I skip breakfast, the memory of yesterday's tomato debacle is just too much! I spend part of the morning reading for my seminar (I think I'll never make it through this book) and then take a short walk to see what's going on this morning. It promises to be a beautiful day, much warmer than yesterday. I run into Lucas, the Brasileño who works on Calle de Cådiz, and he invites me to meet him for lunch at four--he wants to go to a Brazilian restaurant. Being me, I of course say yes, but ask him if he'll take me to the park afterward. He agrees and so we meet up later.
The Brazilian restaurant is in the sala (parlor or living room) of an old woman's apartment. We pass by the door three times before asking a guy at a kebab stand if he knows where it is. There is no sign, simply a little tag next to the buzzer for the apartment number that says "Brasil." We're buzzed in and take a coffin of an elevator up the four flights to the restaurant. A young blonde woman who ignores me the second Lucas reveals himself as a Brazilian allows us to seat ourselves anywhere on the patio. They have an incredible view down the street and it makes me wonder why rooftop dining isn't more popular in Seattle. Then I remember the rain and close my eyes and bask in the warm Madrid sun.
I can't read anything on the menu, it's all in Portuguese. What's worse is I already know that there's nothing I can eat anyway because having been to a Brazilian restaurant in Seattle I know that this is a culture that loves its meat. Lucas asks the young woman and sure enough, vegetarian me is out of luck. I try to suggest beans and rice, but am rebuffed. I tell Lucas to eat, and I will get something on the street. He orders some chicken dish that comes and keeps coming. First the woman brings a dish of rice (I can eat that!), then black beans in sauce (I can eat those, too!), then the chicken in a bowl, then some sort of garnish that looks like tempura flakes with bits of hotdog in it, then salad, then macaroni, then pickled vegetables... suddenly the table is completely full! So I take what I can that doesn't have meat in it and enjoy my little meal of rice and beans, lettuce and some pickled veggies. Lucas tries to teach me some words in Portuguese, but I'm not really listening because the old lady cooking is singing in Portuguese and it's beautiful. Lucas starts to talk to her and explains to me that she is singing about missing her home because she wants to go back to Brazil very badly to see her children and grandchildren. Suddenly her singing makes me want to cry.
We leave and Lucas makes me say thank you to everyone in Portuguese: "obrigado." Of course, everyone answers me in Spanish.
We take the Metro to Retiro, the park. It's beautiful and very busy. It seems familiar and I can't quite figure out why. It's an enormous park and we wander through only part of it because Lucas has to get to work. We sit in the shade for a while and I read my book. I insist on being a tourist and stop to take photos of the sculptures and flowers and insist on listening to the various musicians who have set up in the park. There's a trio of bongo players who have started a dance party at the foot of the monument that crowns the main pond. People are dancing and laughing and I wish I could come to the park every day. I am reminded of how much time I spent in the parks when I was in London--they were my favorite aspect of the city. I plan to go back, perhaps spend more time wandering around, especially because the people watching is fabulous.
I walk with Lucas through the city back to Puerto del Sol--the walk isn't too far and the city is lovely in the evening light so I decide to keep wandering after I part with Lucas. I walk through the shopping district at Sol, stopping for a while to listen to a man play Vivaldi on an old and beaten violin. He's absolutely magical and I could have stood there all day. In fact I forget to take his photo, even though I dropped him a euro because he nearly brought me to tears with his playing. He smiles warmly at me when he finishes his set and I thank him for playing. I don't think I've ever done that before, but it seems like such a favor that I get to stand there and hear something so beautiful amidst the craziness of Madrid's shoppers.
In fact, I'll take this moment to say a word on the pedestrian culture in Madrid: It's a nightmare for me. There are only a few people, maybe five in the whole city who seem to every have a genuine sense of hurry. The rest seem content to meander slowly, sometimes inconsistently, sometimes while weaving... down the sidewalk. I've never encountered people who walk so slowly! And they always manage to take up enough space on the sidewalk so that getting around them is both difficult and guaranteed to seem rude. They also tend to stop without notice, in the middle of the most inconvenient spot ever. Sometimes I will encounter people just standing in the middle of the sidewalk as if that's their job--to be in the way. Strollers, people with dogs, whole families, everyone just pretends as if they are the only people walking through the city and time stops for them. It's amazing. I have no real reason to hurry, other than that I am by nature a harried and rude American who likes to take long quick strides down the sidewalk, not short, dragging shuffles. But I'm trying to slow down.
