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.

Transitional

Emerging from the labyrinthian metro station of bright white lights bouncing off shining tiled walls enclosing a sea of bobbing heads, the sun temporarily blinds as the breeze carries a fresh scent from the hills just beyond the city limits. I'm standing at Moncloa, surrounded by students and drones alike, looking over a broad vista through the gate of a great stone arch at a downward-sloping countryside that goes from ochre to green as it sprawls away from the capitol toward bluegreen mountains. To my left is the Ejercito Del Aire, a massive, stately looking building of brick and stone housing god knows what, that sits atop a pedestal with highly cultivated hedges and grass in front. The sun, posed high in the sky above el Ejercito, is unchallenged in a cloudless cerulean sky. I turn to the massive rotunda behind me, stroll along it's lefthand side and begin to walk up C/ Fernandez de los Rios, heading for the offices of my new employer.
....

The training is through. Four weeks passed like Hamilton in the last turn and now it's back to post-grad life and its eternal struggle as the hedonist-cum-accountant. As far as I can tell the course was a success. I made great friends, taught and learned a lot from some wonderful students, and now I have a job that will keep me housed and fed from month to month. Scheduling is less that sweet; morning classes from 8:30-10 and after noon from 12-14:00 or 13-15:00 depending, and lots of time spent travelling from site to site. But this is what I came here for, to go beyond the traveller who eats and drinks and spends and photographs. Besides, I can do that on my weekends, which start at 15:00 on thursdays and end sunday nights. The grind begins on the coming monday.
....

I'm still in the bariro of La Latina, home to bohos, indies, revolutionaries, yuppies, and octogenarians alike, all bound by a common love of food and drink, an appreciation for old city flavor, and a tolerance for drunks, dog shit, and constant construction. I love the location and my flat is great, but it's time to find cheaper digs.
The women seem to be increasing in beauty as the nights decrease in temperature, and the botellons (free drinking gatherings outdoors on terrazas, in plazas, and basically everywhere that lacks walls and a roof) drop in frequency. Scarves and winter coats populate the city and the need to explore becomes ever pressing as the limits of what exists in a particular place come into view. Thus...this weekend's Barcelona trip has been moved to the end of the month, allowing for what should be a great day trip to the mountains this week and a weekend-long celebration in the following week for Thanksgiving and the departure of a dear friend. Stephanie will be leaving indefinately for her home in Brasil. We hope to lose 5 years of our life-spans in gourmandizing that weekend.
....

In the last few days before work begins it will be important to observe and digest all that I can about the life that happens in between plans. No opportunity shall be declined and no experience feared. Swimming in the park at night was just the beginning. The camera is back in action, so get ready for some shots of the city. I will be taking scenic photos of the cityscape but I also hope to get some pictures of madrilenos doing madrileno things, to give you some sabor local.

'Sta lo-o...

Domingo en el Centro

Today the barrio pulses and thrives like a chrysalis exploding with a million copies of the same tiny creature. The ancient streets that wind wrap around one another, creating an organic metropolis that tells the story of its life in its cobbles and walls. People from every corner of the globe come each sunday for El Mercado del Rastro, or simply, El Rastro--the largest and oldest outdoor market in all of Europe and probably the world outside of the grand Bazaars of the Abbasid caliphate. An hour and a half before I had even gotten to the main street of the market, stretching before me for at least a mile. It's like 3 Portabello roads and a Camden market combined. Around midday the population reaches critical mass and the sun pours down from a cloudless sky like floodlights on the stage. In every corner lies something, each square inch occupied. The bars that line the side streets are havens for the travel-stained and discerning madrilenos who gaze with sidelong glances at the performance in the street. A man in front of me leads two children while smoking hash in a cigarillo - a euro blunt I suppose. On either side I hear every language as people try to bargain with the steadfast salesmen. You don't like the price, you don't buy. Personally a leather jacket for 15 sounds fantastic, and so does a tie for 2,50. By 1 the situation is nearly unsustainable and one seeks the exit but finds none. The place is alive and has grown far beyond the imagination. Life everywhere existing just shy of chaotically. I recall theoretical comparisons of cities and think of words like "green space" and "logical". Thoughts of New York are inescapable. It's impossible for me to dislike that place, but I can understand those who view it with disdain. The grid system is so antithetical to what the centuries-old cities are. They have birth and growth and it shows like scars. Children becoming adults with varied senses of humor and airs of importance, those who have made mistakes and learned, those who have been marred or sheltered. All with their closets full. New York is like a stillborn, a robot, a Gattica baby. Sterile in its design, mechanical. The idea is brilliant and dates all the way back to the city along the Indus, but there is no perfect approach. In that way it's like a lifetime itself. One can choose any number of paths but none stand out as the one true way. I suppose that's why I'm here. I prefer a trip down every possible path. However this particular avenue I find most agreeable, and perhaps, if I'm fortunate, the stroll might last...

Fin de Semana and other buzzings-along..

