Doy a Vuelta

BEAUTIFUL was today. The sun shone even as I emerged from the metro at 8am and continued unfettered by clouds to the end. Thursdays are usually the best of my workweek - I have only 3 classes and after 15:00, week becomes weekend. Today was different. Here in Spain, many empresas receive federal cash to fund the process of Anglification. Ironic, after all the isolationism still surviving from darker years. Anyway, the government is wary of allowing its loot to reach untaxable outlets such as myself, and they are performing inspections. Consequently I have lost 2 of my classes, 4 hours of my workweek, a decent chunk of my monthly income, and 9 of my students. I had become fairly close with some of them, which made it all the worse when I was told not to tell them that today would be our last meeting. I prepared a lesson around an article on love and relationships, and tried to stimulate as much friendly, philosophical discussion as possible. They excelled in the reading and grammar, and I let them know it. In the last 10 minutes of each class, as in the beginning, I avoided any "English" work and just talked. Talked about them, their interests and opinions and plans. In the end I tried to intimate through subtle hints that I wished them well, but they just left smiling and saying see you next week, as though there deviation had been ousted for good. These were initially my hardest students to win over, as I was already their 4th teacher in a little over a month. I suppose, then, that I should be flattered by their taking me for granted. I wish I could have told them goodbye, though. I wonder how they will feel on Tuesday. I suppose anything would be better than betrayal. But the ego feels as the ego will feel.

Last night, a student interrupted the class to tell me that she thought what we were doing was a waste of time and that she wanted to do exercises or something else. Infuriated, I told her to open her book and work. I then put my head down in an attempt to quell my rage. This was the first 15 minutes of the lesson, and we were studying the grammar rules in the book because the other student had missed them in the previous class. Throughout the lesson I fumed inside, thinking how selfish it was of her to avoid even thinking to consider that the lesson did not revolve around her, that I had more in store in an hour and forty-five minute lesson than 10 minutes of grammar study, that I had scoured books outside of class for answers and spent literal hours trying to figure out the best way to approach the particular subject. I concluded that she was not worth it. If she didn't appreciate all the work I put in for just one of my nine different classes, then she could get fucked. Then I looked at her more than normally haggard face and noticed the cloth she clutched. I realized this woman has a family, and is staying late at a job that she obviously stresses about on the regular, to hear from me until the dark hours when she could be at home sipping rioja. It's ridiculous how we take each other for granted in our pursuit of satisfaction. Satisfaction that, by the way, would probably be much more attainable if we valued what we had and the labor that goes into everything we see and do.

This evening I went out for a walk (doy a vuelta) as the sun went down. Vague missions to find some earwear and search out a few sights, I began after passing the Palace by going into one of Old Madrid's large churches and gaping at altars and statues. I have been drawn to curches since the night in Budapest, but I have yet to find a comparable experience. But I drink them in all the same and love them top to bottom. I hope they never disappear. From there, an easy walk down Calle Mayor took me to the increasingly croweded Puerta del Sol, thinking of my parents all along the way as I stopped in pastelerias (pastry shops) to sample the fare with my eyes and nothing the locations of landmarks, both of my life and the city's. Up the start of the "red light district", Calle Montera is a plethora of urbanity. Prostitutes line the street along with cervezerias, salons de juegos (casinos), souvenier shops, moda (style) shops, gold purveyors, travel outfitters, and one of the city's most modern and dramatic police HQ's. I got some discount earrings and made way for one of the city's landmark and oldest pastry shops, known for their Christmas cake (roscón de reyes) all year round. Along the way I noted a decent wine bar next to a sidreria near the Plaza Santa Ana near Huertas, one of my favorite barrios. It was around this time when I began to crave a companion. I considered calling some friends but the idea that they would not only be busy but wondering what could be on the agenda besides buttressing a mental map with new streets and sitios deterred. I spent the rest of the walk- during which I entered another, less appetizing church, walked by young travellers smoking non-chalantly outside the first place I stayed in the city, and found another wine bar and small Andalucian garden before heading home to type this up as I padded my nerves with some Crianza before shoving steel into my earlobes- wondering what I was looking for. I search out spots to go into, check them out to make sure I would go, and then put them down to memory for another, accompanied moment. I walk randomly in oblong ovals, but with a vague itinerary that I'm not even sure I would want to follow on a different day, let alone expect another to share my motivation. I love every cobble that I tread and every corner that I round, but I know it goes one way, and I wonder how long that can last. Walking, I thought about all the music and movies I acquire in order to share. I half-jokingly imagine myself like someone stockpiling canned consumables for that distant Day. Today my students and I discussed quotes of love, ranging from ultra cynical to equally idyllic. I told them that I read or heard once, in a strangely intimate conversation between strangers, that friends love us as the part that we play in their lives. I am not sure how much they understood me and maybe I wouldn't understand myself. But the resonation has followed me ever since, echoing now down the calles and callejons of my newfound home. Whether or not it's best to walk alone, it was a fine night for it tonight.

