More Observations ...

I bought something this week that I’m not sure can even be found in Florida; a humidifier. Not knowing the word for it, I went to El Corte Ingles and asked for a machine that puts water vapor in the air. “Si, claro” she said and took me their selection of several different models. The air is so dry in Madrid that my skin itches all the time. Some models were quite expensive and I explained to the lady that I live in Florida and will have no use for the machine when I leave. She showed me a small unit for 37 euros, I brought it home, and have had it running ever since.

My final exam for my current level in Spanish class is this week, so I’ve been studying hard. Chris and I have been having supper together and not a whole lot else. I’ve shown him some of the places that I’ve written about and he’s shared his impressions of them. I took him by my stand-up breakfast bar for a cup of cafe con leche and pastry to show him Spain’s version of “cheeseburger, cheeseburger”.  A woman completely devoid of personality took our order at the counter, and Chris asked why I never mentioned the floor in my blog. Huh?  While I’ve never seen it that messy, I thought that he had a point and decided that it would only be fair to point the camera straight down this time. With the trash basket mostly full and litter on the floor all around it, I thought, this looks a lot like the pattern created by men peeing "in the direction of" the toilet.

Meanwhile, across the street at McDonald’s, people were snapping up American fast food at the ever crowded counter. “McMenu” and “McNifica” headliners were hawking Big Mac meals with fries and drink, and cerveza is one of the drink options. I guess it’s what constitutes a “happy meal” in Espana. It seems you can buy alcohol anywhere here.

There is of course, the ubiquitous Starbucks here as well. The first morning that Chris was here, he went down to the street to get some good, American coffee ... aaaah. He asked if they had “cafe Americano”. “Si, claro” and gave him espresso topped off with hot water. Barf. Yesterday, I went down and asked if they had American coffee that is perculated through a drip filter, not espresso with water. After all, Starbucks is an American coffee company, so I didn’t think I was being pushy by asking for a cup of American coffee. And neither did they. One thing I’ve noticed about Madrileños is that they are ever gracious people who are as accommodating as they can be. “Si, claro” and she pulled out two conical drip baskets that she put on top of individual cups and brewed the coffee right there on the counter. I shrugged: that works. And Chris and I enjoyed our first cup of American coffee since we’ve been here. Wanting to get to the bottom of this misunderstanding, this morning Chris went down and inquired further. He found out that they call watered-down espresso “Cafe Americano” and actual American coffee is called “American Cafe”.

While walking down the street, I snapped this photo of someone’s dry sense of humor stenciled onto a lamppost pedestal: "TU NOMBE AQUI" (your name here). Commentary on the over-commercialization of Spain? This could easily have been in the U.S.

And what blog entry would be complete without a snippet about the Puerta del Sol? The other night I took this photo of a bloodmobile there. Notice the “s” shaped cots inside. Maybe it’s my American sensibilities, but it seems that lying in Macy’s window in Spain’s version of Times Square would be a deterrent to giving blood ....

BTW, you can see Chris' blog about his experiences in Spain at: Cristóbol en España

Chris' Arrival

In all fairness, I have to say that he gave me fair warning that it would happen. He told me that a trans-Atlantic flight without a cigarette would be a bear and to expect him to not be in a good mood when he got off the plane.

Young adults in their early 20s stay out all night drinking on weekends, not going home until daybreak, which it’s known in Spain as “la marcha”. I got up early and took the first metro train on Saturday morning to the airport. Key point in that sentence is that I took the FIRST metro train out of the station at Puerta del Sol, because the station was filled with nothing but young adults who had been out all night, and were waiting for the first metro train of the morning to take them home. Some laughing, some staggering, some sitting with their heads cradled in their hands, they were 80-90% guys and 10-20% girls. I don’t think I realized until that moment, how old I am.

I got to the airport at seven o’clock and scurried over to the international terminal to pick up Chris. His was the first of 231 international flights coming into Madrid on Saturday. Relieved when I saw “en tierra” (landed) on the schedule board at 7:19 AM, his flight was exactly one minute early. I waited, then a second flight landed from Filadelfia. I waited, and finally he made it through customs about eight o’clock, and into the airport where I was waiting.

