Exhausted but content
11:37pm. Madrid time. I’m so grateful to be here, but so tired and already experiencing dizziness, headache, and exhaustion. It’s strange being here with just Julien and I. I like it, and I am possibly more relaxed. But enough with the show tunes already, and my god, he takes so long to get ready to go out. I never knew!
It’s hot here. The sun is oppressive and so we have to stick to the shade. After abuelos, after a non-nap, and lunch of tortilla and Gazpacho, we arrived at the apartment on Calle Mayor, 40. It’s lovely, but not my fav. I prefer last year’s location and the plaza Santa Ana apartment. But this place is central to everything and I hope I have the energy to explore.
We visited Tandem today, the place where we will both take Spanish classes. Easy to get to. And then ended up at the futbol store in Sol.
I ate a whole plate of pulpo and spoke to a young American girl from LA at the mercado San Miguel. She was telling me that she preferred Madrid to Barcelona. I couldn’t image. How so? I asked. She said it’s far more Spanish. And she really liked the Madrid vibe. Hmm. I have to think about this more. Does she see a beauty in the city that I don’t? I mean, c’mom, Barcelona is the place to be. It’s the hottest city in Europe right now. It’s gorgeous. I grappled with my own difficulty in loving this city. I never really have. I come here because my children are half Spanish. This is their culture and I want them to know it. But what is Madrid to me? I have so many bad memories. When I married R in 1997 and flew to Madrid on Christmas eve I was filled with a naive sense of optimism. My life here would be like the one I wanted for myself since Paris–an American expatriate living abroad. And so, in Madrid, I truly believed my dreams had all come true. I was married to a Spaniard and free to live my life in Europe, right? Yes, but…
We lived in Vallecas, a graffitti-ed, poor suburb now overrun with Latin crime gangs. Back in the day it was gypsy thieves. We lived on the fourth floor of an apartment that had no heat or hot water. We had no furniture. And my husband was out of work. More than anything, he was an isolationist, and struck with a bout of severe depression that left him never wanting to leave the apartment. And because I had no money, I could barely afford a metro ticket into the center. I cried every day. Anyway. I lived in Madrid for a year like that and once we finally moved back the States I swore I would never go back. And yet…I did. Some strange force always pulled me back. And here I am again. Only now, I have my own place on the calle Mayor, in the heart of old Madrid and I am beating back jet lag with a wave of excitement to be back in Europe. I’m resigned to the fact that Madrid is where my kids grandparents live and so be it.
Anyway, I came back. Took another nap from 7-9. Ish. And now I’m ready for bed again. Reading Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast losing myself in my old Paris days. Oh, Paris. I loved you so. You’re something I can no longer have. Will I ever have a place here like I did in you?
And speaking of love…I almost forgot to mention that Doug got his Traceless tattoo. He is now a tattooed man. “It’s my love letter to you,” he said, and sent a picture. It looked raw and pink from soreness. God. I’ve never met a man who has loved me like that. Loved me with such permanency and trust. I feel like it took a lifetime to find him.
Laundry and old announcements in Vallecas
I have to say, today was far better than yesterday. I was up at a decent hour and felt relatively good all day. I probably should have avoided both the churros con chocolate and later the soy milk with coffee ice cream batido. But, oh well. It is what it is. Speaking of paying a price. I always pay for dairy.
After lunch at Asun’s, Julien took a nap and I walked down the Avenida San Diego and took photos of old pisos along the way and down back streets. There’s a romance to Vallecas. But I just can’t get too close. I could never live here again. I can only safely, from a distance, observe and remember. Like I said, it brings back too many bad memories of being trapped on calle Monte Igueldo.
Julien has such horrible jet lag that he can barely function. I feel determined to get him on a proper schedule. The problem is, back home he was going to bed at two in the morning, then not getting up until two in the afternoon. That’s like going to bed at seven in the morning here, and getting up at seven at night. It’s like he’s in China.
