In case you couldn’t tell, Retiro Park is probably my favorite spot in Madrid. On this particular Sunday, Lana and I met up for a little gab fest and to relax. We happened to be seated next to a drama group that was out practicing for their next gig and got to watch them do various exercises. Because why wouldn’t you practice in the park for your acting class?
I love how everyone just pours into this park daily to do simple things like read the paper or have a picnic. It also doesn’t hurt that it’s a modest 85 degrees in June. I can’t think of a better place to chill out.
Then I heard the sweet sounds of a saxophone and guitar, and made Lana move with me closer to this group that was having a little jam session. Very unassumingly, I took out my video camera and recorded them. They never knew because I am the queen of subtlety. What? Oh I’m just lying here, reading a book. That’s all…
Next door to Retiro: a book festival! Books + parks = my heaven. I want to cuddle them.
The following conversation took place between Lana and a seemingly “unknown” bystander:
Man: Oh, hello there. How are you? Lana: (a bit bewildered) good… Man: how have things been? Lana: I’m sorry, do I know you? Man: (taken aback) we met at several parties, I’m friends with “so and so” Lana: (still confused) oh, I was probably drunk* every time so I don’t remember! I’m sorry!
(*editor’s note: this statement is probably 99% accurate) Man: well, no point in carrying on our conversation then
[man exits]
I felt like an asshole for laughing but damn it was funny.
Paddling around the equivalent of a large swimming pool was pleasant enough, but you only get 45 minutes of scintillating enjoyment before you have to head back in. BECAUSE IF YOU DON’T, the Fun Nazi puttering around in his motorized chariot is checking tickets and making sure people don’t overstay their welcome. You’ve been warned…
It’s early and we’re all moving a bit slow after last night’s debauchery. “Bloody?” LeeAnn asks. Bloody Marys for the road are standard. Don’t be appalled – this is Texas; we do things here most States would scoff at. Growing up, my brother and I were trained to believe that putting cocktails in a red Dixie cup meant we were going for a family drive. I still can’t see those cups without thinking I need to put on my shoes. There is a ruggedness that lingers in this land, and it attaches itself to whoever lives here. A sense of being able to operate outside of the law and create your own rules to live by. I doubt that will ever change.
We pile into the Jeep and make our way to the river. As we’re standing there waiting to pay for our tubes, the sun beats down mercilessly and it’s only 10AM. We take turns slathering thick layers of sun block on our shoulders. The float is four hours; you don’t want to be caught unprotected.
The girls climb easily into the old yellow school bus while the boys struggle with the beer-laden coolers. The coolers fill up the aisles and we clamor around them, settling into the cracked vinyl seats. The air is hot and sticky, and the seats become sweaty instantly. We bounce along the bumpy gravel road, dust being kicked up on the dry dirt roads. Peering out the grimy windows I can see glimpses of the Brazos River between the tall Cypress trees and people already floating. My anticipation escalates. This is what I love about Austin – the river trips. The boys toss Jell-O shots to each other and I reach up and intercept one. Hip hop is on the radio and I smile.
The bus comes to a stop, and we tumble out along with the inner tubes and coolers. Thus begins the frenzied mess of claiming the lighter colored tubes and edging our way down the muddy slope to the riverbank. “Don’t tip the coolers!” someone yells. At this moment, the alcohol is our most critical concern. They tip anyway. Twice.
The water is cool and clear as it washes over the gray river stones. It’s spring-fed, which means icy temperatures to counter the hot Texas sun. I try to be graceful, but slipping is inevitable and I bounce into my tube with a giant splash. The current picks me up and someone throws me a beer. It’s time to float.
Naturally, there were hangovers. I don’t handle hangovers with much grace. And by much I mean none. I can’t manage to meet up with Cheslea and her friends until the late afternoon. We make our way over to the Mercado San Miguel, but nothing tempts me in my fragile state.
don't let this winning smile fool you. i'm miserable
I bid them adieu as they head over to the palace, and I go to Lana’s for naptime.
