Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Early to rise, as usual, first to shower, as usual! We go down to breakfast and eat quickly so that we can leave a little early and take our time getting to the train station. It’s not too far of a walk, but is much more laborious with the added weight and bulk of suitcases and carryons. We have plenty of time, but like true Americans we all feel the need to hurry, hurry, hurry because there’s a train to catch!



We arrive with no time crunch at all and get to enjoy a moments rest in the Atocha train station. It’s a beautiful building, curved like a Quonset and in the center is a manmade rainforest. It’s absolutely incredible, sort of a giant greenhouse. Tall sprinklers constantly spray warm water in shots of steam onto the canopy. The effect is slightly magical and it seems as though this little pocket of the exotic could have been here in the train station for hundreds of years. I half expect to see a man in a top hat and tails with a bustled woman on his arm emerge from around the edge of the forest. Almost as good, there are a few old men sitting on benches, talking about who knows what. The girls and I discuss how good life must be for the old men on park benches…



The whole group arrives accounted for and we manage onto the train. The train is gorgeous and clean and very comfortable. We manage to stow our luggage with considerable effort and everyone settles into their seats. I’m sitting next to Rikki, facing backwards, looking at Jared and Carin. I’m excited to be sitting with these two because haven’t had much opportunity to talk to them. Carin and I spend most of the train ride swapping stories. She’s hilarious and genuine and so happy in a way that invites everyone else to feel the same joy. I laugh so hard I hurt.

I wander down to the cafeteria car as hunger strikes me and order the set meal called the Gran Via. I get a bocadillo de tortilla, a bag of Doritos (Mexican flavor, not nacho cheese) and a Coca-light for pretty cheap and head back to my seat. They’re showing Alvin and the Chipmunks on the tvs, but I’m really not interested.



The train ride is only a few hours and a total delight. Especially when I think back on my train travel in India! We arrive in Cádiz at about four or so and our hostesses are all there to pick us up and take us home. I’m rooming by myself, and while I knew some of the other girls are nervous about using their Spanish and understanding the Cádiz accent, I’m just really excited and impatiently await my introduction.

Isabel is a bright, curly-haired blonde woman who is dressed in the very current fashion of the time, she has the baggy loose cotton pants that women in India wear under their tunics and a fitted tank top with lots of jewelry. We greet each other with kisses on both cheeks and I’m thrilled that I can understand everything she says! We walk across town to her home. She apologizes constantly for the walk, while I try to explain to her that I don’t mind since I’ve been sitting most of the day on the train.



Her apartment is lovely she has family photos everywhere. I meet her daughter, Debora, who is 29 but looks much younger, her granddaughter, Mirella, who is 17, and her grandson who everyone calls by various nicknames so I have no idea what he’s actually called, but he’s six. No one can pronounce my name and I tell them not to worry about it because when I was in Málaga no one could pronounce it there either! Isabel is quick and asks me, “So what did they call you?”

Well, I thought about it, and everyone in Málaga called me Lucía. Isabel smiles at this and says, “Of course, Santa Lucía, child of light, with the blonde hair and the light eyes. Perfect!” So now everyone in Cádiz will also call me Lucía.

Isabel is excited to have a student in the house again and tells me what good luck she’s had with all the boarders. She has bought fried chicken, croquettes, and French fries for lunch. I anticipated the fact that either no one would actually process our housing requests that included information about dietary restrictions, or no one would actually read them. I explain that I don’t eat meat or chicken, which isn’t a problem for Isabel who has a laugh that it’s too bad because I’m going to miss some really nice chicken! Isabel fries me an egg and explains that she bought the most American food she could find so that I wouldn’t have to worry for my first meal. I think it’s very sweet and then tell her that I will try anything she cooked, as long as it doesn’t have meat. I tell her the story of ordering gambas y gulas and she and Debora have a good laugh about that, but it definitely gets the point across that I’m game to try any food she decides to cook. We sit at the kitchen table and chat until I realize how late it’s getting and Isabel scoots me out of the kitchen before I can try to help clear the table telling me to go rest.

I unpack my suitcase and get organized, deciding to do a little reading before I head out for dinner and maybe to meet up with some of the rest of the group. Instead, I fall asleep long before nine and sleep through the entire night, something I haven’t done in weeks and weeks, since before I arrived in Spain.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

I’m up before everyone else, as usual to shower and get ready for the day. We are off to the Residencía de los Estudiantes this morning and then free time for lunch and then we will meet at the Prado museum at quarter to six. Free breakfast goes smoothly, as usual, but I’m still running low on sleep. I make sure to bring my water bottle because it promises to be a hot day in Madrid.

