I walk out the door at 7:03am and it’s still dark.  There is no street noise in our neighborhood.  Every morning the only sounds I hear are the click of the door as it locks behind me, my breathing, and my boots crossing over the stone street.  I pass the church where the homeless men stay, their found valuables stacked on the church’s side door steps.  There are suitcases, blankets, a twin size mattress, medicine bottles, and anything else they found the day before.  Today there is a doll with blank, scratched plastic eyes that stare at me as I pass.  One of the men under the pile of blankets and layers of coats snores loudly.   I keep walking in the cold, near-silent morning toward the metro.  The men are opening up the newsstand on the corner. Every morning the man in the hat lays out the magazines while commenting on the weather.  A freshly lit cigarette hangs idly from the side of his lips as he speaks.  The bigger man in the navy blue jacket sits on the stool, always smiling, always nodding and listening.  I keep walking toward the metro.  

As I approach the metro stop, the world seems to wake up.  Men stand in the cafes, munching churros and sipping cafe con leche.  People like me are walking to work.  A few cars drive by, but it’s still quiet for an international metropolis.  Madrid is beautiful right now.  The sun will begin to rise shortly and the people will wake, shower, and dress.  They will fill the streets with talking and laughing, fighting and yelling.  But right now, before the sun is up and the people are awake, Madrid is quiet and beautiful and I am lucky to see it in this way.  

***************************************

I leave the building where I teach and begin walking back to the metro.  People have been up for a couple hours now, long enough to shower, dress, and begin their days. Lucky me.  I look down as I walk, sidestepping here, a shuffle move there.  I must look like I’m dancing.  I wish.  I wish people would clean up after their dogs.  Little balls of fur that bring joy to so many hearts, yes.  Great.  They impede my ability to walk with proper posture and leave me doing some sort of twisted modern two step down the sidewalk.  It didn’t rain this morning and yet, every few feet there is a tiny river running from one end of the stone and pavement to the other.  In my disgust I create a new product: doggie underwear.  Not diapers, underwear.  If cats can be potty-trained, so can dogs.  It would make the city cleaner and I could walk carefree. 

I make it to the metro with clean shoes.  I walk down the stairs and turn on my iPod. Random shuffle.  A Beatles song pops up.  Good.  As I descend further down toward the train, a smell travels up to welcome me.  What is that?  Has no one showered this morning?  Or does the sewer system now run along the same line as the metro?  Both?Oh my gosh, it is horrible!  I think I’m going to throw up and begin nervously rocking from foot to foot.  The metro arrives just in time.  Just in time for me to see it’s completely packed.  I can’t stay in this station one minute longer, and though no one exited at the door nearest to me, I find a little space to jump on.  I can’t find a place to hold on as the doors close, but it turns out it doesn’t matter.  I’m so smashed between other passengers that it would be impossible for me to fall even if I lost my balance. The woman next to me coughs.  And then coughs again.  ’COVER YOUR MOUTH,’ I want to scream.  ’You disgusting H1N1-carrying vessel of disease, you are going to spread your germs everywhere!  Get off the metro now.  Walk, take a cab, I don’t care. Just get OFF!’  I turn my head and try not to breathe instead.

We arrive at the next station and many of the people get out and I can breathe again. I’m sweaty and hot, but I can breathe.  Relieved, I find a place against the door to stand.  The relief doesn’t last as I look over in time to see a girl take off her shoe AND sock and put her foot down on the metro floor.  I’m horrified.  I’m disgusted.  I’m concerned for public health and safety.  The horror doesn’t end.  As we pull up to the next stop, I see a woman pick her nose and flick it towards the train.  THEN SHE GETS ON THE TRAIN.  The girl with the naked foot gets off.  One disgusting thing after another.  I wish the next stop was the last for me.  It’s not, but it is the end of the parade of overtly disgusting things.  I watch as people get on and off, touch their ears or rub their eyes and then put their hands on the bars and seats to steady themselves. A cesspool of germs and I’m standing right in the middle.  I see a seat and I sit down, despite my reservations.  I try not to touch anything.  The woman next to me is scratching her head continuously.  I get up immediately.  Lice carrier, I think to myself. Disgusting.  

