"That Used To Be One Of My Favorite Songs" My Travelogue to Spain, December of 2011: Introduction

Series Four, Volume Three:

Saturday, January 22, 2011 at 2:14pm:

"That Used To Be One of My Favorite Songs"

My Travelogue to Spain, December of 2011

by Scott A. Osborn

introduzione:

In the past, there was a wistful sense of regret that I’d never figured out a way to see Spain every time I heard or sang the song by Three Dog Night. However after a break-up last summer, followed by some deep thinking, an opportunity presented itself for me to properly kick myself in the ass and change the fact that I’d never been to Spain.

Visiting a new country for the first time in my opinion is not unlike meeting and seducing a new woman. There are a few guidelines of course on how to proceed, but you shouldn’t take any liberties or make sweeping assumptions. You have to be on your toes, pick up every context clue possible, and fully expect some curve-balls when you’re up to bat.

When I was 28, I had the opportunity to get to know Jamaica. My travel group lived in a large hut with a native family, walked everywhere, ate their food, drank a lot of Red Stripe warm or cold (because you sure as hell shouldn’t drink the water), and lived like native Jamaicans in Jack’s Hill (part of the hill country surrounding Kingston) for about two weeks. That was my first exposure to life outside the U.S., and my cultural innocence was officially abandoned. That trip changed my perspective entirely; my view was plucked from the American bosom and my appetite for the rest of the world became ravenous.

Life happens though. My preference would be to meet a new country every month, live out of a suitcase, and maybe see my apartment once or twice a year. I’d love to consummate my knowledge of Baghdad in the spring, or experience Venice before it sinks into the Adriatic. The reality is though, I’m not independently wealthy, and the scope of my work does not require international travel. In comparison, life experience has shown me a lot of my home country, the United States, and it would be nice to see more of it. It should be noted that I love America like I love my Mom. Unvisited American cities seem like distant cousins; if I meet them, great, if not, oh well. Salt Lake City, Utah, and Poughkeepsie, New York are doing fine without me.

Regarding my relationship with Philadelphia and Tulsa, both share extended periods of residency in my life, and I find that both cities possess beautiful, endearing and distinguishing qualities. I do love them equally and tend to miss one when I’m visiting the other. Still, they’re part of the same big American family: Modern, thrifty, impatient, and sometimes hyper-practical.

Spain is a very different girl…lady, I should say. She is beautiful from afar and striking in person. She is chiding and acerbic at times, though in the next moment, warm and inviting. She is ready to go all night long, but she never rushes anything. And just so you know, she is very traditional, and she is not cheap. Fair warning.

When the invitation came to accompany my family in Philadelphia on their holiday trip to Madrid, I redirected almost all of my priorities to make this adventure a reality. It would have been nice to have more time to prepare, but truly, a hundred years from now, nobody will care how much I spent or how much vacation I burned. Spain caught my eye many years before, and this time I was really going to meet her.

This travelogue is filled with free advice for you to do with as you like. These bits of wisdom are born from hard lessons and mistakes I made during my preparation and visit to Spain. During my pre-trip research, I was hoping to find a document like this; perhaps my account will provide assistance for you one day. Personally, I’d much rather find and provide practical information than sift through overly-romantic descriptions of the best water fountains to make magical wishes come true.

My first piece of advice is, if you haven’t done so already, get your passport taken care of right now, even if you don’t have a trip planned. If you’re a responsible citizen, or you have a regular need to carry a passport, then good for you; I’m certain your friends and family are very proud. For the rest of us, if you told yourself last year for instance that you really, really ought to take care of this, just in case…please heed my warning: Stop screwing around and get it done. Get your paperwork started this week.

The entire U.S. passport acquisition process can be a time-consuming, royal pain-in-the-ass and if you need to acquire yours in a hurry, it also becomes an expensive pain-in-the-ass. After dealing with two different expeditor agencies that didn’t provide me with a sense of competency, I found one in Washington D.C. that was extremely helpful and reasonably priced; they receive my highest recommendation (IAG, Inter-American Group. www.passportdocs.com. 1-866-727-7362).