I briefly had a moment of panic that I would be bored and that I would waste my time here. I had finished eating part of a bocadillo de tortilla that Asun made for me and I went on Facebook where everything was exactly as I left it. People posting about the Republican National Convention. More posts about Black Lives Matter versus “all” lives matter. More posts about how everyone loves their police officers. More crap about Isis and mass shootings and music videos from the 80’s and cats and puppies. I was paralyzed with fear that I would be the same person I was 24-hours ago, stuck in my American-ness. I cannot let that happen. My goal, therefore, as soon as I get over this jet lag, is to create a meaningful, purposeful experience here. I only have 21 days left to accomplish that goal. Wheph.
Relaxing in the Retiro
It’s not nearly as hot today as it was yesterday. Or, perhaps, I’ve acclimated. A full coffee in the morning, shopping, then to Asun’s for cocido. Yes! Cocido in July. It’s a Madrid stew, very heavy, made of garbanzos and chicken and veggies. But she makes it for me every Sunday I am here because I love it so. Delicioso. Julien and I went straight to the Retiro after lunch and stayed there for a good two hours, setting up camp in a little spot of grass surrounded by boxwood hedges. He was very upset that I didn’t agree that he was a good soccer player. He said he needs that to build his confidence. I said it’s not my job to build a false sense of confidence in you. Do you think you’re a good soccer player? He said no. And would me telling you you were good somehow make you better? No. Now, how about this…are you a good actor? An emphatic yes. What if I told you you were no good? Would you still know you were a good actor? Yes! he said. Then, voila. You don’t need my approval. I’m not here to tell you you’re good at everything. I’m here to love you no matter what. There’s a difference.
Then I kicked his ass playing some soccer game and he was like, “I take back all my whining about being a great soccer player, mom.”
The park was wonderful. I hadn’t been there in a couple years, maybe longer. And I really had the craving to go back. We picked a spot close to the lake. I brought my new yoga mat and I did a few poses, including crane, which I got really good at. Juli kicked the ball around and didn’t really want to leave. But, I had to pee and didn’t feel like waiting in line again and tipping one euro to pee in toilet with no seat. Besides, my phone was dying.
I texted Doug a bit. I miss him. Everywhere I go, I think, Doug would love this spot, or, I can’t wait to take Doug here. And while I am not lonely and really trying to live in the moment, it still will be so nice having him here. And I can’t wait to see his tattoo. So hot.
Marisa texted me too. She’s bored and struggling with kids that don’t want to do anything. God, do I remember that feeling. I told her that having a sense of ennui in Europe is a luxury of the wealthy. A turn of the century problem. You’re lucky to have it. It’s quite romantic, actually.
When I slip into boredom, I tell myself I am merely having a moment of Victorian luxury. And now it’s easier than ever to be a woman alone in Madrid. In Paris, men and women sat alone at cafes. It was one of my favorite things to do. But, when I came here 19 years ago, I remember being stared down by judgy Spaniards if I sat at a cafe alone, especially during the lunch hour. I even tried to get a spot at a two-seater table at the window once in one of the oldest restaurants in town. They said no, I wasn’t allowed to sit there and shuffled me to the back. That, after telling me, “sit any where you want.” God forbid I sit at a window seat. The truth is, Spain is still a very family-oriented country. You almost never see people dining alone. And yet, Madrid is changing. There’s a modernness that is taking over and opening the way for a personal freedom that has been unknown for so long. It’s refreshing.
Tonight, I think I want to eat very lightly. Maybe just a tapa or two. I’d really like to go to the Malasaña tonight. Or maybe La Latina. Like most big cities, Madrid has very distinct barrios, or neighborhoods with completely different vibes. La Latina is the oldest part of the city and the most beautiful. And it has the absolute best tapas bars and restaurants. The Malasaña is just past the calle Fuencarral, a great spot for shopping, and it’s pretty much Madrid’s hipster neighborhood. All the vintage shops and hip cafes are there with lots of guys with beards. Oooh. We’ll see. And we’ll see what Julien wants to do. He’s so different than Dani who never wanted to do anything. Aside from early morning stuff, Julien is up for just about everything.