I make it to my stop and rush up towards the street only to find that the air isn’t as clean as it was this morning.  It smells.  I shuffle-walk back toward my apartment taking the long way.  Graffiti-covered doors are starting to open.  Yes, every store is covered by metal doors to keep thieves and potential vandalism out.  That’s fine, they just graffiti the doors and buildings anyway.  Some people see it as art.  Yeah, maybe under a bridge or in an abandoned building.  A signature here, a funny drawing there. This is excessive and ugly.  Madrid is ugly and it smells.  I get to my apartment.  I think I might shower again. 

***************************************

I walk out the door at 10:05pm and it’s dark again.  The streets are finally alive in the way only Madrid can be at 10:05pm on a Thursday.  The people of Madrid take their going out time very seriously.  Eric and I walk up to the main street of tapas bars.  The noise of people laughing and talking excitedly, the smell of tapas and beer draw us in. There’s no fighting it.  This is the place to be.  Everyone is happy to enjoy the company of others.  There are no sports bars on this street.  The only entertainment is the people you came with or the people you meet when you’re out.  No one pushes past anyone else to get into the “it” bar.  No one fights to be noticed first by the bartender. It’s vivacious, but friendly, respectful in a way we are not used to.  We walk into one of the crowded bars.  I stand by the bar waiting for a spot to open up so I can order.  A man in a group of friends notices me and asks what I want.  ”Dos cervezas, canas por favor.”  He orders them for me and handles the money back and forth from me to the bartender.  His girlfriend stops the conversation with her friends and asks where Eric and I are from.  We have a quick conversation and wish each other a good night.  Eric and I sip our cervezas and marvel at the kindness and general good mood everyone seems to exude.  Yes, Madrid is beautiful again.  

I remember why I’m here: to gain perspective regarding other cultures, to learn about different ways of life and to modify my life in the US when I go back.  I don’t want to live the way I did before, stressed and under the mentality that ‘if you’re not exhausted and working overtime, you’re not doing a good job.’  Since when did overtime become standard?  Since when did you have to look miserable for people to know you’re working?  I didn’t start that way, but it is where I ended before I left.  

It’s harder to see that you can live and work differently until you do.  I don’t think I can go back and I’m ok with that.

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel

Architecture around Madrid.  Spanish McDonald’s (it’s pretty much the same).  My favorite street performers in front of Corte Ingles.  We seem them playing on the weekends during the evening and they’re awesome!

Sheets drying on a line.  Spain’s answer to the black and white cookie from Seinfeld. Picasso’s Guernica.  Non-art at the Reina Sofia.  Tapas.  Palacio Real.

The hostel we stayed in for 3 weeks (yes, it was just that one room and all of our stuff). The living room and kitchen in our apartment now.

Today Eric and I were walking around downtown Madrid and stopped into a Starbucks and then a few stories (H&M, Sfera, a few other European equivalents).  We were on Gran Via, which is a main shopping street near Puerta del Sol, another major shopping area. Puerta del Sol has street performers and beggers, stores and stands selling lottery tickets.  People yell from the stands, things I can only understand to be “try your luck, lottery drawn tonight”.  The beggars are mostly missing limbs.  It’s tragic, a depressing contrast to the biggest department store in Madrid looming right behind them, el Corte Ingles. The most despondent person is a man I’ve seen there every time I’ve gone.  He has no arms and wears sleeveless shirts to accent his loss.  In his mouth is a plastic cup filled with coins that he shakes loudly, daring everyone who walks by not to drop in a euro or two.  The number of homeless here may be less than New York, but they are ever-present in the main squares and vias, begging for money shamelessly.  

