Sol, At Night

On kind of a spur of the moment decision I went to see a movie tonight. It was a British comedy called, “Death at a Funeral.” It was a funny movie, and it was good to get out and do something different.

Seeing a movie in Spain differs very little from seeing one in the States- or anywhere, I imagine. The only major difference was probably the assigned seats. Come now, we wouldn’t want people sitting where ever they wanted, willy-nilly. (Note: what’s Spanish for “willy-nilly”?) No matter where you are, though, Friday night movie crowds are good people. They’re not worried about anything, they have the weekend ahead of them, and they all at least have some sense of fun- otherwise, what’s the point of going to see a movie? They’re likely out with a partner or a group of friends, enough to put anybody in a good mood.

I waited with my ticket in the lobby among my fellow movie-goers and the smell of popcorn. I had arrived far too early, proving once again that moving to another country doesn’t automatically change anything about you. I was almost half an hour early, as usual, and immediately (but not for the first time) realized how ludicrous that is. I pretended to read the movie fliers and posters that were scattered in the small lobby while waiting for the screen to change from, “Un Funeral de Muerte: ESPERE” to “Un Funeral de Muerte: PASE.” When it did I made my way up to the theatre.

I was directed to my seat by an usher. It was in the furthest upper left-hand corner of the theatre. When I had purchased my ticket, the ticket vendor had asked something in rapid Spanish which sounded to me like, “Esta [something] bien?” Is [something] okay? Yes, I had said. Whatever was all right, as long as I could see the screen. Looking at my seat, I now knew that the vendor had in fact said, “Ah, ticket for one. Will the loneliest seat in the house be okay?” Oh yes, limited human contact, please. Put me in a corner somewhere, if you can.

As I said, the movie was very funny. Classic British slapstick combined with agile dialogue. And hearing British people cuss, for me, is fantastic. Allen Tudyk had the best part, and the whole theatre- myself included, from my corner- laughed pretty much the whole time he was onscreen.

So far, a successful night out. Found the theatre, bought the ticket, enjoyed the movie. But the problem was that I had gone to see the movie alone, which usually isn’t a problem until you’re leaving the movie theatre. When everyone is packed into the theatre, sitting in the dark and staring in the same direction, everyone may as well all be alone. Nobody’s talking, all just watching- we’re all alone but doing to the same thing together. Great. But afterward you want to talk about the movie. Favorite parts, where you laughed the most, good quotes. When you’ve gone to the movie by yourself … well, you just put your hands in your pockets and head up down the street. If you’re lucky maybe you can blog about it when you get home.

And head up the street I did. I walked up the Calle de Doctor Corteza, passed the Plaza de Jacinto Benavente, and then up Calle de Carretas towards Sol. Sol is, I believe, in the exact center of Madrid- indeed, the exact center of Spain. It is where the Calle Gran Via and the Calle Mayor, running parallel to each other, bend in closely and almost meet creating a great open area filled with expensive shops, restaurants, and kiosks catering to visiting tourists and upper-class madrileños alike. This being a Friday night it was heavily trafficked by window-shoppers, people arriving in Madrid and looking for their hostels, and people just out for a walk in the crisp autumn air.

I had come to Sol with the intention of heading down into the Metro right away and going home, but I found my pace was becoming slower and slower as I watched everyone around me. Couples, families, groups of friends- they were all suddenly fascinating to watch as they went about their shopping and walking. I strolled along the edge of the open space for a while, watching the people and checking out the movies, handbags, and jewelry being sold streetside by the moros.

Moro means “Moor,” and is used in Spain to refer to just about anyone from Africa. A lot of them make their living selling bootlegged movies and designer-imitation goods on the street and in the Metro. Although the term moro isn’t always used in a positive light, I don’t think there’s anything inherently racist about it so I’m going to use it here. If I hear differently, of course, I’ll change it.