We wake up in the early evening and get ready to go find a bar to watch the European Championship. Barcelona vs. Manchester. I’m dying, people. Mixing is never a good option for me, but I always forget that when I’m out. I love variety! Then that love bites me in the ass.
Multiple beers and free shots later, it’s time to meet Chelsea and the boys for dinner. I leave Lana and Dulce in a tipsy state at the bar and make my way over to Sol to meet them at the Oso. I love that Oso.
I had made us rezzies at El Botin – THE OLDEST RESTAURANT IN THE WORLD!!! Seriously, go look. There is nothing cooler than eating at a really old place. Especially if there are ghosts. (I do not know if this place is actually haunted.)
As we walk there, I’m again reminded of why I love Madrid so much. Let me wax nostalgic a bit, eh? Delightful plazas charged with energy and laughter, twinkle lights casting delicate glows on diners as they order one bottle of red after the other. Friends and family sharing meals and their TIME together. No one on a schedule. Everywhere I look, there is love. And smiles. In a country with such a seemingly depressed economy that by default no one should be having fun. I love how Spaniards defy that sentiment. Life goes on, it always does. And no one enjoys life more than the Spaniards. I love that I get to spend so much time in this city. It’s never enough. <hugging Madrid>
baby squid in their INK
Live music at the restaurant.
Dinner ends four hours later, and we head back over to the previous bar where I was with Lana and Dulce. Who are still there. We close them out around 2AM and I hugged our waiter goodbye. Yes – hug. He probably thought I was nutso. But I come from a hugging culture! And he was adorable.
Now time for da club…
the only club picture i could find. lana trying to eat my face.
It’s really cool when you have friends in Texas, and then they move to Spain, and then you move to Spain, and then you get to meet up in another country and play in each other’s cities! Life is so cool.
While I was still living in Mirasierra and swimming in a sea of my own tears every day, Chelsea came to Madrid for a visit. I managed to pull myself out of my wallowing for a weekend for a proper girls time with her and Lana. And wine.
Her welcome to Madrid was not a warm one – we got caught in Retiro Park in a rainstorm, without an umbrella or coat for either of us. We had come straight from the airport and her annoying luggage still needed looking after. Somehow I managed to be in charge of it. How did she pull that off? Sorceress.
We waited hopefully under a tree (no lightning, we were safe) until the rain became so intense the tree sagged and heaved with water, dumping sporadic buckets on us. It was cold. In June! We ended up taking a taxi five minutes up the road [lame] and straight to a bar [awesome]. Hello one Euro jars of beer at 100 Montaditos!
same phones - we're adorable
That night began at El Tigre in Chueca. Such a special place in my heart for that little nook. This treasure oozes that old world Spanish feel. Every time I’m there I expect Hemingway (we share the same birthday ya know) to walk in and demand a whiskey.
Here’s why El Tigre is the crowning jewel of Madrid: their drinks are given to you in something resembling a baby pool and you are served a heaping plate of tapas with every order. Heaping, people. It’s brilliant. And cheap. And they play Danza Kuduro a lot, which is the theme song for Spain 2011. I don’t know when or where the night ended, but the sun was definitely up.
It’s funny what life will give you when you finally decide to stop feeling sorry for yourself and actually do something to activate happiness in your life. Like, an actual activation. Making moves. Being demanding about it. Not accepting no for an answer and eliminating those things that aren’t making you happy.
I was miserable with the Catholic Crew. They live in Mirasierra, which is a suburb so far north in Madrid you could see the aurora borealis.
But! Not even a GD bar for crying out loud. Not what I pictured when I had fantasized about my vibrant and raucous Spanish life. There were 9 people in that house, including me. A four month old. Who. Never. Stopped. Crying. So I slept an average of 4 hours a night, for 6 weeks. This is not an exaggeration. I literally thought I was going to have a breakdown or punch a baby. Several other factors were adding to my agony and finally one day I just snapped. An actual snapping took place. I had had enough, and it was time to do something about it.