A quick word on pick-pockets and your money: They’re slightly uncomfortable, but you really should get a money belt! If you’re a guy, you’re going to kind of understand what it must feel like to wear a bra all the time. Get used to it; you’ll thank me later. Pick-pocketing is a sport in Europe; it really is. Keep your credit cards and large cash in the money belt. Most of the time, if you’re stealthy, you can slide it down to your waist and get stuff out you need. Your pockets should only carry pocket change. On a side note, when I read about this issue in my pre-flight research, I decided to soak some candy and gum in antifreeze and then I very carefully marked and re-wrapped everything as a little treat for the fucking pick-pocketer’s. Most people did not agree with me when I brought this up in a hypothetical discussion, so you do what you want, but the pick-pocketer’s can go to hell in my opinion!

Getting euros to travel with: One of your best options may be to pay the transaction fee (which is usually about €5) and use the ATM’s. The exchange services can charge up to 10% or more! You’ll see signs which read “CAMBIO” at places which offer this service around town or in the airport. Always ask first what they charge; it could be a real kick in the nuts!

My next piece of advice should go without saying, but I feel compelled to make the statement. Wherever a person may travel to, they should know the language. I don’t intend to preach that you should have spent years in high school or college studying a particular language, or even that you should have invested in a Rosetta Stone program or anything like that, but seriously, you need to have a survival level knowledge of the language where you’re visiting. A rudimentary level will get you where you need to go so you can find the basic stuff you’re going to need. Plausibly speaking, you will probably not find yourself in an academic argument, nor will you need to (or should you) discuss religion or politics. It’s not necessary to have mastered the language.

You will however need to go to the bathroom, pay for your food, get a taxi, get directions, et cetera. All you really need is to learn is just enough to look like you’re sincerely trying to speak the native tongue, and then 80% of the time; the foreign speaker will offer to speak some English when you get stuck. Always keeping mind that just because foreigners like it when we spend our money in their country doesn’t mean they like us, and they’re not going to be inclined to make it any easier if we act like the loud American assholes they’ve come to expect.

Long before I ever arrived in Spain, I took two semesters of Italian in college over ten years ago, and a semester of Spanish at some point as well. There are a lot of Hispanic individuals at my job, and I’d been using the Spanish option at ATM’s and the grocery store. More advice, take it or leave it. Panic is the enemy; preparation is your best friend. The point is, when I got there, I wasn’t freaked out at the thought of getting separated from my group. I knew where we were staying, and felt certain a taxi driver might understand me. After a week of immersion and trial and error, I was confident speaking to a waiter or whomever and walking around on my own. The Spaniards could tell I was trying and normally didn’t give me much attitude when they had to take up the slack in our dialogue. Of course, if somebody wanted to discuss the universe or last night’s game, I’d be completely shit-outta-luck, but that never happened; they could tell I was very American.

Now that I’ve covered some of the basics, I’d like to take you on a virtual tour as we experienced it. We had the wonderful opportunity to spend almost a week and a half in Madrid, and also took walking tours of Tolédo, Ávila, and Segovia. There’s no doubt about it; we enjoyed what we saw, but we only scratched the surface of the places we visited.

"That Used To Be One Of My Favorite Songs" My Travelogue to Spain, December of 2011: Day One

DAY ONE:

Wednesday, December the 22nd: Disembark from Tulsa (and then Dallas)!

During my research to purchase the airline tickets, I learned that it was over a thousand dollars cheaper to fly out of Dallas-Ft. Worth than Tulsa! Ridiculous! Given the circumstances though, everything worked out much better for me to fly out of DFW.

Please allow me to provide a tiny bit of background: I have a good job in lower management at a food manufacturing plant, and make good money to deal with silly crap crap the hourly employees pursue and try to get away with on a regular basis. Our company provides a truly amazing and competitive benefits package which I very much appreciate, including, but not limited to, free medical and dental, a great 401K, a flex-plan, a free gym, and…a free twenty pound turkey at Christmas.

So here’s the dilemma: I’m a single guy. What the hell am I going to do with a twenty pound turkey? The thought of cooking a big turkey dinner for myself with stuffing and gravy and cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie is sad and absurd. The last couple of years, I’ve made an effort to evade that uncomfortable situation.

One year, I showed up at the place and demanded to visit with the turkeys before I picked one out to kill. I became very upset when they informed me that the turkeys were already dead, whereupon I insisted they tell me the time of death. When they said that they really had no idea because that’s how they bought them, things got emotional on my end. Ultimately, I refused to accept livestock in such deplorable conditions and stormed the hell out of there! As it turns out, my company donates all the turkeys to charity that don’t get picked up, so that was my good deed for the holiday season.