The church bells rang all throughout the day, from the the time I went to the Rastro in the morning till late at night. People were pouring back into the city from the pueblos and every time we caught a train we waited with a pack and then crammed into a car. I was exhausted from all the walking through the Rastro, and so, Julien and I caught a taxi to Peña de la Miel with a cab driver who looked just like our Italian neighbor back home and was listening to the Grease soundtrack, but in Spanish. Asun made roasted chicken, gazpacho and French fries for lunch. Also, angulas. Angulas are completely new for me. They are baby eels that look more like Asian cellophane noodles apparently can cost around 100 € per kilo, especially during the Christmas holiday because they are rare and fished from Cantabria and the north. Asun bought these at Corivan or Eroski and I think they are the cheaper, imitation kind. Kinda like imitation crab. But, really. They were delicious. I have been eating a ton, and yet, I hope all this walking is burning it off. I’m not so sure.
In the afternoon, we took a 35-minute high-speed train to Toledo, mine and Julien’s favorite “day-trip,” and walked around a couple hours. At one point, we sat in separate corners of the grand plaza in front of the cathedral and zoned out. I watched tourists take photos of their significant other standing in front of the cathedral, one after the other. And I was quite happy knowing that most of them think their spouse will look attractive in the photo. There were also two Kardashian-looking women in dresses and stilettos with extensions in their hair. They both carried big purses, and a fit, bald man wearing tight jeans and construction boots took their photo. Afterwards, they all sat on the steps below me and looked at the photos on the man’s phone. I couldn’t imagine it being easy to walk along the cobbled stones in heels, up and down the hills. I thought they looked ridiculous.
Before we caught the train back to the city, I had salmorejo and Julien had a Fanta.
Tomorrow, I am getting a massage at 10 in the morning at the Al Andaluz hammam, after Julien leaves for his trip to Escorial. I need to relax. My legs are killing me. And then at five, I’m meeting Rocio for a drink.
An old luggage and antique store in La Latina
There are 50 steps to climb to get to our apartment. The first 40 are a piece of cake. The last ten are so painful I could collapse. Add the Madrid heat to the equation and it’s a ferocious climb. It beats the shit out of you. Especially if, like me, you go up and down them 20 times a day. So, today, I’m taking it easy. Julien is in Escorial and then going swimming at this kid’s pool afterward. I’m thrilled! I’ve been hoping that he meet new people his own age here. My fingers are crossed that they are nice and he enjoys them.
I went to the Hammam this morning. I really needed a massage. And you cannot beat the price. €43,00 for sauna, steam, hot tub and massage. I basically ended up having a couples massage with some strange man. I took off my bathing suit top and lied face down and drifted into pensamientos of Doug and I kissing in one of the shallow pools. Four more days. 🙂
I never took it easy. I put on heels and walked to Calle Fuencarral and beyond, into the Malasaña to have lunch at a cafe called Naïf. Fabulous faire. Très hipster. Genial atmosphere. Couldn’t have been happier except that my feet were on fire. Burning from over use. I actually feel like I broke my toe. I would have liked to have a cafe solo at Lolina’s, but it was too early and I was too full after lunch, and so I shopped my way back home and eventually ended up at the Cafe Madrid across the street from our apartment. I spent a good 30 minutes at a dark bar sipping my espresso and chatting with Marisa on wassapp. She was on the train from Ceccano to Rome getting ready to survive the last leg of her journey. She’s having a very hard time. Reminds me of being stuck at Asun’s in Vallecas with bars on the windows and the smell of urine in the street. I felt so trapped there. Loving my In-laws on the one hand, and feeling pent up on the other. There’s something to be said about having your own space.
I’ll write about Rocio tomorrow. I really need to go to bed.
Seafood salad tapa at Mercado de San Miguel
Is it day 6 already? Say it isn’t so. I can’t begin to tell you how much i am enjoying this city casi sola. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with Julien. But I also love spending time by myself.
We went to Tandem in the morning and they almost put us in the same class. No thanks! So, I told them that Juli needs to be in a different level than me. They put him in a very basic level, which he probably needs because he’ll be stronger. Besides, there’s apparently a German girl in the class who he has the hots for. He’s perfectly happy. I too like my class. There’s a couple in there my age and everyone is very friendly. Shockingly, I am probably the strongest communicator. Others understand better than I, but I speak better than anyone. That makes me happy.