We take the Metro—the subway system—to the Residencía. I donate my Metro pass to the cause because even though the Metro is such a pleasure to use, I’ve generally preferred to walk everywhere so that I can see it all, regardless of distance. We only have to walk a short way from the Metro stop to the Residencía, but everyone is exhausted from consecutive nights of partying and no sleep. I’m doing better than most, and I packed along some juice boxes to keep my energy up.



Sadly, the Residencía is closed, as are most institutions in Madrid in August. There are no students, no clases, almost no staff, and so there are no buildings open for us to tour. We walk the grounds and learn a little about the history of this place.

Founded in 1910, the Residencía played host to some of the greatest thinkers and creators of the early half of the 20th century. Alberti came to study and work here, living in the student dorms with Lorca, Buñuel, Dalí, and others. This was the Silver Age of Spain when intellectual expansion and development propelled the country towards new artistic, social, and political expression. That is, up until 1936 with the advent of the Spanish Civil War. The institution remains today, in use, and slightly modernized with updated and improved structure and interiors.





The play yard in front of the main building has a wall decorated with graffiti art from students. It’s stunning and we all sort of stand and appreciate that this place still is a center for progressive creativity. The spray-paint murals are an interesting contrast to the demure white oleander trees in front of the antiquated building. The scene is beautiful.



We pass the famous bench where the artistic geniuses who passed through this institution have posed for photos or sat to have a cigarette and conversation. Behind the bench there is a constructed waterway, a mini open aqueduct of sorts, built because at one time water flowed freely through the natural trough stretching across campus. It must be difficult for the administration to balance the desire to preserve and commemorate the invaluable history of this place with the need to continue to adapt and expand for the present and future.



We pass through a small garden planted with wild oleander of a dark magenta color. One of the students planned this little courtyard and planted all of the trees and flowers himself.

Our sort-of-guide, whose name I never catch, explains that the administration is doing research to try to learn where the great writers and artists actually stayed while they were studying and working here. Currently no one knows in which rooms the now regaled Dalí or Buñuel or Alberti stayed.

We have a quick group meeting in one of the common spaces of the Residencía before everyone splits up. Most of the girls want to go back to the hostel to nap, but we’re in an entirely new neighborhood and Tony tells us that there is a stretch with all sorts of fancy shops so a few of us decide to explore that. Courtney, Cortney and I all head out to peruse the shops. They’re really expensive and we mostly just browse. This is the land of Gucci and Cartier, close to the financial district and just down the hill from the very fancy homes surrounded by walls with gates. We do come across a Zara Home store, which is like the best of Anthropologie meets Ikea prices. Incredible. I find a bedspread that I think I can’t live without, but know I have to live without.



We walk all the way down to the National Library, a beautiful giant of a building. The girls are tired so we cross the giant arterial by taking a walking tunnel underground. The walls are covered in graffiti and a Spanish woman laughs at us as we take pictures. To us, it seems like art, to her, we seem crazy.





We ride the metro back to the hostel with just enough time to get in a bite to eat and a little siesta. I walk with the girls I room with to a kebab place, but I’m not hungry. I leave on my own, ahead of them, to wander down to the Prado. I tell them that they’ll probably get there before me because I intend to take my time and go the least efficient way possible: wandering through the artisan district.

This is where some of Spain’s greatest thinkers throughout history have lived. The streets have quotes and passages from books inlaid in the street cobbles. It seems as though every other building has a historical marker on it, explaining who was born, or lived, or died there. I come to Calle de Cervantes and encounter the house where Spain’s most championed writer lived and died. There’s a group of people taking photos in front of it, so I decide to come back later for my own photo.

As I make my way to the big roundabout in front of the Prado, I run into the rest of the girls. Some look a little more cheery than others. I can tell that the tension of traveling with a group of strangers is getting to some people. I keep it to myself that eventually it becomes a bigger problem for the people traveling with close friends. I feel old and wise, having gone through the stress of both situations before—more than once.