Transluscence

ONE WEEK into the month of February and the sun has finally returned to la capital. Yesterday was Thursday, which for me not only begins my weekend but is my shortest day. At 3:30 I was already at my flat eating lunch on the terrace, considering how to spend the remaining four hours of sun. I decided that it was too late to take the metro to a park across the city so I threw on a scarf and some shades and headed out on foot to Retiro. I entered from the SouthWest and walked up a beautiful hill toward the eastward crest. Turning left, I began to amble along a massive boulevard of rollerbladers, bikers, and the octogenarian army. Something to my left kept pulling me off the tarmac and into the green until I finally found myself rolling down a slope along a network of strange statues and busts. All of a sudden I saw through the trees what looked to be the skeletal outline of a roof and stumbled upon the Crystal Palace. Not quite 1851, but a magnificent structure all the same that elected to introduce itself to me at the exact moment of this very sort of day during this very sort of season when it would be able to house all of the light hitting its Western facade within its crystal skin. Chance alone?

...

This week I have realized the folly of dichotomizing the week and its fin. I had been living four days of the week in a hibernation state, working, reading, studying, lesson-planning, and spending no money or time on enjoying myself in madrid. Hours divided up among classes, metro rides, office visits, and home work. Weeks flew by at a speed exceeded only by their ends and the months slipped through my fingers like sand. I spent Tuesday evening with Natalia drinking some of the finest Belgian beer and talking about our lives with a 19 year old Spanish porn star who offered me 3kilos of moroccan hashish to go home with her until Natalia and I finally broke away and got to spend an hour or two sitting with some 1e cañas at a quiet bar in Los Austrias thinking about the absurdity of life. Last night I met with Natalia and Erik and we had a 3 hour tour of Malasaña wine bars smoking, drinking, and talking. Thai people call it sanuk - fun time with friends - and only a short while ago did I realize that the Spanish do it as chronically. Walk down any street with a bar on it and you see groups of Madrileños sitting, talking laughing and gesturing with vivid enthusiasm four hours with no concern of "what are we doing next?" This is what they're doing. And we were able to pull it off with less than 10e. I found this to be one of the best weeks I've had in months, both at and after work as well as bodily and mentally. Chance alone?

I have recently read a book about a British xpat in Paris and it not only helped me consider aspects of my own situation here, but it reminded me of Paris. This of course begged multiple comparisons, and I thought of the nocturnal armies of streetsweepers that scrub each city every night. I recalled that the Parisians turn their rues into waterways as they remove the debris, while I had only seen Madrileños walking down the calles in teams of threes with a wide broom, a small broom and shovel, and a rubbish cart. Last night, as we left el pozo after some basque, rioja, and ribiera del duero copas, we found the streets glistening after the water tanks had driven by and soaked and scrubbed the streets like celebrity teeth. All this on a chance February Thursday. Chance alone?
...

Nieve en la captial

I awoke after a lame date to the abrasive sound of my mobile phone ringing way too early on this past Friday morning. "Go to your window. Motherfucker, run." Only Juan - the young lawyer from Murcia and one of my favorite living creatures - could deliver one of our more vulgar expressions with such limitless charm. And only he could be excited enough about a city blanketed in snow to wake me from my necessary slumber. In truth it was a sight to behold, but I got that over with in less than ten seconds, and returned to my cama to finish dreaming.