But today, I saw more than just the usual homeless I’ve been accustomed to passing on the streets.  As I said, Eric and I were on Gran Via and decided to make our way to Puerta del Sol and eventually back to La Latina to meet a couple of friends for dinner. Well, we turned down a wide pedestrian street, knowing it was the fastest way to our destination.  It was.  That being said, it may have also been the seediest.  McDonald’s is on the corner of Gran Via and this street. KFC is near the corner of this street and Puerta del Sol.  How bad could it be?  Riiiiight.  About half way down the first block I notice a couple girls waiting in a doorway.  Across from them about six feet away is another girl waiting by a tree.  Naively I think to myself: ‘What are all these girls waiting for?’  I keep walking and notice that every tree and doorway has a girl (or two- hey, everyone needs a friend) waiting for something.  They’re all wearing tight/short/revealing clothes.  It’s not until about four trees in that I realize I have just encountered real live prostitutes!  I know, I know.  It’s not exciting.  It’s morally reprehensible.  I agree.  However, I’ve never seen a live prostitute (not that I want to get too close), but it’s more like being at the zoo!  I have never pet a hippo or a lion (and probably wouldn’t want to), but I still want to see one! FROM AFAR.  It’s so crazy!  There they are in broad daylight just standing and waiting.  I mean seriously: it was 5:30pm and still sunny!  It’s so crazy.  They are just wearing jeans or short skirts and boots or slight heels.  Maybe these hookers are more practical than the ones shown on TV?  I’m not sure.  But if they have to take the metro and then walk to get there and then stand there all day, I’m sure they rather be comfortable in their boots than in six-inch clear plastic heels.  Either way, I had to have a second look without stopping and staring.  

I convinced Eric that we had to walk up the street again, on the other side.  (They were mostly on one side and it’s a busy, crowded street, so I was sure we wouldn’t be noticed.)  So we made an inconspicuous U-turn and headed back down Prostitute Row. They look like most of the other girls walking around Madrid, and they can’t ALL be prostitutes.  It’s so confusing.  OOO, except that woman in the red jacket.  She’s like 65.  I think she might actually be waiting for someone or something.  She just checked her watch and lit a cigarette.  I guess she’s not one of them.  But other than that lady, how can you tell if they dress the same as everyone else?  In my Hollywood-soaked brain, I expected clear stripper heels, short skirts, garish make-up.  I expected something to distinguish them from everyone else walking around.  I guess the waiting sets them apart.  Eric informed me that if we are ever meeting here, not to stand too close to a tree or doorway.  (Maybe it would just be better to meet at McDonald’s?)  I told him that while I might walk up and down the street multiple times, I doubted very much that I would ever stop and stand there.  

Anyway, as we headed down the other side we saw a few shady looking guys pretending to look at phones, chat casually, or “shopping” (holding bags that seemed to be full but when I got semi-close only had white fabric in them to make them seem bulky with purchases).  Through their casual veneers, they were definitely watching each of their girls carefully.  The pimps, Eric and I decided.  They too were dressed like any other guy walking down the street between shopping areas, but the fact that they had not moved in the ten minutes it had taken us to walk down, turn around, and walk back, spoke volumes.  The less experienced ones stared a little too long and hard at their girls, making sure they were all where they were supposed to be, soliciting the men they were supposed to be catering to.  

Despite my initial excitement at seeing a real, live prostitute and experiencing something new, I suppose in the end it was sad.  The hookers were probably my age. How did they get there?  How did they get to the point where they didn’t see any other way of making money besides selling their bodies?  Where were they raised that they became so hopeless?  Or did they think it was acceptable?  Did they think it was the way things were done, the only way to make a living?  How could they stand there, in the middle of Sunday, the Catholic holy day in Spain, selling their bodies?  Even if they are not religious, even if they believe in nothing but themselves and the here and now, the question remains: HOW?  

