DAY THREE:
Christmas Eve!
We touched down in Madrid around 07:30 in the morning, local time, and all of the passengers seemed ready to bite, claw and climb over each other to get out of the plane. Long flights can bring that out in people I’ve noticed. Customs in Spain is relatively hassle-free. The flight attendants will give you a little card to fill out before you get off the plane which you will then give to a bored clerk in a Plexiglas box on your way towards baggage claim. It’s pretty straightforward: name, passport number, where you’re staying, business or pleasure, print there, sign here, stamp there, and you’re done.
Outside the airport, just like in almost every major city in the world, you’ll find a long line of taxis parked outside of baggage claim, ready to go. The taxis in Madrid are fast and fearless little white cars with a red stripe on the side. They usually have a flip-sign in the passenger’s side of the windshield that will either read “LIBRE” or “OCCUPADO”; you can guess what those mean. Have your shit together and know what you need to say before you go outside and face the gauntlet of drivers. It doesn’t hurt to have some €2 coins in hand to give to your driver(s) after they have loaded your bags into their vehicle(s); it makes a good first impression.
Please be aware that it is in the nature of some drivers wherever you go to embark upon the longest (and most expensive) possible route to your destination. This is the way of the world. Perhaps the taxi driver is an asshole, or perhaps you are acting like an American asshole. To some degree, it’s true, you are up to the mercy of the cabby, but effective relationship management is in your best interest. Hence, a knowledge of their language and the pre-tip are a nice start. If anything, it might improve your odds.
In Madrid, all of the taxi drivers are going to charge at least an extra €5 to go to or from the airport, so deal with it. Most of them don’t take credit cards, and seriously, who uses a credit card for a taxi? You should be able to get some of your dollars exchanged for euros in the airport beforehand. Our apartment was in the heart of Madrid, about a block south of the Puerta del Sol, and the drivers consistently charged both of our taxis about €40 to get us back and forth.
The thing is, most of the time you really won’t need a taxi. You’ll find that everyone walks everywhere to begin with. Should you find yourself too drunk or exhausted to proceed safely on foot, there are taxis available 24/7, but the city is filled with amazing places to eat and shop and visit, normally within walking distance from wherever you’re staying. Here’s a special note: In America, I’ve found it very beneficial to know how to do a “construction whistle” (the high-pitched, high-volume, piercing whistle that can be heard over traffic and other background noise) when hailing a taxi. This is not advised in Spain; they sincerely seem to dislike this in fact. Just wave your arm in the air and they’ll stop if they feel like it.
After settling into our apartment on a small pedestrian street, Calle de Cadíz, we dug out the maps our landlord, Ramón made for us and ventured to the grocery store. The cupboard was completely bare and we’d been warned that nothing would be open Christmas Day.
Traditionally, I’m elected the de facto navigator in my family on outings great or small and this trip was no exception. So, with my trusty compass and a map in hand (yeah, I’m serious, I always carry a compass), we made our way through the holiday masses across the Puerta del Sol, a huge open plaza in the geographic center of the city.
One of the streets that intersects into the plaza is Calle Precípio and this leads directly toward El Corte Inglés.
My first impression of the store was, “Oh cool! It’s a big supermarket and a wine shop. That’s nice.” Very quickly this shifted to, “Oh! And there’s a huge delicatessen. Sweet!” And then, “Holy Crap! And, a liquor store, and a lottery counter, and a café?! This is great!”
Then things became impressive. “Wait a minute! You mean there’s NINE floors? And a subway station, and a travel agency, and a post office, and an auto mechanic?”
Long story, short, El Corte Inglés is comprehensive. It’s the place you go for damn near everything, and it’s really beautiful, and most of the sales clerks look like brown-eyed supermodels. You gotta see it to believe it.