“I can’t believe what a stupid airport this is we must have taxied for twenty minutes before we got to our gate and I wasn’t able to sleep at all on the plane either and my iPod fell under my seat because they have this stupid gap between the seat and back and I couldn’t listen to my music the whole flight, then we had to walk forever down hallways, up and down stairs, and they didn’t have any escalators and when I got to the luggage claim, it took them thirty minutes to start the luggage carousel, and even then the bags came out so slowly, one bag at a time, then the customs agent didn’t even look at my declarations sheet, I mean, what did I even fill out the form for? and there was nowhere to stop and take a smoke along the way”, he said, as he walked right past me toward the exit.

Once outside, he lit a cigarette and sucked it down like a kid drinking a thick milkshake through a straw (Ooo. That sounded kinda Hemingwayesque ... and right here in España!). He lit up another and said “it is so fuckin’ cold here! why did you say that this airport had such a great design?, this just looks like an old American airport to me ...”. “International flights come into the old terminal. Would you like to see the new Terminal 4?”. “No, I just want to go”. After a while, enough nicotine had hit his brain that he calmed down, we said hello, and then began to make our way “home”.

I had reserved a hotel for four days to ease him into life in Madrid. He slept the morning and part of the afternoon and we went to a bar on the roof of Óscar Hotel in the Chueca district. It is a rooftop terrace with swimming pool, big white canvas umbrellas, white chairs and chaise lounges, and the whole rooftop is glassed-in for the panoramic view and to keep the heat in. Outside was right about freezing, but with heaters up there, it was comfortable. They did a very good job of capturing the essence of Miami Beach in the heart of Madrid. We sat there for a couple of hours and had drinks while Chris “detoxed”. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my camera with me until later. That evening we found a great little restaurant for dinner, and agreed that we’d go back there soon.

This morning Chris was still recovering from his flight, but we finally went out in the afternoon to see the “Palacio Real” (Royal Palace) of Spain. Chris has never been to Europe and so I thought that seeing a royal palace would be a good introduction. Unfortunately, photos inside are prohibited, so I was only able to snap some pictures of the exterior.

Afterward, we stopped in to a bar on the way back to the hotel and had a few drinks. Chris is sleeping again, but we’ll go out for dinner in a few minutes ...

Plaza de Cibeles

This afternoon and evening I went walking around the Plaza de Cibeles area to see architecture, and not to my surprise, I saw some dramatic turn-of-the-last-century buildings. Nothing else has lacked drama in this city, so why should this be any different? I’ve been down Gran Via several times and have noticed the elaborate facades of this vital and energetic street. I hadn’t followed it down to the Plaza de Cibeles, but knew I was in for even more drama.

Late nineteen/early twentieth century Madrid must have been all about conspicuous consumption. The Metropolis Building is Beaux-Arts on steroids. There’s a government building nearby that has two huge pedestals rising above the roofline and each has an enormous bronze chariot with horses and rider. It’s what Liberace might have designed if he were there. I’d like to have been a fly on the wall of that design meeting where they decided that one chariot just wouldn’t be enough.

One building had this what-the-hell-is-that-? crown and shield thing on top, and another had a domed turret that looked like it was frosted by a bakery, and topped with horses and God knows what else. It looked like the Sicilian wedding cake from hell. Garish architecture is always a sign of a period of excessive prosperity, and while I don’t know the circumstances of Madrid during this era, the city was most certainly rolling in the dough. Rivaling businessmen went into competition with each other and the result was a district full of ostentatious buildings. And while they are all of that, they are at the same time endearing, and I wouldn’t want to change a thing about them. Most of them are just very elaborate but tasteful buildings. It’s always the screamers that you remember most …

The fountain in the center of the Plaza de Cibeles was built in the 1700s and is much older than the buildings that surround it. The huge and elaborate city hall wasn’t built until the early twentieth century and is a huge landmark in this city. I went to the tower’s observation deck this evening to see a panoramic view of Madrid by night, but unfortunately just couldn’t capture the skyline on my little pocket digital camera. This weekend I hope to go South from the Plaza de Cebeles to the Museo del Prado, the Museo Reina Sofia, and the Estación Atocha …

Plaza Mayor & other things

School is taxing on this old brain o’ mine, so I haven’t been out too much to see Madrid. But Chris is coming on Saturday and that’s going to change. We’re going to get out and see some of the places that I’ve been saving for his arrival.

I live on the Calle Mayor, which is across the street from the famous Plaza Mayor. Being the big tourist trap that it is, I have avoided going there or writing about it. However it is a beautiful, huge plaza with a centuries old history. It is in the heart of the old city and was built at the juncture of two arterial caminos coming into Madrid. It was originally a marketplace, was later a major staging ground for the Spanish Inquisition, but now it is used for free outdoor concerts and extracting euros from the pockets of international tourists … and sometimes legally. Pickpockets are rampant in Madrid where the tourists gather, and one thing I’ve noticed since I’ve been here is that men never carry wallets in their back pockets. After having my wallet lifted here years ago, I am hyper-vigilant about protecting it this time.