But I would never get close enough to get an answer, not here.  With angry, money-hungry pimps watching aggressively and the girls there to make as much cash as Sunday will bring in, no.  No, I will not approach them to ask any of these questions or understand their lives.  I want to, but the risk seems too great.  Instead, I will pass them again on my way to the grocery store or to buy a new shirt and wonder at what kind of life lead them there, to this street in this part of Madrid.  I will wonder at the difference in choices I was raised to know versus the career path they felt forced to take and I’m sure I will feel sad again.  So if you see me staring at them, I’ve gotten past my animal-in-a-zoo-like fascination and moved on to a kind of concerned questioning.  What seems amusing and funny at first can become sad in the end.  Or maybe it makes us think.  Maybe it makes us appreciate all we’ve known and been given so ungratefully.  

Of course, there are those who would argue that they chose that career path because they like it or see it as a way to make a lot of money and who am I to pass judgement on it as being sad or lowly?  Well I appreciate the philosophical challenge, but I will always see it the way I see it and believe that those women can use their minds, rather than bodies to make a living, make a statement, denote their reason for being on this earth at this time.  But again, that’s just me.  

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel

Ok, so I’ve been out of the US for a month and three days.  In that time, I’ve been to three countries (yes, I know I only saw the airport in Iceland, but I spent so much time there, I feel as though I really got to delve into the culture.  The airport culture, but still).  I’ve visited numerous historical landmarks and museums.  I have had the privilege of walking down streets and alleys that have existed for thousands of years and have seen millions of people.  I’ve also secured a job and an apartment.  I finally live here.  All that in a little over a month.  Not bad.

Despite my growing cultural knowledge and ever-improving Spanish vocabulary and accent, the last month hasn’t been all easy.  Living in a tiny room with over flowing suitcases wasn’t ideal.  Not knowing if there was going to be a job or a place to live (with many failed attempts) wasn’t ideal.  Being dropped into a completely different culture without a tour guide wasn’t ideal.  But it IS what I asked for when I first decided to take this journey.  And I have to say, after a month, I’m glad I took the risk.  

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, which I am sad to be missing for the first time in 26 years, I would like to say a few thank yous.  Get ready.  It might get sappy.  Here goes…

Thank you to my Mom and Dad who didn’t question this trip, not even in the beginning.  Yes, they had some questions, but it was never a matter of whether I should go or not.  Surprisingly, they were the only ones who were excited first and asked logistics second (literally, like a second after being excited, but still second.  I’ll take it).  

Thanks to my bro who is excited for me to see everything.  Well, it’s hard to tell because he’s 16, but he seemed to be listening when I brought it up.  I think he was just relieved that I wasn’t talking about work.  He did give a couple suggestions on London though, so I think that’s interest enough. :)

Thank you to my friends who asked a thousand questions and made sure I was prepared.  Thank you to Falco for the amazingly helpful book about Madrid, Portugal, and Morocco. Thank you to Sam for the contacts, the advice on safe places to live, and generally recommending all the cool things he did when he was here.  Thank you to Jules for putting me in touch with Julie C.  Thank you to Britt for forcing me to make packing lists (and then reminding me that I was not going to a third world country and I could in fact buy anything I forgot).  Thank you to everyone who called to say good luck or had that one last drink to say goodbye.  Thank you for knowing when the questions had to end and the goodbyes had to start.  After all, the people, not the places, are the hardest things to leave. 

And Eric.  Thank you for coming with me.  Thank you for going along with the unnerving uncertainty.  And thank you for reminding me that was part of why I did this to begin with.  Thank you for supporting this and being an integral part of all of it, beginning to end.  Thank you for taking incredible pictures every day so I can remember this amazing journey in the most beautiful way possible: the way you see it. 

I know Thanksgiving is a week and a half away, but I don’t think it’s never too early to say thank you.  But it can be too late.  So thank you to everyone who helped and is still helping.  I miss you and hope you have a great holiday with friends and family.  And, as always, safe travels to wherever you’re going and wherever you’re coming from.

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel

I started work this week!  I’m teaching English at various companies in the area.  It’s mostly for business, but some of it is for adults who want to improve the English they already  know for travel.  I have a range of levels from a 55 year old man who has never taken a class to a 40 year old woman with a pretty fair handle on present progressive, past, and future.  They speak better than they write, but so do I.  It’s interesting to teach something I don’t remember learning while at the same time learning something they don’t remember being taught.  We’re making it through, though I didn’t realize that accent can play so heavily into understanding.  Apparently mine is thick.  What can I say? It’s a learning process all around.  