A week rolls on and the axle gets smoother. In the morning I walked to the metro and realized I left my pass back at the place and hadn't a single euro in my pocket with which to buy my fare. Hours later, however, it became apparent that the day would be a good one. Fresh dressed like a million bucks, I was eager to get my teach on. The sun shone and my shit was pretty much straight. I got bumped from a 6pm to a 3pm lesson, and after my religious observation of the vino tinto things went so well with the class that they asked me when I was teaching again so they could be sure to attend. After that, it was still 4pm and most of the day was ahead of me. I took the metro to Tribunal, which is only half way back to my flat, and had a long walk around Malasana to research for the night. I realized that even in the old city there is still so many gems for me to discover that I became energized. Walking home I made sure to imprint the images of the barrio on my mind and when I finally got to the flat I danced around for a bit as plans swirled in my head. Why not? It had been a productive week to say the least and much of my Monday homework was already done. There would be no sleep before the dawn. I still had many hours to kill and with my energy and the agreeable nature of the weather outside my window I decided to go run for the first time since I landed. I have a feeling I got a lot of strange looks along the way because I did not see nor have I yet seen a single runner along city streets. It was only when I got toward the Palacio Real that I found more of my kind. Following their lead I stumbled onto a massive network of tree-lined trails and grassy knolls which took me far from my origin. I finally got back into the city somewhere north of Gran Via and had a long way of navigating the increasingly congested streets of the old city ahead of me. 

.....

Things appear to me different yet the same. Streets, buildings, buses and trains. Kids with dyed hair and face hole jewelry sitting in circles with cigs and bottles, couples strolling by statues. But its got a different flavor. The buildings are similar to those in other European capitols but not really. Far grander in scale than anything save the Vatican in Rome, far more elaborate and ornate than anything save the Opera in Paris, the city seems like an experiment that was carried out under a series of unrelated stewards and never ended. People walk with the air of belonging but not with the arrogance of superiority that you find in many capitols. Bars and restaurants outnumber banks, post offices, and basically everything else 2 to 1, but they don't exist in the state of competitive fever that marks so many other metropoli. Beer can come in massive mugs or pequeno glasses, both with the requisite tapa to keep one from getting too strong a buzz. Cigarettes are smoked everywhere (except my flat, goddamnit) and the metro is the best I've seen in any city in my life. Perhaps I will elaborate on the metro alone in the future. In fact, every aspect I've seen can be discussed for pages, especially with the absence of photographs (which I continue to work on, half-assedly). 

......

Anyway, tonight begins another weekend of Spanish practice, friend making, barrio exploration, and bohemian dance ceremonies. And a little consumption on the side. Ground zero - Chueca, for what's rumored to be one of the best bars for complimentary tapas with one's cerveza. This will be my first time in the barrio known for its parties and bars so I anticipate mucho excitement...the world spins round with lyrical sounds bumping and flowing from cobble to brick to mohawk to mojito with smiles and eyes and feet shuffling. horns honk but cars don't move as scooters slide by like sleds on ice while someone yells and another sneaks behind and all around children feeling like adults stepping on stones through a shallow but ancient river and you stand, trying to keep from jumping. Or maybe you just bump up against people in a bar. Anything can happen when the night turns to day rather than to sleep.

One more thing

Before I forget, there will be numerous pictures posted showing the extremity of fashion and architecture and culinary culture here in Madrid but I left the States without my camera charger and the bastard is stone dead. Don't recommend buying one here because the prices are spine-tingling for that type of shit, but be patient and I'll find a solution...

One week in..

I begin the virtual record of my life in Madrid 9 days after its beginning. I have been recording thoughts and impressions in a notebook I carry from time to time but much of this first week has been reception and assimilation of all the elements in which I have immersed myself. Like a strange new food, I had no immediate reaction but to feel and attempt to recognize. Now that it's become clear there is little here for me to recongnize, I've moved on to simply doing all that I can and taking the time to reflect when it's available. My first few days were spent in a hostel near the barrio Huertas, where I learned that while Hostel's may be temples for the travelers who care more for experience than a quiet night, they are no good for the people who actually require sleep. Within two days, however, I'd found myself an apartment right between the Sol and La Latina barrios - where anyone will tell you is basically ground zero for nocturnal activity of all sorts. Lavapies and Huertas are minutes away and the weekend nights don't ever die down until after 6 am. After 5 days of education training I have already taught 2 classes and I'm amid preparations for a third and fourth, though there's always time to go find a new taberna on a new calle in which to sit and take it all in over a cerveza and tapa. By the way, they come free with drinks - my favorite is probably the spanish olives and anchovies, but the chorizo a la sidra is equally exceptional. I take two metros to and from the training center every day, passing through stations ranging in size from a mere platform to a network of platforms and escalators so large that every station in the city of boston could fit snugly inside. 9-5 is spent in Northern Madrid where they teach me how to teach those with whom I can barely communicate to speak English. The nights range from drinks all over the city with friends from Rome, Barcelona, England and Scotland to all-night hedonistic pilgrimages from calle to calle, barrio to barrio. Sundays in Retiro park provide more entertainment than I could have ever predicted, with drum circles numbering 15-25 large and a pulsing dancefloor on the edge of a great pond. It's strange, this life of hedonism and work combined, but I have a feeling it's the way of the world here within the border's of Europe's highest capitol. At 2pm one is hard pressed to find a bar that's empty, as the entire city exhales from the morning grind and relaxes over a cerveza or two and a few tostas. At 930p it's the same story. Enthusiastic speech everywhere while the city buzzes with an energy that is calm enough to be sustainable but intense enough to spill over into the streets of a city where the fear of old age is washed away like no where else. It is something altogether different and not always elating to come to a city alone and I often find myself thinking of the people and things I have left, but I have yet to believe that things from the past must remain there and rather than look either forward or behind I spend the minutes looking all around me now - my new home in Spain.