Michaela and I separate from the massive body of our student group and stand in the long line forming outside of the museum. The reason for going late in the evening is to take advantage of the free entry hours from six to eight pm. Seems as though most of the world also thought this was a good idea—the line is ridiculous. We stand and chat, and I’m struck by how much Michaela reminds me of my sister, Gretchen. In funny ways, they’re both petite girls with strong, vibrant, fill-the-room personalities. Both are fiercely independent and stubborn and like to do things their way. I recognize the delicate balance between knowing exactly what one wants and having no idea what one wants. Of course, this line exists in all of us, but Michaela and Gretchen seem to share the same unique way of toeing it.

We’re standing in line, not just because we both like to just get stuff done, but also because it allows us a little breathing time away from the group. We tell them we’re holding a place so that when we connect with Tony and Giuseppe we don’t all have to go to the very back of the line. When the group spots Tony and Giuseppe, we remain in line, telling them to let the professors know we’re keeping a spot. Predictably, and get ready to roll your eyes, someone comes back and tells us to get out of line and come over to where the group is meeting. Reluctantly we do, only to discover that now that we’re all together we’re going to go get in line. Roll your eyes now. Of course at this point that means walking like a mile to get to the end of the line, whereas the spot Michaela and I had been at is almost to the ticket office… again, roll your eyes—I am. There’s nothing we can do, but silently judge everyone in the group for being ridiculous.



The Prado is an incredible museum with an exquisite collection. I was lucky enough when I was in Spain before to have taken a guided tour—in Spanish—from one of the resident curators who was an expert on Velasquez. Today, we are here specifically to view the paintings of Velasquez, whom Alberti admired endlessly. The poet, when he still intended to be a painter, would come to the Prado to sit and copy the works of this master. The most famous painting by Velasquez has got to be Las Meninas, or the Girls in Waiting. It’s a sort of puzzle of a painting. The enfanta is centered in the painting, clearly the point of focus as the light is illuminating her better than the other subjects. But the title suggests that the true subjects are the young girls around her, caring for her. Velasquez himself is in the present, painting on a large canvas and peering out as if at the viewer. On the far wall depicted in the painting hangs a mirror where the reflections of the King and Queen can be seen. Here we have the scene: The King and Queen, who should be standing where we the viewer are currently, are sitting for a portrait by Velasquez. Their daughter, the enfanta has come to see them with her ladies-in-waiting. Others are present in the painting as well, all gazing out, to where the King and Queen are meant to be standing. The true subject of the construction of the painting is the perspective of the viewer forced by Velasquez—upon viewing this painting we have been in the shoes of the king and queen.



Though Las Meninas is the big draw for the Velasquez exhibit, I have an odd favorite. Velasquez was the royal portraitist and did many paintings of the royal family. I particularly enjoy a painting of one of the princes jumping his pony. The painting was meant to be hung above a doorway so that it would appear as though the pair were jumping the door frame. For this reason, Velasquez painted the portrait while keeping in mind it’s intended position for display. When viewed straight on, the pony seems horribly fat, the body distorted. But when viewed from below, looking up, the proportions are perfect. I happen to have quite a history with fat and pushy ponies and for that reason this is my favorite. I think Velasquez was able to put a true pony face on the Prince’s mount—I can’t imagine how hard it is to capture that impression of impishness in a horse.





We view the Goya exhibit, which is endlessly fascinating. He was an incredibly artist, but a more intriguing man and that emerges in his changing style and subject matter. We view the two Majas—clothed and nude and learn of the rumor that one of the Royals posed for the portrait… and that she was having an affair with Goya. We view his dark period where most of the paintings depict grim subject matter such as death, violence, and evil. My favorite of Goya’s work is the painting of Saturn eating his son. I’m very familiar with Greek and Roman myths and know this story well. Goya’s painting captures Saturn’s fear of losing power and control and how it consumes him—one can see it in the panicked, bugged eyes of the Titan.



I could spend all day at the Prado, but sadly they won’t let me, or anyone else for that matter. Just as we get to the Garden of Earthly delights by Bosco, they start to herd people out of the museum for closing. I stay as long as I can to take in this intricate painting, but the guard is gunning for me, so it’s time to scoot. One image from that painting will probably stay with more forever, it being the last glimpse I caught before I was torn away from the panels: that of one naked man shoving flowers up another naked man’s ass. Thanks Bosco!