Last year, I went ahead and picked up the turkey then wrapped it in some clothes which were originally destined for a trip to the local Good Will. However, I scouted around my neighborhood for a young, healthy-looking beggar (not a crippled one), and threw it at him as I passed. Poor guy; knocked him right off his milk crate, but he did get some nice clothes to wear so he could look for a job. My karma balanced on that one.

This year, I didn’t have to bother with any of that because a good friend of mine agreed to give me a ride to Dallas in exchange for gas money and a twenty pound turkey. I’m not sure why it’s so much more expensive to fly out of Tulsa, but it’s nice that things worked out better this year.

"That Used To Be One Of My Favorite Songs", My Travelogue To Spain, December of 2010: Day Two

Series Four, Volume Three:

Sunday, January 23, 2011 at 12:53pm:

DAY TWO:

Thursday, December the 23rd: Disembark from Philadelphia.

The flight from Dallas to Philly felt like being on a little raft in a big storm. I don’t know what kind of meteorological condition we flew through, but there was an audible sigh of relief in the cabin when our plane finally came to a stop on solid ground late Wednesday evening.

Dad picked me up and I spent the night at their place. While Caitlin was at school on Thursday, I had some free time and hit three GeoCache sites around their area. We proceeded directly from Caitlin's school to the airport, and after check-in and TSA, it was the usual hurry-up-and-wait until we took off.

If you can afford it, I would like to strongly urge you to go business class (now renamed “envoy class”). Coach class on a big ol’ A-330 airbus truly, truly sucks. They should rename this one, “Livestock Class”. Admittedly, I am a big dude. I’m not grotesquely obese, but damn, the seating for passengers in this price range is extremely uncomfortable; I’ll leave it at that.

Madrid is seven hours ahead of Tulsa, Oklahoma, so if you can arrange it, a noon-ish departure is preferable because you’ll likely connect through DFW or ORD and maybe make a stop at PHL, JFK or LGA before you head overseas. The point is, after a day of terminal hopping, you can pack yourself into the airbus, have a couple of drinks (or six), and snore your way through the eight hour flight across the North Atlantic. When you wake up, it’ll be morning in Spain, and you should be relatively calibrated and ready to begin your adventure without too much jetlag.

"That Used To Be One Of My Favorite Songs", My Travelogue To Spain, December of 2010: Day Three

Series Four, Volume Three:

Monday, January 24, 2011 at 9:41am:

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.

"That Used To Be One Of My Favorite Songs", My Travelogue To Spain, December of 2010: Day Four

Series Four, Volume Three:

Tuesday, January 25, 2011 at 5:47am:

DAY FOUR:

¡Felíz Navidad!

So, what is there to do on Christmas Day in Madrid? Most of the regular stores are closed, but the streets are filled with carolers, revelers, beggars, lovers, tourists, performers, cops, vendors and blanket pirates (I’ll explain that later). There’s really only one thing to do, get out there and enjoy the show.

"Darth Santa" One of the many street performers.

Dad, Barb, Caitlin & I spent the day doing just that, wandering around, buying souvenirs at the gypsy & Moroccan markets, having snacks at Papi’s Pizza stand, checking out cathedrals, watching the street performers do their strange and sometimes talented thing, avoiding pickpockets, and enjoying the beautiful weather. Although Madrid is technically farther North than Tulsa and Philadelphia (and it is cold as hell in December in both of my hometowns) it was normally about 55-60ºF during the daytime, and with plenty of sun, it was quite pleasant.

During the day, I stopped at a Farmacía because I wanted to see if Viagra could be purchased over the counter. Indeed it can be purchased over the counter in Spain, and I was still concerned about the fact that Meléna was right about one thing last night: As we were haggling the pussy, my dick was completely asleep, not even a halfsy. There I was, two gorgeous young girls all to myself, in theory ready to have a wild interlude, and my buddy was snoring. That concerned me greatly.

Actually, I’d been curious about Viagra for some time anyway. Who wouldn’t be? If you’re old, and it can put some sap back in your stick, great, good for you, but the thought that went through my mind (and likely millions of other young men’s minds when it came out)was, if it can resurrect an old, flaccid dick, what would it do to mine which seems like it’s ready to go all the time? Oh my! That would be truly impressive! At this writing, I’m 41 years old, and haven’t had much of a problem in that department. There was an incident or two of performance anxiety with my last girlfriend, but really, I think I just started to hate the bitch and my subconscious decided to override the situation. Right after that, there was a similar occasion with a co-worker one late night and my buddy was sleepy again, but in retrospect, that may have been my Guardian Angel and my subconscious teaming up because it really would have made things complicated at my job if we’d had sex. You can get a package of four mighty purple pills for € 60 at the Farmacía, so I seized the opportunity.

