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.
No comments:
Post a Comment