fanfare, and the matador would come out. His cape was red. All the toreros seemed to take a turn at being “matador.” The matador would tire the bull out more and more by getting it to charge in narrow misses and circle around him. Finally, the matador would go the the side and get the a different sword than the one he carried. This can only be described as the killing sword. There were six bulls, and bull #5’s death was the most impressive. The matador would brandish one foot forward and inch up to it and then slowly bring around the cape as normal. Then, giving it a flick, the bull would charge, as normal, but finally, he would hold up the sword, above his head and pointed at the bull. The two would charge each other, and the best strokes would go in all the way up to the hilt. Bull #5 was so brave and strong until the end, but this sword was particularly good. It seemed to have gone into his lungs. Blood started pouring from his mouth and nose as he panted, and eventually the matador and toreros would crowd around as it crouched. Finally, one torero will take a knife, plunge it into the skull and shake it to finish off the bull. Pretty grotesque, but an impressive cultural display.

Paco told me during the show that there were “24 million” people in the arena. His friend laughed and said “24 thousand.” It is a common mistake. I used to remember being confused, because the word for thousand in Spanish is “mil,” and the word for million is “million.” At the same time, he would say “Empty, empty.” I thought he was being sarcastic. The arena seemed very full to me, with nary an empty seat. Finally his British friend told him he meant “full.” I thanked Paco and his friend the ex-Britain for everything - especially Paco. I asked if I could give him some money, and he tried to say something grand and important to me in English, but it didn’t come out very well. I think he was trying to say that it was a memory for me and that he hoped I would have a good impression of Spain and that maybe if he came to the United States, sometime he would see me.

I, again, told him “mucho gusto” and we parted ways.

I headed back to the hotel on the metro, and I stopped at McDonald’s again for a salad.

This morning I woke up and bought another large water and had “churros y chocolate” for “desayuno” before buying my train ticket to Algeciras. Now that my battery is low, it’s time to discover more of “El Retiro.”