Later, the four of us regrouped at the apartment to rest, refuel, have some more wine, and figure out what we were going to do for dinner. I made reservations for us at a Thai restaurant and then we hiked about 3 miles to go find it. There is an inexplicably vast amount of stuff to see and do in Madrid; it truly borders upon sensory overload at times. What I really appreciated was the intentional beauty of the city. Even features which would otherwise pass as insignificant to some, such as storm drains, guard rails or trash cans were crafted to make life more beautiful. Consider that there are also statues and monuments everywhere, which is why at this point, the significance and lifestyle of the “Spaniard Stroll” began to become clear. Seriously, with that much to see, the quality of materials, the complexity and attention to detail, and the level of craftsmanship in everything around you, it would be absurd and foolish not to take the time to appreciate it; especially if you’re visiting.

Monumento di Carlos IIIGranted, everybody in the world is going to have a bad day now and then, but I often wondered what it would be like to be a part of that world where your environment is comprised of centuries of works dedicated to the appreciation of life. It just blew my mind several times during the vacation.

Barb's Dinner: Spicy noodles, shrimp, scallops, curryAt last we made it to the Thai Gardens. We got there a little too early and stopped at a café for another glass of wine; a lot of the restaurants don’t open until 9:00 or 10:00 at night. Different world.

Mine: Hot lava soup with clams, seaweed(maybe), veggies, lots of curry.

I spent a lot of time documenting the food on my daily FaceBook posts, so I’ll summarize now and state that somehow, every single meal in Spain was top quality.Dad's: Roast duck lots of veggies, and a little seafood, pleasantly spicy

Basically, it tasted like food was meant to be: no preservatives, no microwaves, no artificial anything. We had a glass ofvino tinto at every meal and a little bit of bread that consistently produced the reaction, “LORDY! This is...(nom-nom-nom!)”. Life was good.

As we hiked back to our neighborhood, I called my family in Oklahoma and wished them a Merry Christmas. It took about an hour to walk back to our apartment because we stopped frequently to check things out, and after climbing the spiral staircase once more, the mood was one of reticence and languor. I however was not ready to turn in for the night and headed toward the established bordellos from my research.

On the West side of the Puerta del Sol is a street called Calle de Arenal where I’d noticed a lot of guys heading towards at all hours of the day. My research indicated that the bordellos are often called “Whiskey-Bars” or “Clubs”, not to be confused with an actual bar or a discotheque. “Whiskey-Bars” were described as the modern interpretation of the bordellos which have existed for centuries. A place where clients would enter a setting, which in appearance is identical to a classy cocktail bar, except that:

1. They are, by design, always populated with an ample selection of friendly hot women.
2. The proprietors do not want you to go there to drink.
3. There are no pool tables, dart boards, video games, or any other entertainment except for the obvious; the patrons are not there just to “hang out”.

The business model is, you go to the bar, tell the “bartender” which girl(s) you want, buy a drink for yourself and her {or not, you don’t have to [the shelves of bottles were very dusty (just an observation)]}, and then off the two (or three or four) of you go to a private room.

I picked, or rather she approached me, a beautiful, fair-skinned, raven-haired girl who called herself Dóna. We chatted briefly at the bar while I tried to hand-roll a cigarette, but she and the bartender would not shut up about the transaction, so I asked where the bathroom was and excused myself to swallow two Viagra and urinate in peace. When I returned, I attempted to have my cigarette but Dóna was purring and asking me to visit with her alone, so I killed a shot of rum, grabbed my beer, and off we went. We entered a room that looked more like a VIP lounge at a low grade strip club than a bedroom, and Dóna told me it was € 50 for 30 minutes, anything I wanted. So I told her I wanted to have a cigarette and enjoy my beer which seemed to surprise her. The thing is, I had no idea how long Viagra takes to produce results and if I had thirty minutes with this beautiful young woman, why rush things? It was Spain after all.

Dóna curled up next to me and we chatted for a bit, fortunately she spoke very good English, and then she went over to a thermostat and adjusted it because it was kind of chilly in there. She turned to look at me and then posed and asked, “You like?”

“Of course! Yes, Dóna. You are really beautiful.” I don’t think hookers blush that often, or maybe she was just an incredible actress, but she did seem to as she smiled and repeated, “Beautiful, ĕs-Scōtt?”