Back to the day... I continue to wander, discovering beautiful pedestrian streets that oddly remind me of walking through Shimla when I was in India. Perhaps it's the clash of modern shops below old and beautiful buildings. The sun is still warm and bright, even though it's nearly eight and I know I have hours of wandering ahead of me if I so choose. I come upon an enormous cathedral at a busy intersection. There are people everywhere and police officers are barricading the road to my left. I wait to cross the street with the masses, despite the fact that I know think I'm pretty good at j-walking. Lo and behold! I've taken myself to the Royal Palace! Of course, the tourist shop and tours are closed for the day, but the building is breath taking and I can even smell horse manure. Though it's most likely from mounted police or tourist carriage horses, I would like to think that the royal family went for a little jaunt around the front plaza, just because they can. The Palace is directly across from the Cathedral and the two majestic buildings sit on the edge of a cliff that overlooks the rest of the city. Sadly, the view is blocked by a large fence erected around a renovation site. I manage to climb onto a ledge of the church--in a skirt--with Russian tourist watching, in an effort to take a photo of the view. It didn't turn out so well, but I could see that the Royal family must have appreciated the value of a good view.
I wander down the street to the bridge where the police have blocked off the road. The view from the bridge is spectacular, but the setting sun is so bright I can hardly look at it long enough to enjoy. I realize why the street is barricaded as I come upon a street fair. There's a large booth with young people yelling about Cuba and the Left. They have cuban flags strung everywhere and pictures of Che Guevara. I try to get around them to take a photo of the Cathedral perched on the edge of the cliff. It's just beautiful.
There's a churro stand and then a whole section of the park dedicated to this fair. A huge stage is set up and there are dozens of wooden cafeteria tables set up for people to eat at. There are two huge tents serving fair food. I know exactly what I'm going to eat for dinner! I go up to the first tent and the operation is overwhelming. There are about twenty plus people working at frying calamari and potatoes, slicing beef and ham and pouring beer. The commotion is beautiful and only tear myself away from the scene because it's my turn to order. Bocadillo de tortilla and coca light... the vegetarian fallback. Spanish street fair food is similar to American street fair food in that it is also greasier, incredibly delicious, served in totally oversized portions, and insanely overpriced. I order and am given a ticket which I have to walk down to the other end of the tent to hand to a food runner who will go fill my order. I watch other people getting whole deep-fry baskets of potatoes and calamari and for a minute I think maybe I can eat that much--but there's just no way. I wolf down my sandwich once it arrives and I'm glad I didn't get a basket of calamari because now I have room for churros!
The churro wagon is swarmed with little kids and fat grandmothers. I order churros and the woman asks if I want six or twelve! I would have been happy with one or two, but being street fair portions, why am I surprised? I get six and yes, I would like sugar. I grab a fistful of napkins because this isn't my first fair and I'm pretty sure the churro grease is going to soak through the wax paper bag in mere moments. And it does. I walk and eat, heading back to the Plaza Mayor to see what's going on tonight.
There are street performers everywhere! Magic shows and contortionists, guys offering to let bystanders put on boxing gloves and punch them in the stomach. I can't watch that guy's show and wander on. A crowd has gathered around a man dressed as some sort of space robot--much like the scene from Back to the Future where Marty is mistaken for an alien. The crowd is really into this guy, but I stand out on the edge because it's more entertaining to watch the people drawn to the attraction than the attraction itself. I notice a little girl in a pretty burgundy dress who is pulling a Marilyn Monroe Seven Year Itch stunt and is standing on a giant grate, letting the warm air blow her skirt up. She's laughing and laughing and twirling like only little girls can when her mother snatches her arm and yanks her off the grate. The twirl must have been really really good, because she doesn't put up a fight at all and just goes off with her mother.
I'm walking back to my hostel when I come across a maybe forty-something, maybe fifty-something couple looking really lost and really American. I ask them where they're from and they stumble over the answer as if they were trying to avoid answering me. We talk about Madrid a little bit and I recommend a place to go sit outside and eat. I shake hands with them as we part and suddenly realize why they were being elusive. As I shake the husband's hand I catch sight of his world series ring. He had told me he used to go to Seattle a few times a year for "work." Ha. It's okay, I know who he is, but since privacy was obviously a priority, I'll keep it up.
The churros kind of did a number on my stomach so I'm writing while nursing a giant bottle of coca light that I bought at the alimentacion on the corner. I'm not sure what I'm up to tonight, but I think clubbing is out since I don't particularly enjoy smelling like an ashtray.
Tomorrow I want to go to the river... there's still so much to see!
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