Clumsy Hick In Big City Wants Wicked Gypsy Punk Band
I have now been in Madrid for three good days, but my visit to Madrid begins with broken dreams. I’m convinced I can make it to my hostel in time to shower, maybe change, and then… GOGOL BORDELLO. In fact, based on Ticketmaster, THERE ARE STILL TICKETS AVAILABLE. This craziness makes me giddy.
But I fuck up the bus. The train ride back to Bilbao is no problem, though the ticket guy hassled me about something. I think I was on some sort of lift for handicapped people but I was trying to say “OK, so where do you want it?” but he just waved me off and went down the train asking for other tickets. I’ll never know what I did wrong. Oh but the bus.
I know that the bus wants me to do something special with my bike, but I’m hoping it will just be ‘cover it in plastic’ and not ‘take it apart and put it in a box.’ I get to the teller, there is ten minutes until the 1PM bus leaves and I have no idea what she is telling me to do with my bike. I step out of the busy lineup to look up the critical word she seemed to be saying and can’t find it. I try to get back into my place and everyone in Spain is an asshole to me. Fuck you guys, I could have just stood there until the lady said my bike was fine and wasted your time (I am seriously choked about this treatment and wish I had not only wasted their time but mooned them all now too). Anyways, I get back in the lineup knowing what I want to ask. Something like “You need my bike in bag or box?” and 30 minutes later have my ticket after she demonstrated using a pen and a calculator, which was rather original. It takes me a surprising amount of time to bag up my bike and its 10 minutes till the time on my ticket and I’m wondering where my bus is.
My bus *was* on the other side of the platform. I realize this about 15 minutes after it was supposed to arrive. I stand around for another 5 minutes thinking I can just play the stupid foreigner and get on the next bus, but decide not to risk it. I go back to the ticket booth and spend another solid twenty minutes in the lineup so I can say “Please, I need to change” and point at my ticket. She seems unhappy with this. I’m unhappy because I’ve blown two hours. But I’m still good! Given four hours to get to Madrid I still have about an hour to find my hostel, shower, and get directions. This will likely take an hour but I’m counting on their being an opening gig.
The bus to Madrid takes five hours. By the time I’m in my room with my stuff secured I’m sweating buckets, partly due to the really hot weather but also lugging my bags up and down flights of stairs (I couldn’t find my room) and the nervousness of being lost. Once I’m done my shower it is one hour after the show was due to start. In a way, this is far far far too reminiscent of the Milton Keynes hockey quest. I’m really down that it didn’t work out. I wander around looking for a place to eat and decide to drown my sorrows in a nice donair place I find (or ‘doner kebap’ as it is here). It is the best donair I have ever had. So there’s an upside.
When I get back my room is full of Catalans. A few of them speak decent English and between us we communicate. They are here for the european soccer championships, but their team didn’t make it. They’ve spent the subsequent day drinking and carousing and are going to get food and repeat. They invite me out and I think “Hell, better to come home with the drunks than get woken up by them!” It is a good night that helps get me out of my shell and practicing spanish.
The next day I pack up my things and go out to the front. Check out is two hours before I am allowed to check back in for space so I stash my gear and wander down Calle Atocha looking for other hostals and internet. In the end I settle down in a McDonalds, not for the free wifi they provide but for want of an Egg McMuffin. Of course, they haven’t imported those yet, but they do have pancakes (aka ‘tortatas’). Except no maple syrup. The lady asks me ‘chocolata o caramela’ and so I select caramel thinking that maybe this is a spanish way of saying syrup. Nope, its the spanish way of saying caramel! Anyways, after a disappointing breakfast I return and find out that my concerns about lodgement for the evening were unfounded and I am established for the week.
Sitting down for a bit I figure out where I want to go and decide on the Casa de Campo, a GINORMOUS park west of me. Some comments regarding it indicate that you can still see the remains of trenches from the Siege of Madrid. I walk a long ways and don’t find anything. Convinced that the article I’d read was full of shit and that the author couldn’t tell a trench from a ditch if his tactical position depended on it I returned determined to do better research. Then Laura phones me and I have dinner plans!
