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Living Late in Madrid
Published
in the San Francisco Bay Guardian
Three hours behind schedule, the Madrid-bound 747 was still
circling JFK's runways without a word from the Iberia Airlines
crew. The Spanish passengers barely glanced at their watches;
the Americans on board were unmistakable from their scowling
brows and growling stomachs. It was a rude introduction to
the Spanish sense of time, embodied in the citizens of its
leisurely capitol: Whether late lunches or planes, slow afternoon
strolls or siestas, Madrid's people take their time.
The city is my first overseas stop on a year-long, solo circle
around the globe. When short trips in Europe, South America
and the Middle East left me longing for a longer stay, I decided
to take my freelance writing business on the road. I bit the
bullet and bought a one-way ticket from San Francisco to Cairo
via Madrid.
In Cairo, I will live with a Lebanese-Canadian sex therapist
and her children, taking Arabic classes and helping her with
her dissertation. After Egypt, I will leave the skies behind
to traverse a lot of land and a little water: spring visiting
friends in the Middle East; summer working on volunteer projects
in Eastern Europe; the fall hiking in Tibet and Nepal; and
December sunning on the beaches of Thailand and flying home
in time to ring in 1999. At least that is the plan: I may
return homesick mid-way, or not return all. I make no promises
so that I can come and go with the exchange rate and the weather.
Such a journey requires one to reinvent one's existence, given
the demands of every new environment; to accept one's ignorance,
given the multitude of languages and lifestyles one encounters.
It is trusting in the unknown, existing in and for the here
and now. Travel at its best is the ultimate celebration of
life, not a break from it.
It is an anthropological and psychological study of my own
society and self as much as it is an exploration of foreign
cultures. To see something as "other" requires differentiation:
what makes me like or unlike the people I meet? Will a universal
sense of humanity -- not to mention womanhood -- connect me
with people who live so differently?
Leaving home forces me to question my sense of belonging.
In the U.S., I feel that my nationality is incidental to my
identity; elsewhere, it defines me. What does America mean
to me, to an Egyptian, an Israeli, a Tibetan? How has my country
changed the world, for better or worse?
Like
a cultural broker, I look to convey facets of our culture
beyond McDonald's and Baywatch, while being open to other's
insights on our way of life. And with you, fair reader, I
want to share my own perceptions about people and places normally
only viewed from the perspectives of high-school history books,
cheery travel magazines and the dismal nightly news.
That said, Madrid is frankly just a fun weekend fling. After
the
all-night, trans-Atlantic flight, I was happy to arrive in
Alonso
Martinez, a central neighborhood with many cheap spots to
eat, sleep and make merry. There I found a room in a family-run
pension for 1,500 pesetas (about $10), though my chamber was
smaller than a bread box. I had to shuffle sideways to get
in with my oversized backpack, heavy with laptop and too many
books.
The 6 hours I lost coming from New York turned my day to night
and night, day. Luckily, Madrid is in a permanent state of
jet lag. My first night I was wide awake until 4 a.m., a reasonable
bedtime for Madrilenos. Although never leaving home, the pension's
grandfatherly, piously Catholic host still didn't turn in
until 3 a.m., when he finally turned off the bombastic classical
music he blasted nightly.
Socializing is an art and science in Madrid. To master the
scene, one must predict the peaks of the city's pint-sized
tapas bars. From early evening until the wee night hours,
Spaniards flit from bar to bar like bees gathering nectar,
stopping here for a tapa (appetizer) of fried calamari, tortilla
(potato and onion quiche) or chorizo (sausage), there for
a glass of beer or sangria.
Around 10 or 11 p.m., after an protracted affair of tapas
and drinks, dinner arrives at last. The table stars hefty
dishes like paella, a stew of saffron rice and mixed seafood.
To sample a dish, some establishments will let you order a
pincho, or a bite-sized portion.
Spaniards take their main meal of the day between 2 and 4
p.m. Monday through Friday, restaurants provide a menu del
dia, which allows diners to select a tapa, main dish and dessert
for one low price. Do leave room: cream-layered cake topped
with pine nuts is a pleasure not to be missed.
Madrid's daytime treasures are its more than 40 museums, el
Museo del Prado being the crowning jewel. The Prado is part
of the Art Walk, a triangle of galleries west of the historic
Parque Del Buen Retiro. The museum houses one of the greatest
collections of Spanish painting from the 12th to 19th centuries,
most notably the works of Goya, Velazquez and El Greco.
With nearly one hundred rooms of artwork, the Prado alone
warrants a day of reflection. It would take an eye's lifetime
to tire of all that decks its walls -- El Greco's tense, tumbling
compositions and strangely elongated hands, Rubens' lovable,
fluffy-winged angels and dark, brooding portraits, Titian's
bursts of candy colors.
To merely get around, the subway is clean, quick and simple,
but to properly enjoy the city's grandeur, you must walk it.
Take time to aimlessly wander neighborhoods, weaving through
compact mazes of zig-zagged roads and spacious, tree-lined
plazas. Get caught in the spokes of traffic-hubs, where six
thoroughfares each spin off into multiples of back streets.
When you can roam no further, pick a park bench and watch
fiery young couples argue, make up and make out.
My memory of Madrid is in the lingering details. Snow-colored
buildings trimmed with cream ornaments, each window swinging
open to a wrought-iron balcony. The fall shades favored by
Madrilenos, from the brown-mustard sweaters of casually dressed
youth to the chestnut fur coats worn by older women strolling
the boulevards.
I try to match the lilting steps of these ladies, who gossip
arm-in-arm. They live the life of leisure Americans keep hoping
the washing machine, the Internet and next year's model will
deliver. I should take this pulse to heart and stay a little
longer, but the rest of the world awaits. Sleep well, Madrid,
I've got another plane to catch.
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