On the Street...Tirso de Molina - the former 'hood

An epicenter of anarchists, socialists, and the milieu most often referred to as "punks"

Lunchtime in the plaza - choice of chair, ground, or the chew/stroll combo

Finally, the fotos are here...

Some early photos of the center, taken during my first month...
C/ Campomanes, just north of Plaza Mayor, looking south at the eastern facade of the Royal Opera

Calle Bola, a typical one-lane street in the old city where lies a restaurant rumored to have the best Cocido Madrileno (traditional chic pea stew) en la ciudad.

A busy shopping street off of Puerta Del Sol, where cars have been ousted by 24 hour throngs of Spaniards and tourists alike.

Street along the western border of Plaza Mayor, where the old city walls have been converted to buildings for housing above and eating/drinking establishments street level. Some of the places are called cuevas, because of the subterranean drinking chambers dating back to when there was no other way to escape the heat of summer.

New digs...Plaza de Espana and the holiday weekend

selfportrait on my new terrace (notice the palatial view reflected)

(plaza de espana) arial view of the new HQ - my flat is just off the lower left corner

Long march of lugubrious days gives way and the sun has made what feels like his first appearance this month. I take the opportunity to spend time on my new terrace before taking a stroll around the neighborhood going down every street that pulls and snapping fotos as the colors madden. I had to leave La Latina in a flash when things bordered on violent with my landlady after I demanded that she return at least a portion of my deposit money. That, of course, came to naught, but civil lawyer and bromantic buddy Juan is determined to fight on my behalf, especially as we have agreed on a percentage. The four-day weekend thus went on with diurnal crises and nocturnal revelries. The loss of money and phone offset by long nights with friends and charming new acquaintances. Travis, Ru, and myself sat up laughing and toasting to destruction as we summarily drank upwards of 30 shots together before meeting other gang members and spreading ourselves across malasana. In a bar near c/ espiritu santo we discussed the points of alcohol abuse and the related disease until I caught a pair of eyes and took my leave.

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The next day I rued the greyness with which the coming work week made its dismal approach while lamenting the loss of my phone somewhere along the way during the previous night. Little was accomplished and before long it was evening again and time to go get lost in the satisfactory comfort of friends. Meeting in Sol we strolled through Huertas and had a cana in an Irish Pub before meeting with my long lost ladies from Boston, Megan and Emma, in Sol. They had gotten in two days before but due to infirmity, weather, and holiday, had not done much before meeting me. I deemed that more than reason enough to have a ball and as one large group we headed to Rio Xallas on c/ chinchilla, where the eternal barman stands short but erect and smiles with narrow slits of glossy eyes from behind a massive conquistadorial moustache. He embraces all who enter, awards all women with dos besos, and gives the men of comparable magnaminity hearty embraces. There we cought up over pitchers of sangria and cerveza while the conquistador delivers plates of tapas until we decide to leave. The girls tell me things in Dublin and London, their respective homes for the season, are deplorable. Young people refusing to go out and experience the finer points of those great towns, difficult transportation, and the removal of some of our favorite spots. I tell them first the background of my training and adopted life here before taking them on a verbal tour through my typical week. A couple of hours later we were far too full to remain in that bar and, parting with the rest of my madrileno friends, headed into chueca with the hopes of finding some vestiges of a good time. Luckily we were greeted by a young promoter who spoke comprehendible spanish with a sing-song accent that lead me to assume he was brazilian and who gave us tickets for free drinks and free entry at a disco down the street, which was empty. Drink we did, and then off to buy some cervezas from an outdoor chino on the corner. We walked around but there was nothing doing, so I took them back to Sol with the half-assed intention of walking them to the hostel. But our true selves took hold and we found ourselves in, I hate to say it, Dubliners. It was the only open bar, and we actually got 4 free beers on top of the bucket of 6 we had already purchased so the night was by no means disasterous. Embracing at their hostel I was struck by a feeling that I can not yet explain or understand. They had been regular fixtures in my life for 2 years, and seeing them again was like picking up the beat of a jam. Things felt much like they had before, albeit in a different setting. Now we were saying goodbye for what could be a long time. I still wonder about what I have left behind, as it moves away in the rearview. I imagine things change in life and in our minds, but never in syncronized fashion. What will happen when beats are picked up or venues revisited? Can life be accurately shown by a continuous line? I doubt the level of control we have over when it deviates, curves, or severs. I contemplate the time I have and the time I have spent when I realize the time is now and my lessons need planning. At least I have a phone again.

Post Script: Barna

Last weekend's trip was also a time of lessons.