In the early afternoon, I made some tea and cereal and headed out for a day of peliculas and medication over at the Tribunal flat. All around me, Madrileños frolicked in the rare weather and made sincere but lousy attempts at snowmen and snowballs. Still, I couldn't shake this morose feeling. Normally I take the street of the kings to that of the holy spirit by foot, but today I was in no mood and opted for the metro. Before submerging, I turned back to look in the direction of my flat and the Palacio and took the shot you see above.

When I got to Juan's we chilled in the kitchen to chat and wash dishes together in order to save the girls from a smoke-filled room. After that we got down to business and threw on Memento, a film I had not yet seen and still cannot rid from my mind. By the time the sun was down my spirits had lifted and the night was on the mind. Later on, as I walked with Brittany toward Santiago's housewarming gala near plaza de Toros, she took my lack of snow-inspired enthusiasm and shattered it with one line. "Snow gives it a reason to be cold."

Daytrip: SEGOVIA

I emerged from my bed between 8 and 9 am on monday morning. had some coffee and cereal and got on the cercanias line which is a train that goes to only select major subway stations to make cross-city commute a snap. of course i got it facing the wrong direction and instead of being one stop away from the Chamartin train sation, i went around the entire city and thus held up the group from catching the 10am slow train for 6 euros. not a huge deal because we got to tide spain's high-speed line a half hour later for 9euros that reduced a 2 hour trip to 30 minutes. the views leaving madrid were gorgeous as we descended down from the plateau of the city and rolled across a mostly barren plain before coming to the foothills of the northern sierra. we passed a gorgeous glass lake surrounded by a small village before plunging into the mountains themselves, reemerging on the otherside to see more barren country and the backside of those mounts, blanketed in virgin snow. the day was crystalline - piercing sunrays and endless blue sky. in a few more minutes we landed at segovia guimar and got out to inhale the freshest air we'd had in months. It's all around you on the walls and streets but it's easy to forget how dirty the air is in Madrid. It was like stepping out of a bar into the sunshine.

Outside the train station, a line of camera toting city dwellers in black and rotund tourists from small central european towns had formed and waited patiently to board a short blue bus that was not qualified to bear them all. We stood squinting and musing about the shabby cattle that mingled lazily in a barron beige pasture on a nearby hill. Standing on the bus we guessed at the uses of buildings that drove by and imagined how much of a city the place might be. Unlike the photos which manage to decieve without lying outright, it was unclear while approaching as to where Segovia proper was situated. There are settlements and roads all around it, and the one dominant building to be seen hides its majesty from a distance. It was not until the bus was doing the european swing around one-lane hairpin turns over cobbled streets among uneven beige and terracotta buildings that we realized we were near. And then there was the Aqueduct. When hearing about Roman aqueducts and that they are the main attraction of a city, one wonders what could possibly be worthwhile there. A few decaying arches reminiscent of the vapid grandiose Roman administration and engineering? I'll be at the bar. But this is no crumbling suggestion. This massive structure stretches clear across a valley and encircles the town without seeming to have lost a single stone. It's massive, and the double stack of arches that support the waterway above are all the more impressive, when one learns that they were (and are still?) held together without mortar. That is dubious in some parts, esp. near where it begins but the most impressive stretch shows off without any visible binding agent. So we stood around for a while as the bright sun poured in pale morning yellow rays from the southern sky and made the worn stones of the street glisten. Cigarettes and pictures as we tried to get our bearings in the age old male fashion of looking around and guessing.