But speaking of the Spanish Inquisition and things of the bizarre Catholic variety, I’ve noticed that there seems to be a lot of Catholic goods stores around this part of town. I don’t mean bibles, rosaries and scapulas; I mean priests vestments, large crucifixes, and tabernacles for hosts. This city has more Catholic churches than the Midwest has Dairy Queens, and church attendance here is quite low, so I would imagine that the church vestries are well-stocked with ecclesiastical wares from centuries of accumulation. So who’s buying this stuff? I’m sure it’s wrapped up in the complicated relationship that Spain has with Catholicism, but I can’t figure this one out.

And since I’m on the subject of Spain and Catholicism, I thought I’d throw in another photo of Spray Painted Jesus taking a break with his buddies two days ago in the Puerta del Sol. Note the irony of the near-naked image of Madonna (mumsie?) on the movie poster behind them. Can this get any weirder?

While on the way home from school today, I saw my first graffiti in the Metro. There was a sign on the train platform touting that Madrid’s metro gives you “mas por menos” (more for less), showing that their fares are less than other major cities in Europe, and New York City. But the graffiti on the sign said: “compare the salaries”, “the metro thinks that you’re an imbecile”, and “although you erase the graffiti every day, you leave the shame”. At 23% unemployment in Spain, there is understandably a lot of anger and frustration here. And yet, the metro is very modern and clean, as are the city buses.

One last note: I was walking around Chueca district yesterday and noticed this waiting room for a dentist’s office. When have you ever felt this stylish getting your teeth cleaned?

¡Ole!

As I stepped out of the metro at Las Ventas today, the first thing I saw was a dramatic bronze sculpture of a man flying through the air with desperate peasants below in nineteen century clothes, raising their hands as if to beseech a higher power. Immediately I thought: “… Your tired, your hungry, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free …”. This must be a monument to some great political struggle in Spain’s history. Or maybe it's an ascension to heaven and the faithful are awe-filled with wonder.

As I got closer, I saw that it was a matador being tossed in the air by a bull, and I was in front of the Plaza de Toros, the main bullring stadium in Madrid. This is hallowed ground in España. Okay, I get the bull and matador, but what were the dramatic peasants about? And the back of the monument has an angel sobbing over a matador’s uniform, lying on a chair. He was apparently so bereft that he forgot to put his pants on. As crazy as American fervor for sports can be, I can't say that I've ever seen anything close to this kind of melodrama. Okay Spain, you win.

In 1985, Madrid’s favorite matador, José Cubero lost his life while attempting to defeat a bull in the Plaza de Toros. He quickly rose to the near-level of sainthood, and this over-the-top monument was erected in his honor. The only thing it lacks is the hand of God reaching down to José in his final moment. I had to walk around it several times to take in all the discordant details. Across the plaza there was another dramatic sculpture of a crowd of men carrying a victorious matador on their shoulders. It wasn't a depiction of exhuberant celebration; it had more the ethereal feel of a noble march, as if they were virtuously storming the Bastille or righting some terrible injustice. These people have pasión.

Finally completed in 1931, the Plaza de Toros is a magnificent structure. It replaced an earlier bullring which had grown too small for the growing number of bullfight enthusiasts in Madrid. It is now a national shrine. When I asked Hector if it was the most important bullfighting stadium in Spain, he held up his finger and said: “No. In-a the world”. Hmm, I tucked that raw little nerve away in my brain to Google later, and found out there are two larger ones in Latin America. But certainly this is the most prestigeous one in the world … and that’s what really counts. So there, Mexico! Unfortunately bullfighting season doesn’t start until after I leave Spain. After seeing the Plaza de Toros, I’d really like to go see the spectacle there sometime. ¡Ole!

Spanish Civil War

While coming home through the Puerta del Sol tonight, I tripped upon a dark, but important chapter in the twentieth century history of Spain; the Spanish Civil War. The world was focused on the events of Spain during the years of 1936-1939 not only because it was a nasty, bare-knuckles fight, but also because so many countries had a hand in the fight. Hemingway wrote about it, it was headline news across the world, and money and arms where supplied from places far beyond Spain’s borders. The result was not unlike a cock-fight, where outside interests prodded and funded both sides for their own advantage, while Spain’s populace was caught in the horrific middle.