What the vendors do is lay out their goods flat on a square of cloth with cords tied to each corner and joined in the center. When the cops come wandering along, the moros just pick up the cords in the center and all of their movies (as an example) are gathered into a nice little bag which they can throw over their shoulder as they take off running. What was great about tonight was the fact that there were so many vendors out to sell to the weekend crowd that when a couple of police cars pulled up, I turned around to see about two dozen black men running at me with white bags over their shoulders! They cut through the crowd and took off down a side street like a school of fish that knew exactly where it was going. Within ten minutes the cops had moved on and business resumed.

The parade of nightlife had continued without interruption and I took up a position leaning against a lamppost to watch it all go by. Very European. I suddenly found myself wishing that I smoked. Leaning against a lamppost doing nothing, you must appear very strange, or at least very bored. Put a cigarette in your mouth and suddenly you’re doing something, taking a smoke break in this busy world. Well, I don’t smoke and never much cared for the habit so I had to suffice myself with putting my hands in my pockets and pretending to be invisible.

This was surprisingly easy. After a few minutes I felt like I was invisible. People would pass me on either side and pay me no mind, and I sat there like Emerson’s transparent eyeball, just watching. Once a man walked up to me with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a suitcase in tow. In Spanish accented heavily by another language (French?) he asked if I knew where a certain street was. I told him no, that I didn’t know the area very well. Maybe he should look at the map over there. I was very pleased with the completeness of my response, but I don’t think the man understood anything past, “No.”

He gave me a look that displayed disdain and understanding at once. “How dare you lean so casually against a lamppost if you’re not a local!” he seemed to say. “But since I’m a nice guy I’m trying very hard to forgive you.” Gee, thanks.

He headed back into the sea of people. I really did wish I could have helped him. I even thought about walking the ten steps and consulting the map for him, but by the time that thought entered my head it was too late. I was once again the invisible observer, sworn never to interfere. Besides, I was now watching his blue suitcase disappear along the Gran Via west past Sol.

I had been standing there I-don’t-know-how-long. I was starting to feel cold, but I liked the cold so I stayed a little longer. I watched the couples, the families, the friends … the couples, the families, the friends … and as I did so another feeling started to creep up. I was no long the impassive observer: I was lonely.

It wasn’t a total loneliness, or anything so depressing. I was simply feeling that empty space where someone should have been sharing the whole thing with me. The feeling had really been there the whole night- and probably most of my time here in Spain. Every breathtaking sight or impressive building, every crazy random Spanish event (like the drummers in El Retiro), every joke untold or meal unshared- they all lacked someone sitting next to me to whom I could say, “Hey, isn’t that something?” It was all a tree falling in the woods.

Now, it must be said that I’ve been a very good traveling companion to myself. I get along with me, I like all the same food as me, and besides which I think I’m a riot. But there are times when it would be nice to be able to turn to someone and say, “Man, that part where Allen Tudyk was ass-naked on the roof was hilarious!”

Guess you had to be there.

A Message from the Madrid Department of Transportation

Greetings from the Madrid Department of Transportation! You know, the people who put up those little reminders on the highway telling you how many people have died on the road this weekend! Well, we here at MDoT are not all just flashing signs and green vests! We actually care for your well-being, and for that reason we have produced this pamphlet with a list of suggestions for the road. Remember- like all traffic laws and signals, these are merely suggestions; feel free to improvise as you see fit!



1. The speed limit exists for a reason!!! And that reason is to slow other drivers down so that you, personally, can speed along to your destination. You're welcome.



2. The car horn is not only for emergencies and accident prevention- it is a highly communicative tool. When at a stop light, begin honking one half second before the light changes. Do not stop for one (1) city block.



3. However, we are aware that there are situations in which a horn will not suffice. For these situations, lean out your window and explain to the other drivers what they are doing wrong, using as many colorful metaphors as necessary. This is so that we are all reminded of the rules of the road in a fun way!



4. For safety's sake, stop at all red lights and crosswalks!

4(a). Unless you don't see anyone coming.