It is our last night in Madrid so we don’t waste time getting back to the hostel to get ready. Michaela wants to meet up with some British friends that she made while staying at a hostel before the group met up. After heading out to meet up with the Brits, we realize quickly the major flaws with this plan: one, none of the British kids speak Spanish; two, none of them seem to know where anything is; three, they’re chronically late; and four, we have no way of getting a hold of them. So we wait for them at the agreed upon meeting place in the plaza… but after waiting a while we walk to the hostel and can’t find them, so we walk to another plaza to make sure, then walk back to the right plaza to wait a little longer and then lo and behold they do arrive.



I meet Kate, who is a crack up and totally cute, and Martin who is tall and very British looking, and Rob who is adorable and looks like he’s twelve. There are two others, whose names I can’t recall. Martin and I strike up conversation immediately about nothing at all, but somehow engineering managed to wiggle into the conversation. Kate is traveling all over and will be headed for Morocco next, which she is incredibly excited about. I enjoy chatting with all of them, but am getting hungry and cold and had already forewarned Michaela and Rikki that I wanted pizza for dinner.

So I take off in search of pizza, but the Napolitano place where the grouchy Italians make it the way I like it is closed a little early. So I sit with the last standing Brazilian and eat smoked salmon and brie. The fish is okay, the cheese is good, and it makes me homesick because it’s not really smoked salmon, it’s lox and that’s different. At least, they’re distinguishable to me. After, a dish of arroz con leche—which is incredible, and then home to bed—we have breakfast and then a train to catch tomorrow and the real battle is going to be all of us girls hauling our enormous suitcases on foot all the way to the train station!

Monday, August 18, 2008

I am sharing a room with three other girls from the program, all of whom are younger than me. I get up before the others so that I can have time to shower before we go down to eat breakfast at the café on the corner. The breakfast is included in our stay with the group, but optional to attend. We all head down together, no one wanting to pass up a free meal—Madrid is expensive!

The café has set up a little area in the back of the sala for us. A lovely group of tables with rolls that look like bolillos from Mexico and glasses of orange juice are set out and waiting when we arrive. We are given the choice of coffee or colocao (which is like powdered hot chocolate, only not as sweet as American stuff), and not being a coffee drinker, I go for the colocao. This is a pretty typical Spanish breakfast, a very light meal of a pastry or toast with butter and jam, juice, and coffee or chocolate. Lunch is the big meal in Spain and this is when paella and other heavier dishes are usually served. It is possible, in Madrid, to get paella at almost any hour, just as one can get almost anything to eat around the clock in New York. However, in smaller cities and towns, especially more traditional places, you will be unable to order rice-based dishes in the evening. For this reason, I think, Spain is the land of finger food and snacks. From ten am on through stores closing you can find bocadillos (larger sandwiches), pulgos (smaller sandwiches), and tapas or raciones.

I could use a little more protein in the morning for breakfast, but since no one gets up early in Spain breakfast is more like a little something to hold you over until you can stuff yourself at lunch.

We eat while Tony and Giuseppe inform us that plans have changed: the Residencia de los Estudiantes is not open today—the woman who would be giving us the tour is on vacation and won’t be back to help us until tomorrow, so today we will not be going to the Residencia and then the Prado, today we will be going to the Reina Sofia. This means that we will have the afternoon off. I'm especially excited to go to the Reina Sofia because I didn't get to explore it when I was in Madrid so long ago. All I remember seeing was Picasso's famous Guernica, which made me cry.







We walk to the Reina Sofia down Calle de Atocha which leads from Puerta del Sol to the train station. The Reina Sofia is the modern art museum in Madrid and the building itself exudes this feeling of creative expression. There are incredible statues placed in court yards around the perimeter of the building, including a particularly famous one depicting Spain reaching for a star while clutching a dove. The star is meant to represent hope and the dove, classically, peace. It's beautiful and Tony informs us that it is actually a replica--the original has disappeared. The museum building itself is massive and exudes the presence of creativity. I made the mistake of telling the girls that I room how I cried when I first saw Guernica and now they can't stop looking at me anytime anyone mentions Picasso, Guernica, or anything about art really...



