Madrid is beautiful. There are treelined avenues, there are marble fountains in every square, there are wrought iron balconies and buildings come in every type of colour because Madrileños don't have to settle for that hideous weather proof gray/brown piss-poor nonsense we have. Because of course there is sun.
Well I was assuming there was sun. I was actually assuming the rest of that fabulously evocative description as well because the first hour of my estancia in Spain's capital was spent on the Metro. At rush hour. Dragging a suticase behind me. In theory it was wonderful. Throw my hand luggage over the turnstile, drag the wheely luggage behind. Perfecto.
Throw. Pull! Pull! Pull! For Jaysus sake quickly! Clunk....Balls...
So, trapped in the turnstile for the time it took two security staff to set me free there was time to comtemplate the wisdom of paying an extra €3 for a taxi.
Alonso Martinez. Metro stop we call home and ten minutes away from the piso. The piso we waited for, wept for, sweated for, etc, etc. But first there is the walk and walking through Spanish streets in the evening is a laugh and a half.
No one is quiet; in Spain el Papa "the Pope" must have made it a cardinal sin to go for more than an hour without commenting on someone you don't know from Adam. Brits (and the Irish of course, a feature of the nights where we <ahem> take advantage of €1 bottles of wine is my sheer unjustified outrage at being labelled a Brit. I apologise to a group of lovely Michigan-ites who found this out first hand) sanyway, Brits stick out like a sore thumb.
"Oye, oye, blanquita, blanquita" is one such example of a Spanish greeting I recieved. It literally means "Hey, hey, lil white girl. Why don't you slide on over here fo' minute?" Actually it only means up to the full stop there. I couldn't resist. Tell me you couldn't just hear someone call Big Daddy from New Orleans catcalling.
"Pollo, ay ay, pollo" is another one. It means "Chicken, oy vay, like a chicken." They're referring to my skin colour. Imagine a Tesco packaged free range bird. It's not complimentary.
Our piso. Es fenomenal. It's fantastic. Actually its shabby chic, but its in the centre of Madrid and bygods if our street isn't full of chorros shops (pastry which arrives with a cup of melted chocolate) and cafés. Its because of a café we have internet. I'm sitting in a warderobe as we speak, balancing my laptop on top of some unmentionables and some socks which are mentionable. The Spanish man won't come til Monday. Apparently "Mañana, mañana" does not mean the literal "Tomorrow morrning" but "It'll get done at some stage."
We're also right above Día. Its the Spanish equivalent of a Spar and I can hear David's <beep.beep.beep> of the checkout. The windows of the balcony are open. We and David are practically family. He witnessed that first week when, not to put too fine a point on it, we made absolute tits of ourselves whether be it knocking over a stand of lighters or blank incomprehension when being asked do we want a plastic bag. David (or Da-veed spanish phoenetically speaking) is a proper gent.
We have a Chino shop! Hang on, we're not allowed to call it Chino anymore since finding out it doesn't mean a Chinese person the same way irlandesa would mean an Irish lady, but is basically the same as yelling "Oy Chinky-chinaman!" This is the year political correctness dies for me. They sell everything. EVERYTHING. You want a TARDIS you go to the Chino on the corner. I want a light bulb, fake flowers, jigsaw puzzle, lipstick and a life size statue of the Virgin Mary clutching a cross I go to the Chino. No broma. No joke. Not even about the "Our Blessed Virgin" which scares me slightly. I've apologised for bumping into it three times now.
Other than that we fused all the lights (our way of explaining that a faulty bulb in the kitchen had blown the fuses and we needed a hand was to shriek down the phone to Rosa our landlady "No tenemos luz, no tenemos luz!!" We no have light, no have light!!!) went to a lesbian bar in the dodgy Cheuca district by acccident, found out microwave popcorn doesn't work in the oven, got a lamp from Ikea which makes my little cueva look like the red light district. You must visit to see what I mean. And...well there was the night of which more anon, the one where I was "on the bus" if that means anything to anyone. Then I was captain of our ship. But not for very long. They got tired of singing it. Which I suppose is good in a way because I am not versed in the nautical ways of the sea.
Next week, well Monday to celebrate internet, I shall tell you what hell truly looks like and why matriculating at the La Autonoma was enough to drive us all truly insane.
xo
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