We caught a taxi to Vallecas after class, had lunch, and took little naps. Julien spoke in full sentences to abuela and we were all quite shocked. He just needed confidence. He found it, somewhere.
We were home by 5:30 and then he was back out by 6 to head to Tandem where everyone was meeting up to go to the amusement park. He won’t be home until about midnight, if not later. Ugh. My littlest bunny!
I went to the Mercado San Miguel and had a seafood salad. But didn’t stay long because I was hit with a pretty bad dizzy spell. Yes, it’s back. And I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s coming from the increased intake in coffee, less lexipro and a bit of agoraphobia. Once safely back home, I did my homework, and yoga for about an hour. So glad I have my yoga mat. Not much else to relate. I’ll tell the story of the mother and daughter on the train in tomorrow’s journal.
Oh, so Rocio. I met her on Verbling. She was my teacher for a couple months before coming here and she suggested we meet up in Madrid when I come. I was game. So, we arranged to meet on the Plaza Santa Ana and have a drink and tapas at one of the outdoor cafes. We spoke mostly in Spanish with few English translations here and there. I was quite proud of myself. She and her husband are starting a company based on a machine that converts trash to fuel. They are starting this project in, I want to say Ecuador, where there is no government regulation of trash like there is in Spain. I found her fascinating and I hope to meet her again.
Texted a bit with Nuria, Marisa, Doug, Dani and mom today. Eso es todo.
My 100 peseta yoga mat in my Madrid apartment.
I spent an hour or so with a 24-year-old girl who only speaks Italian and Spanish. She is a friend of Marisa’s sister. An Italian, living in Madrid studying literature and philosophy. She rolled her cigarettes, talked about her girlfriend who is studying law and asked me a slew of questions about my own personal writing. I gave her the link to my blog. I think she was fascinated.
A very thin, red-faced street person with scraggly blond hair came by our table to beg for money. I said, “Lo siento. I don’t speak Spanish.”
She said, in Spanish, “Like hell you don’t. I can hear you speaking Spanish to your fucking friend.” And then she proceeded to swipe my water bottle from the table, carry it off and throw it in a trash can. Well, ok, then.
I tried to scout out a yoga studio, and I found one pretty close. But it’s Ashtanga yoga and I have no idea what that is. Besides, I’m too stressed to go back out and learn something new. My cup runeth over.
It hit 100 degrees today. Luckily, we did not take the 50-minute journey to Vallecas. I think if I had to walk down the calle Peña de la Miel today, I would have walked to my death. The street itself–treeless and conspicuously lacking in shade from any building or awning, and, worse, lined with cars reflecting the light back into the street–is a boiling hot reminder that the universe can suck the life out of you in an instant, or, in this case, fry you up to sizzling perfection and serve you like a well-cooked chunk of solomillo.
Calle de Santiago, Madrid
Am I strange because I love the bathrooms here? The cleaning products they use. The way they have actual doors, not stalls. Am I weird because I love the smell of strong, healthy body odor and cigarette smoke as I walk down the street? And the combination of all three together–which happens more frequently than you’d expect– can send my serotonin levels up like crazy and drive me wild.
Tonight, I found the perfect spot to take Doug and the kids on their first night here in Madrid, if they can stay awake. It’s on the Calle de Santiago, right around the corner from us. In fact, it looked like only spaniards knew about it. A quiet little rincon de Madrid, right off the Calle Mayor. I found it after dining on the plaza Oriente, at the Cafe Oriente. I dropped Julien off at the Plaza Opera to meet his friends– good Lord, that Plaza is filled with young kids. Anyway, they were going to Principo Pio to watch an outdoor movie, so, I was alone, yet again. I think Juli felt at one point like he was abandoning me. I said to him, “I love going out with you, but I also love being alone.” There is something quite romantic about being alone in Europe.