Guernica is a massive piece--11 feet tall and 25.6 feet wide--depicting the Nazi bombing of the Basque city of Guernica on April 26, 1937--a Monday market day, when the city was sure to be full of civilians. The Spanish government had commissioned Picasso to present something at the World's Fair that year in Paris and Picasso found inspiration in the tragic destruction of Guernica. The painting toured the world, becoming a symbol of Spain's struggle and a reminder of the innocent victims of war. When Franco assumed power, the painting became contraband, an illegal image to display or own. Picasso even stipulated in his will that the painting could only be exhibited in Spain upon the restoration of the Republic. It wasn't until 1981 that Picasso's most emotional piece returned to Spain. Tony shares the history of the piece while we all stand at a distance from it, trying to absorb the intensity of the images.



The girls keep cocking their heads to peer at me the entire time we stand in front of the piece, hoping to catch a glimpse of me crying. I try my best to keep it together. I'm not sure why I was so deeply affected by this painting when I first saw it at sixteen. My only real experience with senseless violence at that point in my life had been my limited understanding of the Oklahoma City bombing when I was just a kid, and the Columbine shooting when I was fourteen. Perhaps that reveals the true genius of Picasso--his incredible ability to evoke emotion from a stranger, with two dimensional, black and white imagery. I think that now, having witnessed large-scale civilian death in the September 11, 2001 attack, most of us in the group have a greater sense of shock and loss from unforeseen violence--a point of reference that really brings the emotion of Guernica to life. Still, I am the only one tearing up.



We tour the exhibits housing the works of some of our esteemed poet, Alberti's close friends. Dalí is a big draw and his painting are almost overwhelming in person. I am particularly interested in the collection of Joan Miró, having recently acquired a print of The Port when Dad moved out of Mundt McGregor's space. Perhaps it would have been better to view Guernica last, after having seen other works, in the interest of giving them a fighting chance. But with so many masters represented in the museum, they each are able to leave an impression, though likely not as indelible as that of Picasso.



After a long morning at the Reina Sofia, I definitely need a nap. I haven't been sleeping much due to the abundant Spanish nightlife, but I almost feel as if there will be time to sleep later and so I keep going. I take a nice long walk throughout Madrid, revisiting some of my favorite places and discovering new ones. On my way back to the hostel I duck down into the supermarket in the basement of Corte Ingles to buy some groceries. The prices are much better than eating out and I can get some little things that l can never find in the U.S. like those really good digestive cookies with the chocolate filling... and pineapple and peach juice. Buy cookies and juice boxes and some other foodstuffs to keep me going. I wander over to the prepared food section which is just like the spot in the deli at QFC where you can buy macaroni salad or those deep-fried burritos, only here they have seafood salads and croquettes. I talk with the man behind the counter about what I can and can't eat, further realizing that the Spanish find my personal dietary choice particularly fascinating . . . and perplexing.

I take myself back to the hostel to get ready for dinner out with the girls. Michaela has met a very cute guy who she invited to dinner and a bunch of us are going. We all get a little dressed up, in our best effort to fit in with the night-out crowd (harder for me to do with blonde hair). All we really know about Michaela's friend, Miguel, is that she can't understand anything he says because of his accent and is super frustrated. When I meet him I can’t understand what the big deal is; I can understand him just fine. Then I ask him where he’s from and it all becomes clear: Venezuela. The accent is really different, and it took me days of speaking Spanish with Alejandra, the girl from Venezuela that I met in New Orleans, before I could understand her. Plus, I had just met that nice Venezuelan family in Madrid, so my ears were already primed for it. Miguel and I can understand each other just fine, but what is there to talk about? Beisbol!



We all head out to get dinner and there’s twelve of us, which is a huge dinner party for anywhere, much less Madrid where you can seemingly only find tables for four. I decide we’re going to have to go to a bigger restaurant and direct our small mob to a wide alley where our breakfast café runs a restaurant at night. I let the waiter know that we have 12 in our group and he promises me a table in four minutes. In Spanish time this means more like fifteen to twenty, which is actually pretty speedy for our request, so I’m pleased. Of course the girls overhear the waiter say four minutes and after about ten are starting to get really pissed. I try to explain: it’s a cultural thing.

When our table is ready we all cram in and I explain as the waiters plunk down baskets of baguette that the bread is not complimentary, that if you eat it, they will charge you. Megan looks astonished, “That’s stupid.” I try to explain: it’s a cultural thing. Some of the girls want water, but they will have to order bottles, the restaurant will not bring them tap water. I try to explain: it’s a cultural thing. When it’s time to order food, someone wants ensalata mixta with chicken added. The waiter says no, and tells her to order the chicken salad. They don’t do add-ons or substitutions, no matter how easy. I try to explain: it’s a cultural thing.