“Yes, very pretty.”

To summarize, Viagra is a modern miracle of pharmaceutical science and we had a lovely time. Before we left the room, she confided that she was Romanian and that her name was actually Eléna. She asked me to call her cell phone tomorrow because that was her day off, and I could visit at her apartment, € 100 for two hours, anything I wanted. When I asked her to teach me something in Romanian, she said, “Te iubesc,” which means, “I love you”. After a warm hug, she said, “Char vă place,” (“I really like you.”), “Please call me tomorrow, we have nice time.” Poor, sweet girl. It was time for me to get the hell out of there. On one hand, she seemed like she would have been cool to hang out with while I was in Madrid, but at those rates, I would have needed to rob a bank to share her company for the week.

It had been a good long Christmas day, so after leaving the bordello, or “Whiskey-Bar”, or whatever you want to call it, I headed back through Calle de Arenal, and thanked the Polish young lady who worked for that place and pointed me in the right direction earlier. I browzed around the Puerta del Sol for a little bit, took some more pictures, and watched the cops beat up some punks that were getting rowdy and stupid. By the way, don’t fuck with the cops there; they all appeared to be young and athletic and they seriously do not play nice.

As a side story, dogs are not required to be on a leash in Madrid. In fact, some of them appear to be independent citizens or homeless (I’m not making this up). On several occasions, I saw a finely groomed pooch walking along the sidewalk, moving with the crowd, watching for traffic in the street, and then crossing on it’s way to whatever doggy errand it was on that day. Craziest damn thing I’ve seen in a while. I also spotted several poor mangy little creatures huddled up in trash and blankets, with or without a human companion, along the walkways. While I was out wandering Christmas day, I saw some nasty cur getting rowdy and stupid, barking at anyone and everyone, and the cops surrounded it and withdrew their pistols. Instantly the dog surmised his odds and got the hell out of there (I’m really not making this up). Different world.

After the show was over, and the cops had thrown most of the hoodlums into an armored black bus, I headed back to my neighborhood. The closer it got to New Year’s, the crazier the streets got at night. At first, I felt like going upstairs to crash, but I wanted to be a part of the madness for a little while longer, so I grabbed a sidewalk table at the Taberna again and had a beer. After about an hour, I satiated my appetite of the scene, returned to the apartment, and slept like a baby.

"That Used To Be One Of My Favorite Songs", My Travelogue To Spain, December of 2010: Day Five

Series Four, Volume Four:

Wednesday, January 26, 2011 at 8:50am:

DAY FIVE:

domingo 26 diciembre

On my way out the apartment gate that morning, there was a sign which caught my eye and I took a moment to translate. Next to an illustration of an accordion player was some very serious looking text which essentially meant, “DO NOT TOUCH! ENOUGH NOISE! DO NOT PAY THE BUSKERS (accordion players)!! Help us combat noise pollution in this neighborhood! Thank you for your cooperation.” Wow. Either the accordion players really, really sucked, or somebody had a deep seated grudge against them. I’ll bet there’s a long story there.

Since the bicycle was not really a good option, I couldn’t go GeoCaching because the large game sites were a hell of a long way away. Photography and souvenir hunting at the gypsy & Moroccan markets seemed like an interesting alternative and that kept me busy until Dad, Barb & Caitlin got up and texted me. Barb needed distilled water for her sleeping machine, so we ventured to the market and had one hell of a time trying to find this item. Even with the translator app on my phone, nobody seemed to understand and we were directed to the bottled water, a marble fountain outside, the bathroom, and ice trays.

Dad & Barb got frustrated and decided to take the groceries home, though I was fiercely determined not to be bested by a bottle of distilled water and began hunting throughout all three El Corte Inglés buildings on Calle Precípio. The South West building is kind of like a six story Best Buy and the South East building looked like a three story Barnes & Nobles or Borders. Finally, I got frustrated as well, and the guy at the info desk in the North West building directed me back downstairs nearby the supermercado section where they have a locksmith, dry cleaners, and a cleaning supplies section. Distilled water is considered a cleaning supply? What the fuck? After my mission was successful, I stopped and had a little snack at their café.Vino tinto, espresso, a plate of olives and a glass of water for € 3, very nice.