Our first move was for a market, and we headed down what looked to be a main street. Fortunately we were right, and we stepped into a Dia, the same kind of market I frequent here and buy the essentials: milk, cereal, red wine and the occasional vegetable. This time we planned to have a picnic outside in order to save money so we bought some baguettes, two kinds of cured pork, olives, pasta salad, and, of course, a few bottles of tinto. After the painful process of waiting in the only open queue with grumbling geriatric segovians, we headed back to the aqueduct to take the other main road which led to the center of town. Calle Juan Bravo, much narrower than the previous street, is actually the main throughway of pedestrian Segovia. It ascends from the lowlands of the aqueduct in jerking, angular turns between a hodgepodge of stone and wooden buldings dating from very recently all the way to the times when men rode horses and drank in torch-lit taverns, I imagine. Christmas light nets hung above our heads as we moved in and out of shade on our way toward Plaza San Martin. There stands a beautiful ochre church in Spanish romanesque style. We parked outside the church and found a stone platform in the sun next to the escalating terraces of the inclined plaza and took off our coats as we developed layers of sweat while trying desperately to hackey-sack with any proficiency. People walked by and chatted, stood to watch the strange activity of 4 colorful young men, and took pictures by fountains, statues, and architecture. Across the Plaza a building stood in a much different style than the church - red brick outlining sections of wall mostly made-up of pulverized grey stone mortared together with only an arched clerestory at the top to let in light under a flat wooden roof that jutted out about 2 feet beyond the wall. Very old and rustic spanish looking, contrasting with the golden hue of the great stone church. After a while we lost interest in sucking with the hackeysack and went off in search of a picnic site. 

A little ways ahead, the street divides and we took the low road that descends in broad steps to a short, wide stone arch and opens out onto a wide dirt boulvard that hugs the city wall to the north with a bench-lined swath of green grass and trees in the middle. Open air feasting summarily begun and as we wrapped pieces of bread with jamon and chewed on olives, we watched the eternal and ubiquitous small groups of unknown aging spaniards sit on benches in solidarity while two young children dressed in church clothes sped around on aluminum scooters, stopping every once and a while hop back to where their shoes had come off. We spoke inconsequentially as we ate, and after we rested for a minute and polished off a bottle of tinto, we set off to re enter the city further along the wall.

By now, I am realizing the time I have spent on this account and the fact that I've already seen a new pueblo and a birthday and end of year celebration has passed, I feel the need to complete this tomfoolery. We walked through some super narrow alleys, lit by diffused sunlight bouncing in angular waves from the tops of the walls to our feet. Enter el Plaza Mayor. Totally different from the enclosed square of madrid, this one is quite a bit more charming and more like what you would expect a main square to be. Away from the major auto roads, elevated and situated a point where all small ambulatories seem to converge, set between the gorgeous pale yellow romanesque cathedral where isabella was coronated and the peach colored teatro real. we spent quite a bit of time here, digesting and soaking, comparing this with our own plaza mayor. I think i'm the only one who didn't immediately prefer the segovian model. Having taken at least a half dozen pictures each of the outside of the cathedral, we opted to check out the inside. Much less dark than one would expect from a pre-gothic cathedral, it was spacious and frigid inside. Massive pillars flanked the nave and over a dozen chapels with the typical ornate altars and ceilings piqued our fancy as we spread out and admired in silent contemplation. some nice photos, though one wishes they had more than a little point and shoot at their disposal to render these sorts of places. How people can worship there on a regular basis is beyond me. Aside from the need to constantly be wearing a parka, how do you feel genuine? People come from all over the world and pay to get in a take illegal photos, and you sit and believe in it all? Guidebooks at the door? The building is amazing but doesn't that render it useless for its initial purpose? I imagine stargazing in a famous planetarium or cooking fish over a fire in a life-size diarama in the natural history museum. Maybe it's a quality possessed only by the faithful. Anyway, we bust out and stand in the sun for 5-10, allowing our blood to rise above amphibian temperatures before heading down a shabby cobbled alley in search of the most famous edifice in the city - el Alcazar.