For me, my first step towards Operation Happy Face was moving to Rios Rosas. Here are some of the pros:
in the city
double bed with fluffy white duvet that made me think I was sleeping on a cloud
cloud bed
window (omg!)
a book shelf filled to the brim with books (heaven)
a terrace that overlooked the charming tree-lined streets
tree-lined streets (!)
trees not pictured
an antique heater
white, billowy curtains
fruit and veggie shops on my street
bars, cafes, bars, restaurants, bars, shops, bars
2 minutes walking from the metro
20 minutes walking to Lana’s (hi Lana!)
50 minutes walking to Puerta del Sol (which I did. A lot. Because I could without getting shanked, raped, or shot. New and exciting experiences all around.)
bathtub (I never took a bath, but just knowing it was there was nice)
really cool housemates
really cool housemates who took a 2.5 week long vacay and therefore left the entire place to me
wine shop across the street
Madrid is lovely in early summer and I was elated to have an outdoor space for all my wine drinking. ELATED.
So long, Depressionville. No longer making stops in your town.
So I’ve decided to move out. After much deliberation and one too many fried fish sticks for dinner, this girl has decided to jump ship. I’m leaving these [Hail] Mary’s behind.
This in large part has to do with the fact that my dinners consisted of: fried fish 4 nights a week served on a slick bed of olive oil, “salads” of brown and wilted iceberg lettuce (iceberg? really?) with tomatoes you needed a hack saw to bite through, and hot dogs. Additionally, I don’t actually know what a hack saw is.
One nugget of fun was when I was told by Celia The Terrible to sit up straight while giving lessons. On the couch. To her kids in pajamas. Because it’s hard to have her children sit up straight when the teacher she’s not paying is leaning back in the arm chair.
How bout this? I’m 30. I will sit how I want.
So I gathered all of my sleuthing abilities into one corner of my brain and open fired onto the closest possible escape route. Within an hour someone contacted me about a room. I went to go look at said room that night, bounded home to pack and eat my last meal of fried mozzarella sticks (!) and was gone by early afternoon.
Deucies!
I am gonna miss these kiddos though. And their mad dancin’ skillz
The following day….Sweet baby Jesus I had never experienced such wonderful freedom. It’s amazing what things like a window (previously in a cave) and a double bed (was in a single) can do to one’s morale. For me, I felt like I had won the lottery. The welcome-to-your-new-life-in-Madrid-now-go-have-fun-and-see-what-kind-of-trouble-you-can-stir lottery.
And this, my friends, is when all my luck seemed to turn for the better…mwhahahaha (rubbing hands together mischievously)
Cafe Libertad 8 in Madrid – go there. It’s in Chueca, which is definitely worth a wander.
A bit of a history lesson:
The cafe is over 100 years old, and served as a clandestine meeting place during the years Franco was in power. People would gather to share their anti-dictatorship sentiments and just general distaste for the asshole. So cool.
In the 70’s, it developed into THE cafe for the intelligentsia to meet, and the most renowned journalists and writers of that time would come in order to have their pass at the stage and try to appear smarter than their colleagues.
My sweet Spanish friends Alan and Victoria invited me to come see a cuentacuentos: a story teller. For adults. Sold! I imagined all of us gathered around at the story teller’s feet, eyes unblinking and mouths agape as she weaved tales of unicorns and witches and vampires and how love really does conquer all. The only differentiating factor from my childhood would be a cocktail waitress keeping my wine glass full.
look how uncomfortable he is!
It wasn’t quite like that. But there were tricks! Like magic tricks. Which never would have been allowed in my Christian upbringing for fear of the devil taking over my soul. As an adult I don’t have to worry about that. He and I worked out a deal ages ago.
me with Victoria (and Carmen, el bebe)
Storytelling for adults is a brilliant idea, and I’m not really sure why the idea hasn’t navigated its way over the ol’ US of A. She made things disappear, fly, and A LIVE FISH APPEARED OUT OF NOWHERE! I still don’t know how she did that. But a good magician never reveals their illusions, Michael.
She was also a talented accordion player, which always makes me feel like I’m in France.
Erin's Guide to Living 