After we wandered for a while and found a nice place to have lunch, I figured out my bearings on the map and set off to find the rental shop to pick up my bicycle for the week. Here’s another hard lesson I learned entitled, “Why You Probably Shouldn’t Bother Renting A Bicycle”. In theory, I had it all figured out. My research provided the name of a bike rental shop not too far from where we were staying, I had a good map of the city, my plan was to have cheap, reliable transportation and see all that Madrid has to offer with ease. Ha-ha-ha…oh my, the difference in theory and reality is a chuckle sometimes. So, please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not a pessimist. I dislike a true pessimist in fact. However, I’m always willing to offer very candid observations with a modicum of varnish. I sincerely believe people benefit more from the truth to prepare themselves for any situation in life.
So here’s the deal with the bike: First of all, during the winter, the streets of Madrid are PACKED with pedestrians, both natives and tourists. If you thought you were going to sail down the lovely Spanish walkways, cruising the little cafés and shops, you can forget it. There are so many damn people on every damn street that you will quite literally have to walk your bicycle everywhere you go. This is not an exaggeration. With all of your stuff you have to manage not getting lost or stolen, why add something else to that list?
By the way, while traversing this sea of people, Americans may be surprised and annoyed to discover that NO ONE is in a hurry (except maybe for other Americans on their first couple of days there). Don’t let it get it to you; it might at first. Spaniards have truly embraced the art of strolling as a means of travel. It’s funny; watch a crowd of Americans moving together down a sidewalk in NYC for example. People are moving! “C’mon! We’ve got someplace to GO! Get the HELL out of our way!” Spain, from my experience, is a totally different scene. Don’t fight it, man. Learn the “Spaniard Stroll”. It’ll make you crazy if you don’t. From what other Americans have told me, it’s pretty much the same all over Europe; they think it’s ridiculous that we’re always frantically headed somewhere to wait in line before racing to the next place we’re going to wait in line.
If you’re going to present the argument, “Well, sidewalks are for pedestrians! I’m going to ride my bike in the street!” Again, ha-ha-ha! Go for it, tough guy! Let me know ahead of time, I want to get my camera! Seriously though, don’t do it. Between the regular motorists, the taxis, the cops, the motorcycles, the Metro buses, and everything else on the narrow little roads, you will get knocked on your ass riding a bicycle in normal traffic. That’s the best case scenario. On the other end of the spectrum, you could easily wind up as road-kill. Any of these possibilities would be most unpleasant, particularly while you’re on holiday. A bike is ill-advised during the winter season, just walk.
For the rest of my first day, I took a lot of pictures with my family or on solo expeditions. Later that night, the four of us ventured up to the Gran Via and made a loop back toward the Puerta del Sol by way of Calle de Montera, where we encountered a cultural experience. Someone told me before that prostitution in Spain is legal and encouraged, much like Amsterdam. I normally believe about twenty percent of stuff people tell me so I had to research this to see if they were bullshitting me. According to several resources available online, prostitution in Spain falls into a legal vacuum. It’s not legal, but it’s not exactly against the law either. In fact, one article stated that the cops rarely arrest the ladies or johns, targeting their pimps instead.
Anyway, we had no idea what we were walking into when we turned the corner. As usual, I was in my own world, taking pictures of a marble wall or a dead pigeon, and instantly a really pretty (in a hot, slutty kind of way) girl appeared directly in front of me and began chattering in Spanish. Keep in mind this was my first day in Madrid, so I’d really only mastered, “Where is the bathroom?” and “Three red wines, please.” I smiled and tried to say, “Sorry, my Spanish sucks; what do you want?” However, somehow whatever came out of my mouth may have actually meant, “Hello, young lady! May I see more of your breasts?” because that’s what she showed me and replied, “Feefty Euro! You want?”
Ah, okay, the light went on. This friendly hooker wants to drag me off somewhere. Fortunately, my teenage little sister latched onto my arm and indicated to the chiquita that we were together and the four of us passed Hooker Alley.