5. Finally, when parking your car, try to avoid bumping into surrounding cars in the process. However, if it is a small space, how can you be expected not to brush up against another car every once in a while? These things happen. Besides, that bump tells you exactly when to stop!



Thank you again for heeding the rules of the road. Have a safe and happy weekend!



- Madrid Department of Transportation

This Ain't Easy

Deep breath. In. Hold. Out. Okay, here it goes.

My trip here, in respect to the plan of finding work and making a living, has not gone very well. I’ve been told many times that I need more schooling, more experience, and- oh yeah- more of a legal status here. This doesn’t come entirely as a surprise. It was always a possibility- no, a probability- that work would not be as easy to come by as I had believed. My roommate here recommended that I start looking for work teaching private class and tutoring students, but that kind of work wouldn’t provide the stability I’d need to maintain myself here; it’s a little too risky. Because of this I will be heading home on November 12th.

Come on, be honest with them. They’ve supported you this far; you owe them the truth, at least.

Well, perhaps my homecoming isn’t entirely caused by a lack of work. The truth is I don’t even want to be here anymore. God, I sound like Veruca Salt, don’t I? It sounds petty, like the child that got what he wanted for Christmas and immediately decided that he didn’t like it. There’s more to it than that, of course. When you remove yourself from your life, remove distractions like television and easy ways to entertain yourself, a lot of things become clearer. You start thinking new thoughts … or maybe I’m just finally admitting what I’ve thought all along.

It’s funny, but my biggest fear coming here was that I wouldn’t find work and then I’d feel like a failure. Here I am now, I haven’t found work, I’m going back home, and I have about a month of limited finances and the ennui of empty days to fill, but I still feel like I came out on top somehow. It wasn’t a failure at all- it was more of a miscalculation, an error, an oops!, a misjudgment. Yes, a misjudgment. Like that step you think is there but isn’t. You’re jarred at first, and you feel like you’re never going to stop falling. But then your foot hits the ground, you right yourself, and you move on. Next step.

Almost done …

You’ve all supported me in my venture in some way or another and I can’t thank you enough for that. I have a feeling that this will end up being one of those life-changing experiences (even if it’s not in the way I had planned) and it wouldn’t have been possible without that support. Thank you.

That wasn’t so hard, was it? Good job.

Supermercado Sweep!

Here's what I've learned from grocery shopping in Spain:



Supermarkets have bars inside. Brilliant.


The 'juice-box'-style container (see photo) is apparently underused in the United States. It can be used for anything: milk, tomato juice, orange juice, or even cheap wine.


Milk and eggs: these do not need to be refigerated before opening.


Bread, however, does need to be refigerated before opening.


Do not buy peanut butter in Spain. Just ... just don't.


If you buy fruit in Spain, simply bringing it up to the cashier isn't enough. She'll yell at you, and say that you need a bag, or a bagger, or something. So you'll go back and get a bag. When you return with the bag, she will examine it as if you've given her a bag filled with assorted roadkill. No, she'll say incredulously, you need a bar code, too. At this point you go back to the produce section and ask an old man what the hell the cashier is talking about. He'll laugh good naturedly and explain that there's a person whose job it is to weigh the fruit and put a bar code on it. I was not aware. So you get the barcode, go back to the cashier and utter the bizarre phrase, "I've never bought fruit in Spain before." You laugh, she laughs, and the people in line behind you ... well, they're mad as hell. All of this because you wanted some bananas. You poor, stupid bastard.



Other Notes:


When to eat in Spain:


Me: I just woke up.
Spanish Response: Have something to eat!


Me: I'm going to take a nap.
SR: Have a huge meal first!


Me: I'd like a beer, please.
SR: Eat some ham/olives/unknown bits of fried thing!


Me: I'll have another beer.
SR: You'll have some cheese!


Me: It's 11:30, I think I'll hit the sack.
SR: Let's have dinner!


Me: I'm full.
SR: Seconds?



To Nana, if you're reading: Sorry I wrote "hell" and "bastard".