Friday, Jul 29, 2016, 8:03 PM
So, Doug & Co come tomorrow and I am both nervous and excited. There is a rhythm here and a mood that will be disturbed in exciting ways and not so exciting ways. Not to mention that we are all packing up and moving south for a couple weeks.
My last class was not exactly fun. The couple from Indiana got on my nerves and I was mentally burnt out by their incessant complaining. I was kind of happy to be done. After class we took a taxi to Asun’s and had paella. Luckily we got the chance to see Tio Pedro before leaving. I had one more meet up planned with Rocio but cancelled because of heat and exhaustion. Besides, I need to pack and get read for my husband!
Doug & Co arrive, lunch at Naif
I spent a ton of time posting Facebook posts about the crazy good food I ate yesterday during my business luncheon with Fernando Moreno. Maybe that will change the depressing American mood that exists at the moment.
Lunch was at La Cocina de Maria Luisa and Fernando introduced me to Maria, the owner and chef, a sturdy looking woman with a strong handshake and a positive spirit. I had no clue what to order and so, I went with their recommendation: truffles and wild boar. She paired it with a very light Chivite rosé and then left Fernando and I to talk for a good two and a half hours on the world of omega-3s He owns a manufacturing plant in Spain and creates one of the purest, cleanest oils on the planet. I want us to use him, and so, I plan to send him some of our products. In actuality, when I gave him a clue as to who our manufacturer is, he said he couldn’t compete. That our stuff is one of the best in the world. I quietly thanked my father for making a good choice so many years ago.
Julien ended up going to the Prado, then taking some lessons in skateboarding, then basically staying out until 2:45am, when I told him to be home by 1am. Tonight he’s grounded. I’m happy that he’s in love and experiencing Madrid in a totally cool way, but, I don’t like him staying out until 3am. Sheesh. I’m up early, waiting for Doug to arrive. They should be coming down the calle Mayor within the hour. Joy!
Dried landscape of La Mancha, by train
Doug and kids came yesterday and despite mild excitement to finally be in Europe, they were mostly exhausted. Grace hit a wall while at Naïf and so, we caught a taxi back to the apartment and everyone took naps. As promised, I took them to dinner on the calle de Santiago and it wasn’t the exciting, curious, exploratory dinner I had hoped for. It was a lot of whining and complaining and a lot of “I won’t eat that.” I have to say, Chance was more up for experimenting. But, not by much. And Julien didn’t join us because it was his last night out with his Madrid friends.
At the moment, I am on the train to Sevilla and quite happy to be leaving Madrid. Of course I could change my mind once we get there. And yet, I think the trees, the crickets, the birds and the beach will bring me great joy. I had a fantastic time in Madrid, but the crowds and dust and noise and lack of trees were beginning to get to me. Madrid itself was beginning to get to me. What else is new?
This moment. I fly through the olive groves and crumbled castles that sink into the dry, brittle grass of La Mancha. A windmill in the distance. A field. A high speed Ave that will bring us to the land of Al Andalus.
Fog over the valley west of Tarifa
For the past two mornings the fog has been thick, blocking out the mountain in complete grayness. It lifts around noon and the sun comes out. But, the Levante is coming and we are all waiting to see its strength. I meditated watching the fog and mist swirl across the sky this morning.
There are two main winds in Tarifa: the Poniente, which is a calmer, westerly wind off the Atlantic, and the Levante which is a strong easterly wind off the Mediterranean. This latter wind gives Tarifa its reputation for being the kite surfing/wind surfing capital of Europe. There are hoards of flies. I wonder if they are coming in on the westerly wind like they do on Long Beach Island. Or, more likely, they are always here because of all the animals.
I haven’t been in the best of moods. It’s a mix of getting my period, feeling ill, drinking too much, dealing with kids, dealing with Doug, and feeling a bit trapped. This house isn’t helping. On day two, the water went out. Day three, electricity went out. Today, only two of the burners on the stovetop work. Grace is incessantly whining about bugs, which causes Doug to close all the windows and doors. Then, it becomes stifling hot. Kids are bored. There’s lots of bickering between Chance and Grace and a fair amount of whining from Juli as well.