Back at the apartment, Dad was taking a nap and Barb and Caitlin were ready to go out again, so I did a 180º and we wandered the streets to the South of our neighborhood. Barb wanted to find some of the cathedrals Ramón told her were nearby and we visited the Iglesia San Sebastian first and then headed toward the Plaza Mayor and checked out the Museo Parroquial de Santa Cruz. Both are mammoth and impressive of course and we tried to figure out what time their services were but didn’t have any luck. After that, we strolled through the Plaza Mayor again and checked out the vendor stands.

We returned to the apartment and honestly, I could have used a little crash nap, but that wasn’t possible because I didn’t actually have a bedroom at our apartment for the week. My sleeping quarters were in the living room on the couch where everyone hung out during the day and watched TV or did whatever. I’m not a fan of TV, in fact I detest them, but this opinion is normally in the minority, so I drank, a lot, and spent a good deal of time on the terrace; incidentally, there a lot of pictures of our little street, Calle de Cadíz in my collection.

That night, we ventured out and found something really cool in the Plaza de Santa Ana. Nokia had set up a clear plastic tent-structure which looked kind of like a discotheque except there was no music, or none that we could hear. Anyway, it was filled with a lot of people dancing around having a hell of a lot of fun, so we investigated. Dad and Caitlin didn’t seem terribly interested at first, but Barb and I corralled them into the tent anyway. Two very pretty girls were at the entrance handing out wireless headsets linked to a DJ mixing music there. You didn’t have to pay anything, they just wanted people to come inside and generate electricity for the demonstration. The way that the participants generated electricity was by dancing on floor pads that lit up in proportion to the pressure of you dancing on them, and also by pedaling stationary bicycles in the corners that had pulse displays built into the back wheels. Very cool. We had a great time and acted very silly for a while and generated our share of electricity for the event.

The four of us wandered up Calle de Príncipe and stopped for tapas and drinks at a place on our street called Malaspina next to the Taberna. Nice place, amazing little yellow olives; I could have eaten jars of them. Caitlin had some delicious flan, and I ordered two tapas samplers for us. A little later, when Dad and Barb were ready to go upstairs to the apartment, I took care of the check and asked the waitress to box everything up, and her first response was to look at me like I’d just announced that I needed to fart. Apparently, it may be more of an American custom to take your food with you rather than eat it very, very casually; or maybe they just leave it, I don’t know.

Dad went to bed upon our return home, and Barb and Caitlin stayed up for quite a while that evening Skyping and watching TV. I headed to the terrace again for a drink and a smoke; the people-watching was always interesting. In addition to the street scene below, for the past few days, we’d noticed a young lady across the way, who enjoyed cleaning, cooking and milling about among her roommates completely topless with all the window shades open. I love Spain.

The novelty wore off after a day or two though and we simply became accustomed to Señorita Free-Show. Tonight was no exception; she was dancing around in a pair of shorts, mingling with the people in her apartment. I couldn’t tell if she didn’t see us across the way or just didn’t care; I suspected the latter. After a while, I turned my attention to the madness below because some guys looked like they were going to slug it out over some girl. That’s when the bedroom light came on across the way. Yay! Double feature!

Señorita Free-Show playfully yelled something into the other room and then closed the door as the two guys in the street went from yelling to poking each other in the chest. She continued dancing and grinding to herself and held up a few different outfits for inspection then wiggled out of her shorts. Below, the guys had now graduated from poking to shoving. Next, chiquita slid out of her bikini briefs and admired herself bare-ass naked in a mirror and for a few moments, my attention ricocheted between the two spectacles. Suddenly, the crowd below erupted in screaming and yelling and I saw that one of the guys had pulled out a knife. The spectators backed FAR AWAY because the knife-guy looked more pissed than skilled, swinging his blade wildly and screaming at the other guy and his girl. Taking another drag of my cigarette, I glanced up at Señorita Free-Show and saw her standing at the window glaring at me, full frontal nudity. Normally, I would have been both delighted and embarrassed; however that’s when I noticed the chiquita’s penis that was the size of a horse cock! I almost dropped my glass over the ledge into the street. That probably would have produced terrible consequences because at that point, the cops had arrived, approaching quickly from both sides of Calle Cadíz, and also the little side street, Calle de Barcelona. Chiquita yanked the shades closed in the bedroom and I took another long drag of my cigarette.

Around two in the morning, Barb & Caitlin were finally winding down, the fight below had been forcibly defused and Señor Free-Show across the way was fully dressed in the kitchen making food. I pulled out the hide-a-bed and crashed.