But this post isn’t about the job.  It’s about shoes.  Specifically, it is about the pair of heels I thought I could wear to walk around the city in, class to class for two days in a row and spare my feet any pain.  To be fair, they are only 2 inch heels and they’re super cute - black patent leather!!  I love LOVE them!  You would think because I like them so much and treat them so well, they would repay the favor.  They did not. 

Day one was ok.  I took them out of their secure designated shoe storage area in my suitcase.  It was the first day I had worn them since I arrived here and I had an inkling they were feeling rejected, especially in light of my new boots purchase.  They looked so shiny in the reflection of the streetlight.  (Yes, I leave before the sun comes up.  I get up earlier for work now than I ever have for any job since I left college.)  I thought we were going to have a good day together.  We strutted down the sidewalk (like I said, there is NO ONE up and about at that ungodly hour when I leave for work.  I can strut if I want to!) and finally made it to the metro station.  The metro station has a lot of stairs.  Specifically, one of the transfers I had to make (this was prior to moving day) has a broken ‘down’ escalator and I had to walk down three giant sets of stairs, and not like the normal 12 or whatever, but like three of these and then three of those, so that’s like over 100 stairs!  Well, I don’t think that was the walk my black shiny friends had in mind.  They are really used to walking to the car, driving somewhere, and then walking to the door.  Maybe they’ll stand for 5-10 minutes, but then they just walk to a table and hang out for an hour or two.  They were not pleased, to say the least.  Well, I managed to get to the classes and back only to discover that I had blisters on both little toes and on the back of one of my heels.  They didn’t seem that bad, so I decided to wait it out until tomorrow.

Day two arrived.  After getting dressed I realized I would have to wear those shoes again, as the pants I had planned for the day were too long for any other pair.  I had dropped off my other work pants at the apartment the day before and I had no choice. Besides, I would not be man-handled by a pair of patent leather heels.  So in my defiance, I put on the shoes again and headed for the door.  It was only when I was about a block away that I realized that band aids would have been a good solution. Well, it was too late for that now and the pharmacy wouldn’t open until after class was over.  I decided to just suck it up and keep going.  

Results: Mid-metro ride I felt something warm on the back of my ankle.  I reached down only to realize that the blister was bleeding into my shoe!  Disgusting, I know. You should have seen my reaction.  I think it was a mix of horrified and perplexed knowing I had no way to fix the situation.  I wanted to ask someone for a band aid, but I thought it would be weird and I don’t know how to say ‘band aid’ in Spanish.  This language barrier is becoming a real nuisance.  (Re: previous post regarding toilet paper.)

The second thing that happened was that my ankle went numb from the pain.  That was nice at the time, though thinking back on it, that’s probably a really bad sign. Needless to say, when I got back from my morning class I bought band aids immediately.  [NOTE: I hesitate to tell you that today, three days later, when I was going through my bag looking for a euro for the metro i came across three little band aids. They were right there the whole time!  Oh, the irony.] 

The third thing that happened was that people were SO NICE!  On my way back from the morning class, I was hobbling along, blistered, bloody, and gross and guess what?! Someone gave up their metro seat to me!  I thought that was great.  My feet thought it was the greatest.  I can’t imagine this happening in New York or Boston. In Boston, they’ll barely move all the way into the train so that other passengers can get on, but not here!  Here they give up their seats to women with heels and no band aids!  I’m pretty sure the guy thought I had twisted my ankle or something much worse than it was, but not the point!  Well, that put me in such a good mood, I almost skipped to the pharmacy!  Then I quickly remembered why he had given me the seat to begin with and resumed hobbling.  

So remember to pack band aids if you’re going to wear heels.  Also, remember to check your bag for them or you might end up hobbling around the city looking, to be quite honest, ridiculous.  But at least you’ll get a seat on the metro.  It’s all give and take :)

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel

Skype-ing with my Uncle Bruce. :)  (That’s his eye in the corner!)