The bullring in Ronda
We went to Ronda yesterday. It was a much longer drive than we all expected. It was about two and half hours and we just kept winding up this mountain forever. Single lane, stuck behind a slow moving truck. Not only that but we took the N340 almost to Marbella before driving inland toward Ronda. Was it worth it? Sort of. It was a lovely city, but definitely not a place I’d want to own a house. It felt remote and out of touch with the times, as if everyone living there was living in the 1980’s. In fact, many of the menus were printed from the 80’s and I swear I saw annuncios that had never been taken down from 1986. The view from the Tajo is stunning, of course. and the architecture is very old world Spanish, Christian, not Moorish. And while we all got a long for the most part, I think everyone is done with this trip. I think what’s toughest to deal with is everyone’s American sensibility. “Where’s the chicken nuggets?” kinda thing. Expecting to take three showers a day in a rural, remote community that functions off a private water tank on the property. Throwing clean clothes in the dirty laundry to be washed. Wondering why the roads are so bumpy and there are no services out here. Frustrated that the stores close mid-day. Do you know how hard it is to travel with people who only want to eat hamburgers?
I think Doug and I both caught a stomach bug. What was that about gazpacho keeping me healthy?!
I miss Dani horribly.
Saturday, Aug 6, 2016, 7:27 AM
Peering North toward the valley out our bedroom window, Betis
I was sick in bed all day yesterday with this stomach bug, with the exception of a few outings in the morning. I took a light walk down the side of the mountain to where the cows were grazing. Doug also drove me into to Tarifa to get my nails done and what an experience that was. When I first arrived the girl told me have a seat. It was a tiny little salon with a manicure table and three spots for a hair cut. I sat and waited and not very surprisingly she went out of the shop front and left me there to wait. She returned 15 minutes later with toast and a coffee. Oh, Spain. The girl who did my nails (who had been sitting at the desk the entire time) had never done nails before. They had run out of acetone, were annoyed that they had to remove my gel polish and were not even going to give me a manicure until I was like, “Por favor, estoy aqui espesificamente por un mani.” Better yet, they only had three color to choose from, which was fine by me because I actually can’t stand too many choices. But the choices were hot pink, fire-engine red and some maroon color that looked like it was near empty. Anyway, she put cuticle remover on my nails, removed one cuticle and then asked what color I wanted. She ended up painted over rough nails and as she did so she laughed and said, “gel is just so hard to remove.” No overcoat. No undercoat. No double coat. She says, “let that dry for 10 minutes and then we’ll paint your toes.” Oh no you won’t. I find it hard to believe all nail salons in Spain operate in this way. I am now on a quest. And yet, there was something endearing in these two. I asked if they had ever traveled. My nail girl said, “Once. To Italy.” And then they complained incessantly about Spain not having any money. I assure you they’d have more if they ramped up their service.
We dragged ourselves to Hotel Hurricane thinking we could dine in their beautiful dining area for lunch. But it was closed, so we ended up going to their hotel chiringuito unable to even go down by the beach because we weren’t hotel guests. Nice setting; bad food. I was so done and I had no intentions of going back out.
I texted Dani, mom and Kristy a bit. Took naps. Read. Wrote. My light is out. I feel unhappy. Trapped. Miserable. Uncomfortable. Sad. Paradise turned on me. Or perhaps the high of a rural Spanish vacation has worn thin.
Today we plan to go inland because the Levante has arrived. All night we slept with banging doors and clanging gates.
Sunday, Aug 7, 2016, 6:49 AM
Iglesia Parroquial Matriz De Santa Maria La Mayor La Coronada, Medina Sidonia
Medina Sedonia, side street
A crumbled ruin of a castle, Medina Sedonia
I think I may be coming out of my illness. But, I stayed in bed again yesterday—plans to travel inland were canceled. I am now convinced that our stomach bug is from the drinking water in this house. At one point it came out brown, another, it came out like blue toilet bowl water. And while I never actually drank from the faucet, I am sure I washed lettuce in it or took some in when I was showering.