Laura is a good friend who goes way back. I hosted Juan, a spanish exchange student, for two weeks and he came with three other spaniards. Those two weeks were a whirlwind tour of all the bars I never go to in Edmonton and it left me gasping for breath at the end of it. I credit this debauchery with singlehandedly ending a very serious foray into the World of Warcraft. When they returned I told them I’d be in Spain for 2010, but apparently like everyone else they didn’t quite believe me. So Laura is super-pumped that I’m here, Juan is (sadly) in Africa so we go out for dinner where I have proper tapas instead of doner kebap. Oh and the Germans lost the European championship.
Sunday is ‘find-the-scars-of-the-revolution’ day. Based on more detailed research I now know roughly the line of advance and what things are known to still be there. The trenches in the Casa de Campo are confirmed, but specifics are vague. There are bunkers in the Parque del Oeste, which is sort of on the way and lets me explore Rio Madrid area some more. And apparently you can ’still see the scars’ in Ciudad Universitaria but I think that will turn out to be a waste of time, but it anchors the line I’m going to explore.
See the original plan for the fascists was to cross through the Casa de Campo because it was mostly open ground and into the Ciudad Universitaria which was across the river. This gave General Mola a good foothold in the city proper, and more importantly, a secure river crossing. It was the best of a pile of bad options and was made significantly worse when the battle plans were found on a dead Italian officer. In the end the Casa de Campo became a lethal killing field as Mola tried to push through his original plan and the Republicans did their best to reinforce. It wasn’t until decades after World War II concluded that they finally opened the park back up; until then it was cordoned off because there were still mines and active munitions! Sadly, I cannot find any evidence of this other than some restored bunkers in the Parque del Oeste. I bike much of the Casa de Campo and the only really unique thing I found were the prostitutes (another well-known legacy of the Casa de Campo).
I take a soak in the fountains beside the Rio Manzanes and head in. I plan on taking a shower but I can’t put my bike in the reception any more. It’s filled with bags from everyone wanting to check in or who have already checked out. I attempt to suborn the lady running the desk, but in the end we compromise with her watching it and I get my lock. Thus begins an hour of getting my lock, desperately searching for my key, giving up and going to the the nearby-ish bike store, discovering its closed on Sunday, returning to search some places I forgot to search, and then finally being told I could store it in the reception as the luggage had all moved out. This entire time I just desperately wanted a shower. I spend the rest of the evening alternately searching for a key and preparing initial plans for next week.
Today was spent more casually. I awoke in time for breakfast, showered and then headed out in search of an optica (glasses store). I’d bent my frame a little bit in an excited exchange with the Catalans and was tired of them feeling loose. I also wanted to see the prices on bike locks. I failed to find an optica and the lock prices range from 15 euros to 30 euros. I want to pay 15 euros, but I want the lock that costs 30 euros. I defer this decision until Wednesday when I will do laundry and maybe the key will fall out in the process. In the meantime I drown my sorrows in a McNugget meal. Heading back I spend at least four hours alternately planning my route to Barcelona, sending emails, and trying to catch up this blog and its photos. By the time I emerge from ‘The Cave’ where the internet is best I’m thoroughly tired anyways and plan on just sitting on a couch in the bright living area upstairs. I end up meeting an indian dude named Arnub who has a better map than I have and we end up going for a stroll. It’s a pretty good time and in the process I get to practice Spanish because he doesn’t know any, and I find an optica thanks to some other Canadians who were keeping their eyes open for me. After a pretty satisfying walk Laura and I go to an Indian/Pakistani restaurant that has tandoori chicken that is off the bone. That totally makes up for the really really heavy butter in their butter chicken (aka Makhni Chicken).
Laura takes the Metro home and I’m within walking distance of the hostal so I head down a fairly wide boulevard that looks like it goes in my direction. Quickly, I learn to walk in the very centre as I get accosted by two very aggressive prostitutes. One put an awfully firm hand on my shoulder and after I twisted out of it and got about 10 paces away another grabbed my arm in an awfully firm grip. Then I walk down the middle and am fine, but admittedly kind of shaken. When I get back I run into Arnub who is hanging out with two dudes who turn out to be from Edmonton. We end up wiling the night away at the Big Ben cerveceria before we call it quits. So far, I’m having a pretty good time.