A Week in Review

Well it’s been a very exciting week! A lot going on, so let’s get going :)

Monday Eric and I went to the Reina Sofia, one of the three biggest museums in Madrid. It houses the likes of Picasso, Dali, Velazquez, and Miro, to name a few.  Naturally, it also has special traveling exhibits, two of which stood out: Rodchenko & Popova and Francesco Lo Savio.  I’ll start with the former.

While it was exciting to see Picasso’s Guernica and how it all came together after he experimented with the pieces separately, I have to say I’m not Picasso’s biggest fan.  Or, as I astutely whispered to Eric mid-exhibit, “the people in these pictures are ugly”.  I know, I know.  He’s a genius, a true artist.  I get all that.  I appreciate his contribution to the art world and beyond.  I respect him for being a co-founder of the Cubist movement.  Mostly, I’m glad he had his daughter Paloma who now designs jewelry for Tiffany’s. (Great stuff.  I have a few pieces.  We’re getting off track.  But it’s Tiffany’s!  FOCUS.)  Anyway, I respect him for his accomplishments, but I just don’t like the pieces.  His dissection and reassembly of the human form is not for me.  And he does a lot with nipples.  It’s not my scene.  Moving on.

Dali, on the other hand, SUPER FAB!  I love his work.  Yes, I know it’s totally cracked out and crazy and he dabbled in Cubism, but I think it’s so interesting.  There are so many intimate details in his work, so much to see in each picture.  I wish I could have met him, as I’m sure he would have a lot to say.  He fascinates me.  Apparently, I’m a surrealist.  Take that and run with it.  

Now, a little bit about those traveling exhibits.  Rodchenko & Popova were two of the founding artists of Constructivism, the theory in the art world that lines are more important than color in a piece.  Constructivism originated in Russia in 1919 as a movement toward simplified art and a focus on structure and function over beauty.  It also became politically influential, as many people in Russia at the time were illiterate.  It was interesting to see the way the artists used their work to further their political views, especially during the Weimar Republic.  Eric appreciated the notion of a picture being worth a thousand words, naturally.  I do too, and much more so now that I’m in a country where I don’t know all of the language and have to find a way to communicate effectively.  Thank you Russian Constructivists!  Ninety years later, your influence is noted (albeit a bit differently).

Lo Savio.  Oh, Lo Savio, what can I say?  If one more artist paints a canvas a solid color and proceeds to hang it on a wall and call it art, I’m going to insist to the ticket office that I would like my money back seeing as what I saw in their “museum” was not truly a work of anything more than someone really REALLY liking a color and wanting everyone else to know.  Thanks.  I get it.  You like this olive green mixed with some sort of greyish/brownish February street slush color.  I think that’s great.  Paint your bathroom.  I don’t care, paint your whole house with that dreck, but do NOT put your little signature on the bottom and call it art.  It’s insulting.  It’s a waste of your time and my money.  Seriously.  Actually, I may insist that the ticket office KEEP my money.  Then they can find the artist’s address and send it to him and he can take it to his local art museum to discover what art truly is.  Of course, there will probably just be some sunny yellow square hanging on the wall which will only reinforce his own work and he’ll be so pleased with himself he’ll go home and paint some new square that will no doubt show up in a museum somewhere that I have yet to visit.  And maybe on that day I decide to visit said museum with the new color square hanging defiantly on a blank wall, mocking my decision to send that 6 euros back to the artist, I will see the little white card just to the right of the “painting” with the artist’s name and the title of the piece.  It will probably be entitled “See Rachel D. Zake, This is Art and I will put it in a Museum if I want to.”  Artists are tricky people.  They also have a lot of time on their hands.  

Regardless, the trip to the museum gave us a lot to discuss (mostly Eric arguing that I shouldn’t dismiss Picasso so quickly) and left me looking forward to the Prado.  That’s next week.