But because World War II began in the same year that Spain’s war ended, the world quickly forgot all about the bloody conflict here, and a devastated Spain was left to tend its own wounds. For nearly forty years that followed, Spain was closed off to most of the world, under the oppressive and brutal rule of the fascist dictator Francisco Franco, until his death in 1975. Countless people disappeared and/or were tortured by the Brigada Politico-Social during Franco’s rule, and many, many others were exiled during and after the war. After Franco’s death, forty years after the whole ordeal began, a nation with a bad case of PTSD began to pick up the pieces and try to process what had happened. It would be a long, introspective journey.

In recent years, Spain has mostly come to terms with its recent history, not necessarily because questions have been answered, but more because at some point, one just has to move on. Large economic expansion in the last decade or so of the twentieth century no doubt played a big part in that, and now Spain has zoomed forward to take its place at the table of the European Economic Union. In the past twenty-five years, Spain has come a long, long way.

But tonight in the Puerta del Sol, a die-hard consortium of groups related to the “Historical Memory Movement”, with all the passion of the American SDS movement of the late 1960s, made their weekly march on the Palacio de Correos in protest. Banners with depictions of “Guernica” and images Federico Garcia Lorca made their way through the plaza. It was difficult not to be drawn up in the emotion. Most people here just want to move on from a terrible chapter in the nation’s history, but everyone, whether they felt the passion or not, were respectful, because virtually everyone here knew or had family who knew someone who died or simply disappeared. I watched Sponge Bob, et al, literally pack-up and leave out of respect. More about the Civil War to follow ….

Political Correctness

Had my two sets of grandparents met (besides the fact that they spoke different languages), they would have had almost nothing in common to talk about. Besides the introductory “hello, nice to meet you” and “how was your trip?”, it would have been an awkward encounter … which leads me to some of the random differences that I have noticed between Spain and the United States.
In Spain, apparently they haven’t gotten the memo on political correctness that has not only become the order of the day in the US, it has become in many cases, the law. And unfortunately, it seems that Americans have lost some of courtesies and decorum which used to be part of our culture.

Something that I had forgotten all about is cigarette vending machines. They’re all over the place here. However one-half of the front of all cigarette packages says in huge letters: “FUMA MATA” (smoking kills), and the reverse side has a photo of a healthy lung and a cancerous lung. Apparently Big Tobacco didn’t have the clout to keep those messages off the packages, but the vending machines flew under the radar.

Older ladies here LOVE their fur coats! You see them everywhere. Real fur, fake fur; it’s all over the place. Hector tells me that there is also awareness of the animal cruelty issue here, but these ladies apparently didn’t get the memo, because it sure ain’t gotten much traction in Madrid.

People in Madrid just enjoy strolling around town (“paseo”) and the little old ladies like to show off their fur coats. And when you get right down to it, isn’t it the little old ladies who make this world a more tolerable place for the rest of us? If they want their coats, it’s okay by me.

Apparently KFC has managed to brand Kentucky as the state from which all fried chicken comes, because, as I saw on a lunch menu recently, they have a chicken sandwich “in the style of Kentucky”. American culture has permeated every facet of Spanish culture … sigh. However, my teacher in the “Spanish Culture” lecture class, referred to Kentucky as an example of a regressively traditional part of the US. Needless to say, I had to tell him that my father was from Kentucky and that I went to college there. Isn’t that the benefit of doing this study abroad at an older age? You just don’t give a shit what they think ….

However, the same teacher in a class on the culture of religion in Spain, stopped to ask the Korean students if they came from the Buddhist tradition or the Christian tradition in Korean. I almost dropped my teeth. Apparently this was not covered by the Civil Rights Amendment in Spain. The poor Korean girls were trying to dodge the question, but the teacher was not taking the hint. Finally they said that they didn’t have a religion. He was perfectly satisfied with that answer and moved on, but it made me wonder what other social differences are out there …

One thing that Spain still seems to have that most of the US seems to have lost, is decorum. People in the streets are courteous to each other, waiters have a certain demeanor and style that America has forgotten in ordinary situations. I think that it is eroding here as well and that’s really a shame. Maybe it’s my age, but I really take offense in the US when a sales clerk is talking on the phone while checking me out, or talking to a co-worker about what Jeremy said to Tiffany last night. So far, that seems to have eluded Spain, but maybe not for long …