• When going to a place, especially a place one has already visited, make reservations in advance for a restaurant of exceptional repute, even if one must spend the rest of the trip surviving only on complimentary hostel meals.
• Check the weather beforehand to bring necessary clothing/accoutrements.
• Make sure traveling companions understand what needs to be brought and airline/accommodation regulations - never assume.
• Learn, one day, to do things earlier than last-minute.
• Bring two pairs of pants.
  

Vida ciudad

Christmas is coming. Throughout the city, the calles and plazas that have for some weeks been adorned with various and often truly puzzling light fixtures now illuminate the nights. Giant conical skeletons of black iron and colored acrylic shapes and lights have emerged in all of the main plazas - sol, espana, atocha, etc. Today the temperature reached t-shirt temperature and still madrilenos scurried along bundled in long coats and scarves, like some holiday season protocol. I walked proudly in a cotton collared shirt in defiance. The police presence has escalated as well, prepared to bureaucratically deal with the tourism and subsequent petty theft. Clad in neon yellow-green vests like pacific heights crossing guards and navy berets like urban special forces, the swine. They congregate in groups and stare with that asinine confidence that all people of minor authority adopt, sizing me up and guessing my origins while they imagine me committing some crime as I return their gaze and imagine their indifference as they trample basic human rights. I walk swiftly past, recalling the crime I commit by simply being here and earning money. My birthday is coming too.

I have been teaching for 3 weeks. I have 24 students, ranging from 23 to 40something. I have gained an intimate knowledge of the world's most efficient metro system, taking 5 different lines on a daily basis as I trek across the ciudad from one business building to another, holding class in various conference rooms. My favorite has a cappucino machine in the office that makes some of the best coffee in the city, which I use to time student activities. Some of my students have revealed themselves to be great people. I had one class practice past tenses writing stories of their childhoods. One, Jose Maria, had few childhood friends and used to go into the hills and woods looking to find animals to play with. Now he deals in the stock market and has one of the most charming demeanors I have ever come across.
Last weekend Ruwan, Travis, Erik, Natalia, Santiago, and I made our first journey together - to the great enchantress, Barcelona. It was, as always with that city, remarkable. Private nightclubs disguised as apartments, bottles of absinthe, narrow medieval alleys with castle-like lamps, serpentine hillside parks, and the best salted cod of my life. I met with Richard, my perpetual euro-mate, who has taken residence in Barcelona, and we delved into the world of criminal hedonism. Colors of beige and fin de siecle green, all yellows reds greens and blues, sounds of voices carried through the narrow gothic capillaries, protests (I think they were actually protesting the crisis. I don't know who it was directed toward but the march was impressively large), and waves. Mediterranean electronic music and more English than I have heard in weeks. The most gorgeous brown eyes I have seen yet and a hundred packs of cigarettes. We left on the bus with 2 bottles of wine and several of beer and mused over the culture, geography, and the feeling of being in Barcelona, how that might compare with Madrid. I find Barcelona immeasurably more beautiful and charming. The feeling of being nestled among verdant hills at the Mediterranean's edge is infinitely soothing, and I speculate that man's proclivity toward valley cities comes from the development stage and being clutched in mother's arms and placed in a crib. The population of the city is by and large more youth driven and is far more international, resulting in two major aspects: the city is more cosmopolitan, with progressive style and that feeling of freshness that resides in a major port city; but it is this same aspect that makes her feel more indifferent toward one's presence than I have become accustomed to in Madrid. The city is as eternal as any major European city feels to be, but it's also transitory. People arrive on vacation and stay. Eventually they leave. In contrast to all of that, Madrid is 80% Spanish and maybe 80% of those are Madrileno by birth. This place is a home, handed down and passed on along the generations. Recently it has seen a major influx of African and eastern European, but by and large it is the same place. It was not until emerging from metro Tirso de Molina that I realized that Madrid has become my home and I am glad to be back. Nonetheless, Barcelona is always calling to be revisted and I can never sate my thirst for her. And contrary to what people say, the party in Madrid is bigger and longer.
(PS - no dog shit on the streets in Barca!)

Today I got paid. Once a month Madrilenos receive their means of sustinence. 12 times a year. Today I got a new flat in Plaza de Espana with a terrace that gazes up at el Palacio Real. I've never lived across from a palace. I am excited to assimilate the royal vibe. Today I lost 550 euros that I was counting on getting. Apparently moving out after the first means losing a month's worth of rent, no matter how friendly the landlady may seem. Today was a day of lessons. Tonight I exact my revenge and indulge myself for double-digit hours.