First Weekend in July...

Last weekend in Madrid. Been out of my place since the end of June, living like a king on a couch in Tribunal with glorious hosts, gregarious gatherings, and gradual preparations. Right now I'm on the couch with my computer in my lap and my bags semi-packed around the room as the sideways evening glow fills the room and a languid breeze carries me back to the weekend that began the summer...

FRIDAY: Darkness fell, I don't know when or why. Somehow it was night and time to go meet my oldest Madridleña friend for to commence festivities.
I left the place under a warm violet sky and walked alone briskly through the sporadic groups down Fuencarral under orange glowing streetlights. Despite the crowds and constructions numerous along the route, I got to Sol with time to spare and posted up in the Museo del Jamón for a few minutes. There are a thousand in this city and they seem to be geared toward the naive curiosity of first-time tourists who have never seen a hanging ham, let alone 2000 in one room. That would lead one to feel anxious about going near one in Sol, where first-time tourists are directed by the arc-full. But the unwavering traditionality of the place, with the typical bow-tie and blue vest indifferent service and the questionable meats given out with the 1e cañas make it constantly full of so many Madrileños who can recall the days of Franco that most tourists scurry away in fear. So a wide, squat 2e mug café doble and a burned throat and I was out and a few streets over in Plaza Santa Ana, with it's grand terraces, it's jazz cafés, and its crowning white, spired hotel. Some time later Steph showed up and Heather soon followed and we waited for the rest on a hotel terrace where the camarero simply poured the vodka until he was told to stop. (Gotta remember that place - Plaza del Angel, Hostal Persal). Finally Diego showed up and we knocked a few back before hitting the (first) main event.

Recall the spire? One of the most ballinest terrazas in Madrid is up there with it. Entry is free, but the key is to know when to arrive. Wait till after 11 and you're going to stand on a line for some time. Unless, of course, you're with some Madrid hipsters who know the way to walk in an alternate door like you own it and get in the lift before the front of the growing line of desperately sexy euro tourists outside dressed only in white and black. Sure, you can grin all the way up, but remember why you drank down on the streetlevel before, or pay the price you didn't when you got in for free. No one needs your help knowing when to stop pouring drinks at this bar but they may need to give you some extra ice when you ask for the price of the 3cl of beefeater you just ordered. Make it last then and go enjoy the views you came for.


Good music, good air, pretty views and pretty crowd. And encroaching thirst. Something must be done. Soon enough some others came to join and we were a regular party, or at least looking for one. So we stayed until we'd had our fill, and descended again to the real world. Well, sort of. By chance I wandered into a bar some months ago that really piqued my fancy. When I found out that it never closed before 6am, I became a devotee. So down on the street some time before 1, I took the crowd across town through Plaza Mayor and around some small streets whose relative calm belied our purpose. No doubt skeptecism had arisen by now and when some lovely Indian touristas from London asked us for directions to a well-known club, I'm sure people wanted to change destinations. But perseverence paid off and when we walked into Barbu off calle Mayor, approving glances and upturned frowns spread amongst us.

The bartendress from Sweden(?) agreed to buy every third round of shots and thus the seeds of destruction were set. Twas there, in the darkened back bar that we passed the evening, listening and dancing to great music making poses and faces taking photos and shots and celebrating beginnings and endings. Two friends, Ruwan and Travis, were out for their last night in Madrid. In the morning they would be leaving Spain behind; nine months after our first crazy grammar lessons in the north of the city; nine months after our first menu del dia. Heather and I would be next, leaving for two months of summer holiday, though we'll both be back in the fall. And Steph herself was only here visiting, leaving again in just over a week until a yet-to-be-confirmed date in the winter. So it was, as the first weekend of summer and July officially kicked off in the long hours of not just another Friday night in Madrid.