I order the ensalata mixta con atún and when it arrives sin atún, I’m no longer culturally lenient. At this point I’ve been without sleep for forty hours plus, I haven’t eaten since two and it’s now past eleven, and there’s some unappetizing flirting going on at the opposite end of the table. It’s time to import a little American culture. I go find the headwaiter and explain to him in very assertive Spanish exactly what the problem is and exactly how he can fix it. I am rewarded with a “Vale,” which has infinite meanings, so I am a little surprised when in no time our waiter appears at my side with a plate of grilled tuna to add to my salad. I hope, when he complains later about the pushy Americana, that someone will explain: Es una cosa de la cultura.

Nevertheless, at the end of the meal I am in need of a little break. I announce I’m leaving and decide to go for a walk to cool off. At times, the dynamics of large groups traveling together can overwhelm. But I truly feel that the best way to deal with any building tension is to make sure that you take care of your needs first. So I buy some ice cream and take a stroll through Madrid. It’s late and I’m surprised that the city is so quiet. When I return to our neighborhood I feel refreshed and am ready to meet up with the girls, but can’t find them. I go back to the hostel and up to the room and crash. I need sleep, there’s no doubt about it, but tonight will be a short one, we have a long day of “research” ahead of us.

Ha venido el grupo!

The group meets today at five, but I have to be out of my room at noon. I go down to the lobby and start to bother the attendant, Andres, about letting me into a room early. He refuses, citing some garbage about not knowing who goes in what room with these group situations. I tease him about it relentlessly, but he won't yield. So I wait and pull out my computer to busy myself until one, when I hope more people will show up.

I am rewarded and when three other girls arrive Andres says he will let me have a room now. We truck our stuff up and way way in the back of the building. I have no idea it's so huge because my previous room was right at the top of the stairs and it never occurred to me to go exploring the hostel itself. I have a room with three other girls, Mikaila, Rikki, and Megan. We claim beds and then agree to go out. Mikaila decides to stay behind so Rikki and Megan and I head down to meet with some other girls. There is discussion, followed by plans to meet at Starbucks (which I thought was a joke, until I realized they were serious)... Rikki and Megan and I wander around to find some food and then head to Starbucks, running into one of our Professors on the way. He points us in the right direction, after giving us some lip about Starbucks. We never connect with the other girls and head to the Parque del Retiro instead.







I'm thrilled to be back at the park because I get to see much more of it this time.  Just as we arrive a gypsy walks up to me and hands me a sprig of rosemary.  I ask her what the word for it is Spanish and she all of a sudden takes my face in her hands and starts to talk about the depth of my eyes.  She tells me how pretty they are, how pretty I am and then she seizes my right hand and begins to read my palm.  I try to snatch it away and explain to her that I'm afraid of her predictions.  She wags a finger at me and tells me to not be afraid.  I tell her that I think it's dangerous to know too much about your own life to come... she doesn't listen and grips my hand even tighter.  Tracing the lines on my palm she tells me all sorts of very wonderful things.  That I have already met the man I'm going to fall in love with and marry.  That he will be a great man who will treat me well.  She tells me I will have two sons who will be strong and very smart.  She tells me I will be beautiful all my life because I laugh so much.  She says I will have an honest job and earn good money, that I will live to be very old and that I will be healthy until the day I die.  She tries to take my other palm, but stops and asks for payment.  She wants 20 euro for both palms.  I can't believe it.  I told her I can't pay that much, I don't have it.  She insists that it's 10 euro per palm.  I apologize and pull out a fiver, telling her it's all I have.  She turns to Megan and says, "your friend will pay the rest."  I said, "She doesn't have any money either!  She already owes me!"  The gypsy is clearly pissed off and snatches back the rosemary sprigs that she's given the other girls.  She takes the five and starts muttering things under her breath.  I do my best to bat my pretty eyes at her as I say thank you and apologize again for not having the money (to pay her for a service I didn't actually want, that she forced upon me).  but then again, how many gypsy stories do I get to tell?

We wander through a wooded garden and then break for refreshments. I try the horchata, which in Spain is made from some sort of plant. It's decidedly not as good as Mexican horchata, but at least I tried it. We decide to head back, but come across a beautiful rose garden that reminds me of the parks in London. It's getting really hot, so we head back towards Sol, stopping for photos along the way.











