This is a winter of shit. Natives will use words like strange or weird. Liars. Caught up and so they believe themselves. But it's shit. Today is nice, but we wont let that stop us. Can't let the guard down against this crap. A wonderful time for a visit, you might say. My sister will agree.
Last Monday was a paradigm day of this sullen season of leaden rain and cold. We took refuge in the Reina Sofia and wandered till our knees buckled before the scene of destruction with which Picasso made a little Basque city famous outside Spain. Three hours called for a sit down and we took it in the station. Atocha serving the southern trains and standing yet six years after a bombing left it crippled. Inside stands a grand forest enclosed and enshrined, alongside which one, or in our case four, may sit and sip and look on at the greenery. Fast forward past tears brought on by cheap beers (o sea...) and back out into the deluge and black wind of night. Discomfort reigns as we hail down a cab and move back to the flat to rest before the rest of the night unfolds.
Bags are packed and preparations are made for the seven hour red eye bus to Barcelona for some Catalonian days to cure the Castilian malaise. 1AM to pull out of Avenida de America, but not before an evening performance of Flamenco at Plaza de España's Las Tablas Flamenco club. The place is new but already known, but we've got a hightop waiting and some drinks bearing our names. The wine is fine and the show is good, crowned not only by the virtuoso guitar but also the final moments, when roles are switched and what began as serious expression becomes jocular self-deprecation and mutual mocking. We leave laughing in good spirits and grab some hot albondigas and fino in a nearby bar before plunging into metro tunnels to be carried to the station.
Even still there is time and so we sit and discuss itinerarily before strolling down the concourse to the bus which is still empty.
Esta corto, and I say, Como?
Nieve.
No me jodas.
Si. La proxima salida esta a las seis y media.
Despite my command to stop fucking with me, the conductor is stern and lets out only the slightest chuckle as he tells me that the bus is cancelled and will leave at 6:30AM. This, by the way O readers, is the second 1AM failed attempt in as many days to wheel up to Barcelona. Now money must be returned, and not only to us. Some thirty angry passengers bark at two tired bus company employees who, just in time for our end of the line, pull the plug on customer relations and tell us to come back tomorrow. The 30€ per ticket will be ready for pick up anytime thereafter.
Understandably this blow is heavy and after nearly getting dragged across the platform by the closing doors of the last metro car, we sit sadly smelling of defeat. Sister turns to me and asks,
How much sleep do you need before work?
Well, I should...you want to party?
Oh hell yes.
Exciting as this may seem, it's the pit of a rainy Monday night and anything near the homestead will be closed. But we're in no mood to resign so we pop back up to the street some stops south of our own, and head up with our heads up hoping to find a light. Bars are closed or closing and stores have long since shut, but we find a kebab shop to sell us cans to carry and fuel our further search. Shysters and sketchy cats roll by asking for coins and darting into shadows in the southern frontier of this infinite strangeness, leaving us feeling itchy and paranoiac. With shoulders hunched and heads on a swivel, we spot a lit sign reads Bar Cristo under which stumbles a woman who tells us they're still quite open. Christ Bar it is.
Inside the small room disco and dance music blare between mirrored walls and squat brownskin latinos young and old are shaking on the floor or gesturing in the corners with bottles in their hands while bartenders dance behind the bar wearing giant colored glasses and shirts with sparkles. All of this momentarily halts as the four tallish Americans walk in and post up by the cigarette machine, but activity resumes as normal with just the added element of repeated glances and speculation. It's the weekly Langostino party in Christ Bar and everyone is rocking. Rounds of beers and tequila shots loosen us up and by the time Beat It comes on were dancing full tilt with the rest of the room. Rounds and rounds and songs and dance and I notice the girls are smiling wider than I'd seen all week. Their joy emanates outwards and soon the other custies are on us dancing and calling us guapos and guapas and inviting us to their restaurants and asking for our names. The bartendress with the cute smile comes over with a round on the house and we laugh and drink together on this strangest of Monday nights.
Nevermind that we left with empty bottles in our pockets, it's only madness and can easily be accounted for. In the cab we laughed excitedly and sighed at the day of unease and shitrain and grey turned flap right over into pleasure and love before easing joyfully into the house and smilingly into slumber. Who needs Barcelona anyway?
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