That night we went to the Mercado de San Miguel for “dinner”.  Traditionally, Spaniards will have a large lunch and then lighter fare for dinner.  Usually that consists of going bar to bar ordering different tapas.  We decided to try it at our favorite market (various wine bars and tapas places within) and yes, I know it was Monday night, but such is the life of the unemployed.  It turned out to be one of the best nights we’ve had here so far!

We had reached the final bar of our little excursion and were thinking that we were on our last glass of wine for the night when I overheard the bar owner telling an Australian woman next to me that Spanish wines can DEFINITELY compete with Australian wines.  OOO!  Someone who speaks fluent English and has a fab accent?! Fun :)  So I asked her about where she was from (Melbourne) and she started telling Eric and me about it and we told her we were planning to stop there at some point.  We started talking about why we were both in Madrid and it turns out she was on her honeymoon!  She called her husband over and two rounds later we had new friends!  Well, the bar was closing down and Eric and I were preparing to leave.  (Actually, it was about an hour and a half after closing time.  Time is flexible in Madrid; it’s more of a general guideline than a strict rule.)  Our new friends, Tobin and Liz, asked us where we wanted to go next.  Tobin had marked a few bars in the area that looked interesting prior to going out, so we decided to just go with that.  It was great!  We went to two more bars and after realizing it was 2:00am, decided to call it a night.  What a great time!  We made new friends, tried some new bars, and got an open invitation to stay at a place in Melbourne (as well as personal tour guides)!!  Oh yeah, and the Australians drank us under the table.  Eric and I both woke up with raging hangovers.  Worth it.  

Tuesday Eric and I decided the only cure for this hangover situation was Burger King.  Surprisingly, this is NOT my most embarrassing moment of the week.  We’ll get to that.  Post disgusting greasy American fast food, we headed off to the Palacio Real.  It is GORGEOUS!!!  And I want to live there.  What?  With 252 VACANT rooms, I think they could give me a place toward the back.  It’s not like anyone is using it and they only have certain rooms open to visitors.  I don’t even need a garden view.  I’ll take the room that overlooks the city and the mountains.  I’ll keep a low profile.  I won’t tell anyone (except you guys).  It has guards, so it’s definitely safe and… No?  You don’t think they’d go for it?  Ok, fine.  

But seriously, it’s amazing.  It is so ridiculously opulent.  It took years to build and boasts different styles in over 2,000 rooms as various royalty took control throughout the years.  There are rooms that have Asian influence, rooms that have traditional Spanish influence, whatever was popular at the time.  It comes off as a bit disjointed, but the key that ties it all together is the over-the-top beauty and attention to detail in each room.  Everywhere you look, there is a cherub carved into the wood or flower and vine combination snaking up the side of the wall (cleverly hiding the joints between porcelain panels).  Surprisingly, the frescos that grace almost all the ceilings are Greek/Roman mythology themed.  I didn’t know what to make of this in a strictly Catholic country and I still don’t.  I guess I’ll have to look into it!

I’m leaving out going into great detail on the armory and the pharmacy, but they are worth a mention.  Seeing the armory here versus King Henry XIII’s armory (temporary exhibit) at the Tower of London was interesting.  I don’t know that much about fighting on horseback and armor, but there is clearly a difference in style, with the Spanish armor being much more decorative and the British choosing changing styles based on evolving function, not form.  The pharmacy was multiple rooms with jars and canisters stacked to the ceiling.  Each one contained some sort of herb or cure for any number of ailments and the royal doctors’ portraits hang on the wall.  They have pictures through the last century, though no one has lived in the castle since 1931.  

Enough about the Palace.  I’m sure you’d like to know what the embarrassing incident was.  I wasn’t going to post this, but Eric is still laughing about it today and it happened Thursday, so I guess whatever, here goes.  

Thursday Lunch.

I ran out of the bathroom, grabbed my bag and quickly ushered Eric out of the restaurant saying, “Yeah, we can NEVER go back there”.  