Pass by a witchcraft museum and stop to stand in single file for numerous infuriating autos before coming around the corner to a sunspot before a grove of trees and an iron gate. to your immediate left a vendor sells swords, canes, and post cards. 10 lb man-killing letter openers. ceramic ashtrays that read segovia. beyond him, you walk to a shin-high wall of solid stone that looks out over an expanse of land  stretching for miles to the mountains that divide this land from the plain of madrid. photo op. here most sound has dispersed and you walk alongside picturesque euro cars from the 50's parked on a gravel drive like film props and finally you see a massive keep rise in the middle of castle walls, standing at the other end of a bridge over a 40 foot moss-lined stone drop to a tiny serpentine moat. it's almost too authentic till you remember that its an 18th or 19th century reconstruction of the ancient moorish castle that stood guard over the vast expanse of nothing beyond it. two rivers converge a few hundred meters below the westernmost extremity of the castle. 4 euros to climb the keep, but shit, what else did we come for? suckling pig? maybe next time. 152 spiral steps later we hit the top and set up camp for 20 minutes while we individually recuperate from the strain on our lungs and bask in the sunshine and crystal clear air. at this point im farting like a bastard and we are all chuckling as we give my flatulence epithets like castle-crop (dust) on the spiral stair. the thought crosses our mind to roll up some hash but the boys are fearful and i accept their decision as a fortunate defense from the darkness of confinement. rather, we do the tourist thing and snap foto after foto. the views to the east show the bell tower emerge from the cathedral in the center and look out over the entire pueblo, ecompassng fields all around and nearby settlements and, of course, those eternal mountains behind. finally, we have used up the castle and descend to make another pass around the city. 

Take the low road by some ancient looking homes and take another break at a tiny grass square to toss a frisbee, juggle a hackysack, and burn some tree. somehow our hacking has improved 5fold and we get a real kick out of it this time. but there is more city to see and we move along. on this side of plaza mayor there is little traffic, foot or otherwise, and we are able to spread across the roads and admire different aspects at our leisure. every now and then a strange statue marks our progress; juan bravo the poet (?) stands with pointed features and an upturned face, in a dontellan pose; even further a strange figure in garb identical to our ku klux knights stands firm, grasping and touching to his nose a massive, ominous iron cross. a creepy sight. one more small plaza contains a playground and at its northwestern corner a gate looking into what used to be the inside of a building but has since been derooved and left to the devices of nature, who has planted what looks to be the softest verdant moss along the once marble floor. here in this plaza there is a small drinking fountain one must stoop to reach that pours the coldest, freshest tasting water in the whole of spain, I am convinced. i fill my bottle, and we all swig and feel the purity slide down our gullets. onward.

more views more pictures more buildings and streets and back at the aqueduct. still time to kill, but there is one thing we have set out to do and have not yet achieved - ponche. according to the spain guidebook, a native segovian desert, some sort of richness drenched in local sweet liqueur and worthy of the most fervent adoration. on to the cafe Limón y Menta, right off the plaza mayor to the southwest. 3 euros gets you a cube a bit smaller than your palm, and introduces you to one of the finest culinary delights one can ever enjoy. I will not attempt to describe the taste, however once your fork pierces the sweet, delicate, dumpling-like casing and grabs a slice of the dense yellow cake-like interior and dutifully delivers it to your anxious mouth, you will never consider another desert worthy of a moan again. the holiday lasted over 3 weeks, and among all of the meals, parties, events, sights, women, and trips, this delight remains in the top tier. i will never forget eating that thing, whatever it was. 

sated, we decided to kill another hour in a bar, drinking coffee and wine and actually getting to pick the tapas we received - a rare privilege, reader, i assure you. as the sun went down we learned we had yet another hour before the bus arrived and decided to follow the aqueduct till we could follow it no more. this took us to the edge of the old town, where the start of the structure is marked by a small obelisk and a stone plaque. a few more pictures and we found ourselves more than ready to head back to the city. on the train we busted out the rest of our food and had a crumb-factory feast as we guzzled the last bottle of wine and finished our ham and bread and pasta and everything. Like the royalty of olde, we took a leisurely day to enjoy the quietude of the country, and we were pleased.

Segovia showed us it doesnt take a lot of advanced planning to have a good trip. it doesn't take a lot of money and it doesn't take a lot of endurance. We saw another side of Spain for less than 40 euros for the entire thing, and i was back in time for an hours-long calimocho session with an old friend from the shire... 

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.

------------

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.