Around 10:30pm we got back to the apartment and the streets were coming alive! In retrospect, it’s interesting to note that the streets never, ever went to sleep. I could go out on our terrace overlooking Calle de Cadiz at any time, and our street was always populated with Spaniards out for a stroll. During peak hours in the evening, the volume swelled with revelers singing and throwing quarter sticks of dynamite in the air (I’m not kidding).
Barb seemed like she was ready to call it a night and Caitlin was plugged into FaceBook, but Dad and I wanted to get back out there. Fortunately, it’s never far to find a place to get a drink, so we wandered downstairs to a little tapas bar.
The Taberna El Olibo was without a doubt one of the coolest spots I found in Madrid. Owned by a Romanian family, this place had a great atmosphere and wonderful food. That doesn’t say much I guess; every restaurant and tavern in Madrid could boast this as well, though the people at Taberna were very cool.
Dad hung out with me for a little while and expressed he was getting tired, so I walked him back to the apartment gate, let him in with my key and then went for a little adventure. After stopping at an ATM, I headed directly back to Hooker Alley and skirted the edges until I spotted a beautiful morena that nearly made me walk into a lantern pole. She and another young girl who was just as lovely but more quiet, offered their simultaneous services for € 75. Deal! They led me back to a really shitty apartment building and up about eight flights of stairs. My Spidey-Sense started tingling. After arriving at a shoebox apartment, we scooted past several trashy looking women and a TV with the volume at full blast to a room that would technically qualify as a walk-in closet. Somehow, someone had managed to squeeze a bed in there that consumed most of the square footage of the room.
“Okay, you take off clothes. Give me all your money,” the lead girl, Meléna told me.
“What?”
“¿Que?”
“What about the two of you?” I asked.
“No. We leave clothes on now. € 75 for me, € 75 for her, € 20 for condom, half hour. You take off clothes. Make it € 200. You give me money now.”
My Spidey-Sense started buzzing.
“Meléna, you said € 75 for a threesome. You, me, her. € 75. I brought condoms. Let’s make it € 100 and call it good,” I said.
“No, no, no, no, no. You pick, me or her. Suck dick, € 75. Fuck poosy, € 100.” Next she reached over, felt my crotch and asked, “What’s the matter with dick? You no like girls?”
“Yeah, I like girls, but this is bullshit.”
“Okay, € 150, you fuck us, two condoms, € 50.”
“Are the guys here really that stupid, Meléna?”
“¿Que?”
“Forget it. No deal. I’m outta here, thank you.”
“NO! YOU PAY!!” She yelled at me. I noticed that Meléna had retrieved an automatic knife in her left hand and had not extended the blade but she wasn’t hiding it either. A moment later Meléna screamed at the ceiling, “HE NO PAY!! HE NO PAY MONEY!!” The other quiet girl stared expectantly at the door. She was also morena with very dark eyes, and she crossed her arms against the chill in the room.
My Spidey-Sense was now blaring.
“Here,” I said, handing Meléna a € 50 and hiding my knife with the other hand. “So sorry for the misunderstanding. Thanks for your time. ¡Felíz Navidad y Feliz Año Nuevo! ¡Adio! By the way,” I said to the quiet girl, “Take my gloves, you look cold.”
“¿Que?” She asked.
“Mi guantes, un regalos para tu. ¿Mucho frio, si?”
“Ah, si...Gracias.”
Now there was a moment’s lull and I had to think fast because Meléna seemed to be figuring out what to do as well. If things didn’t play out well, I felt certain that some scary dudes might storm into the room and my body would be found in the sewers or a river sometime later.
I recalled from my research that most of the prostitutes in Spain are not the least bit Spanish. There is a reportedly high degree of human trafficking in the sex trade, and it was clearly commented in one article that many of the girls are acquired as runaways from Russia, the Ukraine, Romania, and elsewhere and then sold to pimps. That gave me the idea; I had a plan. My knife was clipped to the end of my coat sleeve and could be opened in an instant if need be. So, I acted like a clumsy oaf and retrieved the 12-megapixel Casio Exilim off my belt and said, “Sorry this didn’t work out, girls; it was nice meetin’ you. May I take a picture of you ladies as a souvenir?”
