Our arrival in Madrid wasn’t particularly eventful or interesting. The only thing worthy of note perhaps for that, having done the customs rigmarole in Amsterdam, we were spared it at our final destination. We did a reasonably good job of following the signs to the Metro, and after buying sim cards from a gregarious Latin American young lady who spoke very good English, there was just a short train ride, short walk, and a short wait until we can access our studio apartment in Lavapies.
I couldn’t help but play a game, that upon reflection, is probably incredibly politically incorrect on the train to Tirso de Molina. I am a big fan of history, or rather, the how and why we all came to be in this particular spot at this particular point in time. What grand events in history, or not so grand, for that matter, has driven us together at any given spot, which, at that moment, was a dingy overcrowded subway train hurtling through the tunnels under Madrid. And so my exhausted eyes wandered over the other denizens of the train car, and I wondered how many of these people’s ancestors had taken to the high seas to conquer the New World, and how many had made the voyage east across the Atlantic in chains, as prizes and slaves to the land of their new white masters. There were people on the train who, with their dark large soulful eyes, thin faces and limbs could have just stepped out of a Velazquez painting. Standing with them cheek-by-jowl was a healthy peppering of strong features straight from Mesoamerican art. Mixed in was the rarer but still present hint of the Moors, who had ruled most of Spain for many centuries. Of course, this is all rather fanciful. Who knows why any of my fellow passengers were there at that moment, and if I was actually correctly identifying the ethnicities of these people. However, it was an interesting way to pass 20 minutes.
We immerged from Tirso de Molina Metro at around 12:30pm, into the weak sunlight of a mostly cloudy afternoon. Our first impression, I have to say, wasn’t particularly favourable. Right by the entrance, several tables laden with pro-communist propaganda (North Korean, mostly, from the looks of it) virtually attacked any commuter exiting the station. Empty beer bottles lay strewn at the feet of a rather disreputable and raucous group of middle aged men sitting under a large tree in the middle of the small plaza. Sheets painted with aggressive slogans hung from various balconies of the 5 story medieval row houses. On the other side of the plaza, near the cafes, a knot of about 15 people stood back to back, all wearing the “Anonymous” masks, silently staring out in all directions. They held signs saying “Verdad,” (“Truth”). Various shady looking people weaved in and out of the plaza, in a seemingly endless, pointless stream.
My brain refused to register any positive aspects of the place, of which there were many. Frank and I took a rest, sitting on the concrete wall next to the drunken men under the tree, and smoked several cigarettes. When in doubt, smoke (or pretend to). It gives the impression that you aren’t actually lost, confused, or out of sorts, but have just paused briefly along the way the place you absolutely know the location of.
Now, a brief aside, regarding Tirso de Molina. I noticed that in this plaza was a statue of a monk, a very serious, even surly looking man, holding what looked to be a scroll. I assumed he was some saintly scholar, which I suppose he was… He was also a prolific writer of short stories, novellas and plays, most notably El Burlador de Sevilla y Convidad de Piedra,” (The Trickster of Seville and the Stone Guest). This production, which debuted on stage somewhere between 1616 and 1630, was the first appearance of Don Juan, and the general plot that de Molina set down has stayed consistent through most other iterations of the lothario (all the way to his fiery doom).
Frank and I decided that the first order of business should be finding our accommodation, and then finding something to eat. It was 12:30 in the afternoon, and the keys to the studio apartment would be dropped off at 2, so we had plenty of time to kill. We could have easily found a spot to eat at the plaza, but as the whole environment seemed unfriendly to us at the time, we decided to make tracks.
We found our building with no problem on Calle Olivar, and turned our attention to our second goal. We were rather startled to find ourselves suddenly in Little India. We walked into a shaded little square lined with restaurant after restaurant advertising various curries, kormas, etc, etc. Spruikers at the doors and at the tables set in the middle of the street called to us, offering us their menus and cold beers. We headed for the only empty doorway, next to which a sign advertised pizza and beer for 5 euros. The pizza was less than ordinary, but the cold beer was wonderful, and the courteous young Indian man who ran the joint more than made up for it. Apparently he loves Madrid, and is working hard to convince his wife, who is studying in London, to make the move down.
We made our way back to our door at 2 o’clock… and then we waited, and waited, and waited some more. I called the office of our landlords multiple times, and each time I was promised that the “runner” was on their way. There is a train strike, so there are delays. He is nearby, but dealing with unhappy tenant. Just 5 more minutes por favor, 5 more minutes. And so we lounged against the building wall for over an hour, doing our best imitation of bag ladies… well, I did, anyway. Already feeling sweaty and dumpy and grumpy, it really wasn’t all that far a stretch. Frank as always, looked cool and collected. When the runner finally arrived, it was no he, but a she, and she immediately said “I came at 2, and you no here.” I pointed out that we had been occupying the same doorway for the past hour and a half, and there was no way she could possibly have missed us… and so the subject was dropped, and she checked us in to our 3rd story walk up, and departed, looking rather grateful that we didn’t press the matter.
There really isn’t much more to say, I guess, about our first day in Madrid. The apartment was nice, though the mattress had seen much better days. We explored a little bit after we showered, bought provisions (coffee, milk, some cookies), and decided it was time for dinner. Now, 6:30 is a reasonable hour in the US or Australia for dinner, but in Spain that’s barely past afternoon tea. We wandered rather haplessly about, and made the executive decision to dine that evening in Burger King. Back to the apartment, time to rest. It’s been a long couple days.
Do SvidANIA 