“Why?  What happened?” he asked, but I could already see the smile creeping into his eyes as he tried not to laugh.  

“Well, there was an, um, incident with the bathroom” I mumbled.  

“Uh huh.  Tell me.”

After nine back and forths of  ”tell me”/”i’m not telling you!”, I knew I had to tell him. And now I’m telling you.  I’ll start by saying, when you go to a foreign country, you should learn how to say: hello, goodbye, please, thank you, and TOILET PAPER.  I know, I didn’t think it was important either.  I mean, I know how to say paper, so if I’m anywhere in the vicinity of a bathroom and I gesture wildly with urgency in my eyes, they should get it, right?  Maybe.  But not in this case.  

So I go into the bathroom and am faced with a communal sink and two doors: one for women and one for men.  One of the girls who works there was at the sink reapplying her mascara or something.  I started to walk towards the women’s bathroom, but she told me (in Spanish) that there was someone in there and said I could use the men’s room.  (They are each single bathrooms and apparently this is common practice in Madrid.  Just today I saw a man come out of a women’s single stall bathroom.  Whatever, moving on.)  Well I get in there and sit down and it’s then I realize that in my hurry, I had failed to check whether there was any toilet paper.  I have this fear of being in a bathroom and not having any toilet paper and being stuck there until someone comes in which could be 5 minutes or one hour.  It may be from the famous Seinfeld episode (“Can you spare a square?”).  I’m not sure.  But on Thursday after lunch, that fear was realized.  Oh yeah, don’t forget I was in the MEN’S bathroom.

I frantically begin calling out “Um, excuse me?  Los siento!  Pero no hay papel del bano aqui!”  

“Que?” she responds.

“Papel! Papel! Papel del bano.  Um, or, um…” as I tried to think of another way to say toilet paper.  Is this woman an idiot?!  What else could I be referencing when I say “paper of the bathroom”?  Good God.

It was at that moment that a man tried to open the door.  In my haste I had also not pushed the lock down all the way!  Luckily I closed it before anyone saw anything.  I then heard the woman explain to him that there was no toilet paper in there.  (So you figured out what I was saying?  Great.  Do you think you could locate some and pass it along?  Thanks.)  It then occurred to me.  WHY WOULD YOU TELL HIM THERE WAS NO TOILET PAPER, BUT NOT THAT I WAS IN THE BATHROOM?  AHHH!  Could this get worse?

It turns out, it can not in fact get worse, but there can be a cherry on top.  A horrible red cherry of embarrassment and disregard for gender and discretion.  This dumb girl sent the MAN back with the toilet paper.  Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  I hate you stupid Madrid restaurant worker.  I hate you and now, even if I could come back, I wouldn’t.  But mostly I just wanted to get the hell out of the restaurant without being seen.  I quickly washed my hands (yes, of course they had soap and of course they had no paper towels), which leads me back to grabbing my bag and practically dragging Eric into the street. 

However, the GOOD news is: WE ACTUALLY FOUND AN APARTMENT!  For real this time!  After lunch we met with a woman who is going to Paris for two months and has an adorable place that she would rather not sit empty.  So, we move in this week!  I’m so so excited to get out of this hostel where the walls are paper thin and the small (seriously, she’s like 5 feet tall) angry hostel worker lurks around corners waiting to glare at us and ignore our friendly “hola!”s.  It’s in a great neighborhood and it will be ours :)  Sure, we’ll have to move after those two months, but it’s a start.  

Also, I have a lead on a potential job and have secured at least 10 hours at another place teaching English!!  I’ll write more about that when it’s firmly in place, but it looks like things are coming together.  Now if I can manage not to embarrass myself this week by say, I don’t know…  Actually, I’m not going to give any examples.  I have enough trouble on my own; no need to tempt fate ;)

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel

The weekend in pictures: more ramen and 2.50 euro wine, MAC make-up artists working in the window of a major department store near Puerto de Sol, getting drinks after a long day of exploring (the euro one and two “dollars” are coins, not paper), the Museo del Jamon, another Sunday afternoon in el Retiro