“¿Que?”
“¿Photografia, para me?” I asked, motioning for them to pose together on the bed.
“¡No! ¡No photografia! You go!” Meléna demanded.
And with that, I was out the fucking door and never stopped moving until I was somewhere brightly lit with lots of people. After stopping to check my compass and map, I found the Gran Via again easily and a quick jaunt two blocks over had me back on the Calle de Precípio headed towards the Puerta del Sol.
By this time, the street was really getting crazy, so I donned my ushanka, grabbed a little table outside and ordered a drink to reflect upon the evening. As I was soaking up the scenery, a couple of guys nearby starting arguing [in a combination of Portuguese(?), German and something else], though it should be noted that this seems relatively common in Spain and does not always qualify as a fight. One of the guys sat down at the table with me, and asked for a cigarette then burst into song. The other guy wandered off down the street and Jose-Luís and I had a conversation in the best Spanish I could muster, as he alternately flirted with and sang to every female that walked by our table. After a little while, we went inside the Taberna and then the drinking truly commenced.
Of course the more you drink, the less inhibited you become. Normally this may lead to many regrettable errors in judgment, but I found it interesting that with regard to speaking foreign languages, inebriation provides a significant benefit. Here’s the logic: Often when you are first attempting to speak a second or third language, you’re concerned that you’re going to say the wrong thing and sound ridiculous, and as a result, you often say the wrong thing and sound ridiculous. But when you simply don’t care, well that’s when things start to flow. As long as you actually have some valid knowledge of the language floating around in your subconscious, before long, you may find yourself chattering away in a different tongue to everyone and having a great time. Crazy fun.
While I was there, I met a couple from Massachusetts, Sam and Rachel. More very cool people. Rachel teaches at Clark University and hopes to move to Spain sometime in the near future to teach English. The four of us hung out at the Taberna for a while and then some Russians got into a fight and broke a few chairs. Marin is the father of the family that owns the place, and for an older dude, I wouldn’t mess with him. He lifted both of the Russian guys by the collar and instantly extracted them from the bar. His son, Mario, the bartender, quickly joined him and then they locked the doors. Just like flipping a channel, everything was all smiles again, and they offered us more drinks and gave us plates of bread, jamón ibérica, olives, and tiny onions.
I think it was about five in the morning when we left the Taberna; incidentally, the bars don’t really seem to have a closing time there. They just keep going until the crowd thins out and/or the Russians start breaking chairs. I love Spain.
is, I believe there are a small percentage of people that have the responsibility and authority to fire people. Most folks I’ve discussed this topic with, shy from the subject and claim they could never or would never want that to be within the scope of their work. But, somebody’s gotta do it. So, if you’re one of the people who can relate, then you’re familiar with the notion that employees fire themselves by their actions; we’re just heralds in passing.
king awkward. So, when the next step came and it was time for me to have another conversation, I really didn’t know what to expect. Well, I should say what I didn’t expect was for her to tra-la-la to my office giggling and smiling and continue to do so as I communicated the next step in the process. I didn’t know if she was going to hug me or just go postal right there. It was a weird way to begin that day; I’m still not sure how the situation is going to ultimately pan out.
nteresting things: Over the past couple weeks I’ve gotten into five different situations that almost erupted into a fistfight. Fortunately, none of these were at work. I don’t allow myself to go there; life is expensive, I need my job. The thing is, I’m a full time bicyclist. My truck is fucked and I’m still deciding what I’m going to do about that. And I like riding my bike. Everything is close to home, I’ve lost weight, I don’t get DUI’s when I bar-hop, the miles per gallon (of water) is amazing, it’s a sweet deal. Mostly. Cherry Street in Tulsa is one of the more bike-friendly areas of town. That being said, we still have our fair share of incompetent and inconsiderate motorists in Mid-Town. 