I take the girls through Sol and across the Plaza Mayor to get bocadillos at Casa Rua. The girls are very complimentary of my Spanish and how well I know the city. It's nice to have some female companionship again. We eat and then return to the hostel in time to join our group. After a quick rules and syllabus meeting, the group heads out together to do a little mini-walking tour of the city. I've already been to most of the places, but the far part of the loop back is all new to me and it was nice to have Tony (Spanish Professor) explain the historical and current significance of the places that I had seen.





We're back at the hostel now and there are vague plans to go out. I'm not sure what we're up to, but I'm ready for some fun. Class starts tomorrow!

Fiesta de la Paloma

I decide to eat something before I meet the Brazilian trio to go to the biggest night of the Fiesta de la Paloma. I sit down at one of the tabernas (taverns) where I now know practically the entire staff and examine the menu for meatless options. I come across an item called Gambas y Gulas and ask someone to explain. gambas are shrimp, the little ones, but no one can seem to explain to me what gulas are and so they dig up an English version of the menu. It says gulas are mushrooms and it sounds good to me, so I order that, thinking I'll be getting toasted baguette with roast shrimp and mushrooms. Not so.



As best I can tell, gulas are imitation baby eels... but I have no idea. It's some sort of seafood. When the server plunks down the plate in front of me I'm certain that there is no way this could taste good. But of course, I have to try. And it's delicious! I inhale the whole thing, and I think I would order it again. I top off dinner with a bowl of arroz con leche which is absolutely delicious and totally familiar. Then I'm off to change and meet up with the Brazilians!



I have no way of accurately describing the insanity of the Fiesta de la Paloma. I dress very casually, knowing all too well that my clothes stand a good chance of being ruined by cigarette burns or spilt drinks. I find the Brazilians at Calle de Cádiz and we walk together through the Plaza Mayor and down the street to the party. The music is screaming and we fight our way through the crowd, passing through one bar's disco music, another's funk, and the house music until the boys insist on stopping because we have come to a bar that is playing Brazilian music. Of course, all three of them know the words to every song and start singing at the top of their lungs. But it's so noisy from the music and the millions of people that they don't actually seem that loud--for once.



I decide to get in the spirit of things and buy a giant cerveza. We dance until the music switches from Brazilian to something else and then move to the top of a little hill to stand and watch the mayhem. All around us people have established their own little bars, bringing in bags with bottles of soda and copious amounts of liquor. They mix their own drinks and stand around their stations getting wasted on the cheap. There are people from all over the world. We meet a girl from Tenerife who tells me I must, must, must visit the Canary Islands, then introduces me to her "American" friends, who are actually from Ireland, but she's drunk enough to think that since we all speak English we must be from the same place. I meet a Spaniard who lived in St. Louis for a while (my second Missouri encounter!) and then we sort of adopt a girl from Croatia into our little group.



Lukas and I go to find food--a little bit harder than usual because there are so many people and the food tents are running out of certain things. I kind of wish I hadn't eaten beforehand because the mini potatoes look really good--minus the hotdog bits--but I lose my appetite when Lukas orders an enormous hotdog with mayonnaise dumped all over it. I try to explain to him that I find the flagrant use of such a nasty condiment to be unsettling--but I'm either explaining how Americans use mayo poorly or he just doesn't care--probably both.



We venture into the Plaza--the same one where I had sat with Sebastian in the shade earlier--and it's impossibly full of people. I stand on a bench on the outskirts to try to see how many people are gathered and I'm amazed that so many people can be so cramped in together, drinking, and no fights ever seem to break out. It appears as if there are no angry drunks in Madrid.





We walk back to find the others and make our way to another plaza where I insist on stopping to dance because they're playing reggaeton and I can dance to that! (or so I think) People are wearing all sorts of variations of cowboy hats and even though I ask as many people as I can about the significance, no one seems to have an answer. The madness continues until about four thirty when the bars suddenly, and in unison, cut the music. The crowd remains unfazed and the party will most likely continue until six or so, that's how long it will take the police to corral the five mile radius of party and herd the crowd home. The cleaning crews are in position, but the people will hold fast and stay as long as they can.

I willingly head back to my hostel, parting ways with the boys, two for the last time. Calibar and Fernando are leaving the next morning. What a night to go out on!