DAY SIX:
lunes 27 diciembre:
I decided to go on a little scouting mission in the morning because Dad & Barb expressed an interest in taking some tours while we were there, and we didn’t know where to buy the tickets. Once I made my way to the Puerta del Sol, I got lucky and spotted one of the double-decker tour buses cruising up the Calle Mayor. When it got close and stopped in traffic, I jumped on briefly and asked the driver where to buy tickets. He was not very patient with my broken Spanish, but a German passenger in the front directed me to the North West side of the plaza toward a kiosk.
I found it easily and took a few pix of the info signs, then headed to El Corte Inglés to pick up some stuff and wander around. The girl at the information desk told me where the travel agency was in the building, so with my mission mostly accomplished, I explored all nine floors for a while, then hung out at the café until Barb texted and wanted to know where I was. It seemed better to return and explain what I’d found rather than text an explanation.
Texting in my opinion is the modern day carrier pigeon; it’s not for holding a conversation. To each his own.
More red wine flowed and we had a snack at the apartment while I communicated the results of my scouting mission. About 2pm, the four of us headed out and found theagencia de viajes at El Corte Inglés and purchased tickets to go to Tolédo on Tuesday, and Ávila and Segovia on Wednesday. Caitlin was not feeling well, so she and Barb went back to the apartment and Dad and I agreed we should find the bus station right then rather than hunt for it in the morning.
It took about thirty minutes to find the place, and the folks at the counter were not proficient in English that day, but we got the idea. We needed to be there early, register at the desk, and listen for our tour number. The bus would definitely leave on time and they emphasized we couldn’t be late.
After a quick snack of leftover tapas and a glass of wine, I went out exploring again. While crossing the Puerta del Sol, it seemed like an interesting idea to shoot a 360º panorama in video and stills. The photos were so-so; the only really interesting result of that exercise was getting into an argument with a well-dressed Spaniard who seemed very offended that I took his picture in the process.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t really had enough to drink that day to confidently argue in Español, and the gentleman refused my offer to discuss the matter in English. Fortunately, the lady with him offered to interpret. I insisted, as politely as possible, that he was out of his fucking mind and completely irrational because there were people taking pictures of everything throughout the plaza. He countered with a paragraph-sized rebuttal that involved a lot of gesturing and yelling which she translated as, “He disagrees with you.” In the end, this man and I did not become friends, and in parting he cast several Spanish curses upon me which would have been cool to recall and reuse later, but alas, I could not.
After that little scene was over and they disappeared into the crowd, I picked up some souvenirs for a few co-workers at a regalos and noticed a bright red t-shirt with a big, black, anatomically-correct bull on the front; it’s kind of obnoxious yet stylish, much like a well-dressed, completely irrational Spaniard, so I bought it as a memento of the day.
As I was leaving the store, a coche de policia came screaming down the street, jumped the curb and tore straight into the thick of people in the plaza.
Miraculously, they didn’t hit anyone as the crowd instinctually parted for their entry. It should be mentioned that this was the one and only occasion when I witnessed Spaniards doing something in a hurry. Standing on some steps, I saw another police car intersect with the first at Calle de Montera and a gang of blanket pirates escaped West on foot across the plaza.
Blanket pirates (for use of a better term), are basically wandering street vendors. Rather than sell their wares in a semi-permanent structure, such as the wooden sheds seen in some of the plaza markets, these guys lay everything out on blankets or bedsheets in the middle of the sidewalk. Each blanket is secured on the corners by a heavy cord and these form an “X” pattern, securely tied at the juncture.
The blanket pirates seem to have a system of surveillance and communication within their group that is comparable in effectiveness to a school of fish. Whenever the mysterious signal is given, every single one of these guys simultaneously grab the middle knot on their blanket, yank it straight into the air as they take off down the sidewalk, and then immediately vanish around a corner. I trotted after them once or twice and they were gone like a fart in the wind, like ninjas almost. Crazy stuff.
If you get a sippy cup of wine and hang out in the right place, you can watch this cat-and-mouse game they play with the police all day long; it’s quite entertaining. The blanket pirates themselves seemed like nice enough guys; all of them appeared to be in their late teens or twenties, with very dark, native-African features. While I was looking at some of their stuff I heard them speak French, Spanish of course, Italian, German, et cetera with their customers while they chatted amongst themselves in a tongue quite unknown to me; perhaps it was something indigenous to them.
To be candid, their merchandise was mostly crap. Each guy had a specialized collection of theatre-pirated movies or cheap umbrellas, or a host of products which were almostdesigner brand such as Dolce & Gaddanna, Calvin Kleim, Mike (instead of Nike), and some shirts with a clever Polo logo that was horizontally inverted.
The cops who stormed into the plaza jumped out of their cars and conferred with several foot patrol officers, and then they all dispersed and vanished just as effectively as the blanket pirates until the next time to pounce.
As the sun began to dip lower, I stopped by the market again and got a few more bottles of wine and then headed back into the masses which seemed to have tripled in number since I’d entered the market.
The four of us had a very nice meal at our apartment, enjoying the ambience of the smells and sounds of the street below, and as I savored the pork roast and peas and vino tinto, I knew that Spain had stolen my heart. “I could live and be happy in such a place.”
That was the grand idea’s moment of conception; when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I need more from life than working the graveyard shift at the junk-food factory. The extent of my discontent living in Tulsa, Oklahoma was fully realised and a plan to leave her for good was born from necessity.
We cleaned up everything, and the general consensus was that it would be nice to go out for a stroll, so we headed through the Puerta del Sol and checked out the giant Christmas tree for a little bit.
After that, we scouted the Calle de Precipio where we would be headed in the morning and crossed the Gran Via in no particular direction. While we were meandering, Caitlin and I spotted a big librería which had some cool looking titles, and we browsed for a book for her to help in her Spanish studies. Naturally there were a lot of titles we’d probably never see in the States, which could make it problematic to cross-check her translation. I suggested one of the classics, and found “To Kill A Mockingbird” (“Matar A Un Ruiseñor”) because I assume most high schoolers are going to have to tackle that one at some point anyway. In turn, “I, Robot” (“Yo, Robot”) was waiting for me in the book bin next to hers.
Since we had to get up early and head to the bus station the next morning, we didn’t stay out too long. We did encounter another cultural experience on the way back though. The guy who sat next to me on the flight over informed me that in Spain, they celebrate Christmas of course, and then, on January the Fifth, they celebrate Three Kings Day which is kind of like a sequel to Christmas. Of course, the kid in me automatically thought this was very cool, and then the adult in me retorted that this means the holiday season over here would be twice as stressful and expensive. Sometimes I have to tell the adult in me to go to hell.
In America, when you go to the mall or wherever, there are jolly Santa’s waiting to be photographed and terrify some children and thrill others. In Madrid, there were displays set up with three guys dressed as the three kings from the Nativity waiting to be photographed and terrify some children and thrill the rest. Kind of a brilliant idea though; they seemed to get through the line of parents and kids about three times as fast.
Upon our return, Barb and I had a drink, Caitlin played with FaceBook and Skype for a little while, and then it was crash-time.