The wind! The levante! It’s fierce. The one time we went out we went into Tarifa. The wind was blowing so severely that all of us were being pushed a long by the invisible force. I think the most unpleasant part of the Levante is that, because we need to keep our windows and doors open to let in the cool air, it causes shutters and doors to bang and rattle incessantly–in particular the metal gate below our window. That constant banging and rattling, not to mention the eerie howling, can really test a person nerves. In fact, there’s a myth that the Levante has been known to drive perfectly normal people crazy. A more scientific account is that it has been known to cause headaches and depression. Well, now I feel better.
In truth, what’s making me feel so much better is that we have all decided to pack up and leave on Tuesday to spend a few days in Barcelona. Of course, once I booked every thing, I got an email from Saïd in Tangier saying, “Can we reschedule your visit until Thursday? It will be far too windy on Monday.” Apparently the wind in Tangier is double the strength that it is here. So, we’re going to Medina Sedonia today to try and outsmart the wind and catch a calm break. We have to be out of the house by 11am, which is a good thing because there’s no water, yet again.
Ensalada de atún
Meats, turkey pate and tortilla
Our last meal in Betis
On the train from Sevilla to Barcelona. Finally! I know that sounds desperate, but I was desperate to move. Pack, move. Pack, move. I slept ok last night. Not the best. At some point the wind died down and it got very quiet. The wind roared like the Atlantic ocean and so, when it stopped, it woke me up. I had cognitive dissonance. It was like the ocean dried up and the waves stopped. Doug got up and put the fan on, and we fell back to sleep.
I had loads of energy to pack and was happy to be moving. To get rid of all the food in the fridge I made a Spanish tapas dinner.
We got to Sevilla relatively quickly. And then packed our bags into lockers. We took separate taxis to the Alcazar and when we got there there was a line a mile long. I thought, “We’re not getting in.” But there was a separate line for those who had already reserved tickets, and so, we got in immediately. We literally blew threw the whole palace in 45 minutes and grabbed (yes, sigh, again) pizza for lunch because it was so quick. We didn’t do much else. We walked around a bit in the barrio Santa Cruz and then headed back to the station.
The train to Barcelona is five hours and 15 minutes. Not exactly a fast ride. But the seating arrangements so far are great–a four-seater and then two across the aisle where Julien and I are sitting. It’s toasty warm on the train and we’ve already exhausted ourselves playing a few games of poker and black jack. I think I may try to close my eyes for a bit and then continue reading South from Granada. Love this book.
Doug and I on the rooftop of our hotel
Barcelona is a fabulously chic city. The restaurants and cafes and shops are divine. Architecture is an amazing mix of gothic and modern. Rooftop bars are the place to be. But there are too many damn Americans here (us included) and I can’t believe I am about to say this, but I think I finally see the true beauty that is Madrid. And I miss it.
There is a pure Spanish-ness to Madrid that is completely absent from Barcelona. In BCN, all but one of my taxi drivers was Spanish. Most of the waiters, (waitresses!) and retailers have been foreign. Everyone, and i mean everyone approaches us in English, which I find deeply annoying. And if signs are not in Catalan, they’re in English. Blah. I know this post sounds completely racist. Like, I’m critical of the foreign-global element that is BCN. And I’m a hypocrite as well. I’m here. But, I’m here for Spanish culture and language. I’m here to celebrate Spain. Not to order mojitos in English in a hotel bar filled with Americans and Brits. Anyway, Doug is happy. He’s thrilled to be here. The American tourist vibe jives with him. It makes me feel like I’m wasting valuable time.
Friday, Aug 12, 2016, 6:47 PM
Up early and off to Madrid to finish up our month long journey. It’s definitely had its highs and lows, ups and downs. It’s definitely been worth it. I probably could have stayed longer if Dani were here. I miss him so. And I can’t wait to see him.
Yesterday was another 12,000+ steps walking day, despite the two taxis we ended up taking. We went to the absurdly beautiful Sagrada Familia (word to the wise, book tickets well in advance or you will never get in; we definitely didn’t and had to settle on a self-guided, slow-moving lap around the building with a gazillion other tourists), we back to the gothic and Jewish districts, had lunch at the super hip Ocaña on the Plaça Reial and finally sat reverently in the Plaça Sant Felip Neri, where in 1938 during the Spanish Civil War, two bombs exploded killing 42 people, mostly children. The beauty of the plaza against such a dark past is chilling. You can still see on the side of the church where the bombs gnarled through the stone.
After a brief respite, we walked all the way to the W on the Barcelona beach. The actual beaches were so crowded you couldn’t see the sand. Bikini clad, dark, oily bodies were piled one on top of another with no room to move. We all looked on in utter shock and amazement that anyone could find that enjoyable.
Sigh. Our time in Catalonia is over, but I am ready to head back to my Madrid. “My” Madrid feels right when I say it now. I don’t believe I have ever craved that crazy city more.
My mother-in-law’s patio, Madrid
On the plane home. Leaving Spain is always bitter sweet. I haven’t felt that desperate need to leave in a long while. Especially not since I’ve been going by myself with only my boys and staying in my own place.
Did I accomplish my goal? I guess so. I did my best. More than anything, I finally fell in love with Madrid–a nineteen-year long struggle. After spending a few days in Barcelona dealing with the enormous crowds and all the international people living and working there, and the near-complete disconnect with Spain, I was finally able to know what makes Madrid so special. Madrid is España. It may not be a very modern city. It may not be filled with beautiful art and architecture. The people may, as one taxi driver from Alicante noted, think they are superior. But Madrid is gritty. It’s Spanish. Its essence is pure. There’s more opportunity to know Spain in Madrid, than in a place like Barcelona.
In 2010 I wrote about Madrid:
There is a paradox here: there is the constant smell of bad sewage and body odor and cigarette smoke mixed with the smell of baking bread and olive trees, lemons and expensive perfumes from the Corte Ingles on rich ladies who shop on calle Serrano. There is a deep, burning beauty in the eyes of a young girl who wears a red flower in her hair and swooshes an abanico in her dark hand. A family that meets at two for comida and a siesta in a city quieted by an afternoon of heat and closed up shop fronts. People are hot from the sun in Madrid. They’re thirsty. Some are hungry, suffering. But the suffering is like a season that lifts when the air is cool; when two young lovers meet by a window open to the sky.
I saw a lot of the ugly that was Madrid many years ago and it was very hard for me to see the beauty. In The Manzanares, I could only focus on the ugly side. I think I constantly tried to recapture Paris, while living in the slums of Vallecas and I ended up feeling defeated. Vallecas beat the shit out of me. And only later when I was able to get out and get into a prettier Madrid was I free to learn about Madrid’s other side. And yet, even the pretty parts were not Paris pretty and I struggled to find a sense of connection, which for the life of me, I could not find. The modern writer Michael Paterniti sums it up nicely:
“After the cafes of Paris with their exquisite wines and creamy fromages, crepes and steak tartare– screaming Adore me!– Madrid was these store-bought hunks of unyielding cheese and brick-hard baguettes, consumed in leafless Buen Retiro Park. Madrid, dressed as it was, tasting as it did, prideful as hell, didn’t care what you thought about it on your junior-year backpacking trip. That was your problem.”
― Michael Paterniti, The Telling Room: A Tale of Love, Betrayal, Revenge, and the World’s Greatest Piece of Cheese
In the end, I realized I was looking in the wrong spots. I was looking, that was my problem. And Madrid doesn’t exactly flaunt its good looks. It’s not about love of architecture or street plans or gorgeous gardens that line palaces. While in its old center Madrid is very beautiful, that beauty doesn’t seep out of the center. You step one foot out of that center and you’re done. You’re surrounded by ugly Franco-era fascist buildings built to house hoards of workers. No, Madrid is all about time. The slow time it takes to heal its wounds and rebuild itself after a civil war. The slow time it takes to get up in the morning when the nights are short and the days are long. The time it takes to grow fond of a way of life and an energy that often resists being known. It has only taken me nearly 20 years to figure all that out. To grow into Madrid. And I was only able to do that by leaving and coming back. I just needed time. In the end, I created a longterm relationship with a city I never thought was possible to love.