El Rastro

Madrid is famous for a lot of different things, but perhaps the most fascinating is the weekly outdoor flea market- El Rastro. Its the kind of place you can find anything. Clothes, posters, furniture, congo playing minstrels etc.
You know its Sunday when you get on the green line and its packed at 11 am. For those who don't know the Rastro it might be confusing. But once everyone gets off at the same stop it becomes very clear.
Its a familiar sight- the doors to the train open and suddenly a swarm of people pour out of the doors. Theres a slow and steady stampede from the metro doors, down the hallway, up the stairs, up the escalators, out the metro mouth, and its funnels right into the tight pack of slowly moving people meandering through the curvy streets.
Another time and place and it could be the crowd getting off to go the a Sox game at Fenway.
Its a tight squeeze in the market, but worth it to find all the little things you never even knew you needed. A must do for all madrilenos, whether here for a semester abroad with Suffolk University, or just here for a week visiting. 

Primavera

Just yesterday I would consciously cross the street in pursuit of the sunny side, trying to keep warm. Yet the warm weather always sneaks up on you. Already I find myself looking for the shade, taking off my jacket, and dreaming of a place to go swimming.
Madrid's most famous and largest park, Retiro, is a perfect place for all seasons. It requires some bundling of clothing in the winter, and certainly a lot of cold drinks in the summer, but this time of year, wonderful, bright, sweet-smelling spring, you can go with just the clothes on your back. Its a liberating feeling. No bag to worry about. No big jacket to lug around. No sweltering heat weighing you down. Just you, the blooming flowers, and the pleasant sunshine.
Retiro's great for just walking around, sitting on the grass playing some cards, talking with your friends, but you can also do one of my favorite things- take a little row boat out on the man made lagoon in the middle. Its a beautiful sight, watching all the boats meander through the water, in no rush no go nowhere. Ducks lazily floating along, also lacking the sense of urgency imposed upon us by the weekdays.
Springtimes a great time for cleaning, for life as usual, but its also a great time to slow down, as the Spanish do all too often. Stop and smell the flowers if you will. And there is no better place and way to do just that than the rowboats in Retiro. 

Sunset

Los Educados

There is a place in Madrid I particularly like to go. Its great for all times of day- but the sunset is the best. Its more or less a cliff, facing West, overlooking the river, and its a large park with benches and grass and lots of people. Its called Parque de Las Montanas.

There is also an 'Egyptian' temple there. At least a mimic of one. I've never gone inside the actual museum part of it, but just the shallow pool lit but the last minutes of golden sunshine is a sight worth paying for. It reminds me a little bit of the reflection pool in Boston now that I think about it.

This place is great for all occasions. One can go there to read and relax alone. Maybe with a significant other for the sunset. With some friends to sit and play cards. Or even with you mom when she's visiting (yay!) Its very versatile. 

The other night I was there, yes with my mom, and also with my friends. We sat on the grass for awhile, watch the sun slowly melt into the horizon, cherishing those mystically hypnotizing moments. When the spell was broken we began to walk home. 

Passing by a bench we all immediately caught the sight of an older Spanish man sitting upright, well-dressed, on a park bench. It was only a 'sight' because of his three dogs sitting equally postured next to him. The most well behaved dogs I have ever seen. Sitting peacefully, respectfully, backs straight, just looking at the world around them, taking it all in. 

We couldn't believe it. 

Que educados! I said to the man- a word I had been saying to use since i learned it in Spanish class the other day. It means well-behaved, educated, polite... You get the idea. 

So the conversation was sparked and he told us that the dog in the middle was the mother, and the two on either side were her daughters. My sentimental mother (redundant terms I suppose) was immediately touched. 

"Tell him I'm your mom!" she said to me.

So embarrassing- but thats how it goes with mothers these days. So I told the man she was my mother, although I'm sure he had inferred that awhile ago. 

Just goes to show you can find anything in Madrid- including little dogs better behaved than some adult humans. 

And for those of you who find yourself here in Madrid, I strongly encourage a trip to Parque de Las Montanas. 

Big Ears

Last semester I took an introductory class on the European Union- a term I had heard often, but didn't really know much about. If you ask our Professor, the kids who took that class now know more about the union than many, and indeed most, Europeans.
A key concept we discussed was that of identity- how do you define and identify yourself? This is a huge component to European success and cohesion because if people don't feel European, they won't act European- they'll act in a way which benefits their country first. European identity had been doing quite well before the global economic crisis, but its harder to be so open-minded and accepting of foreign cultures in a recession. Money in your pocket tends to make you more idealistic.
So today waiting for a bus ride home from Toledo I met a couple on holiday from Holland. Of course I had to ask about their perception of the Union and how European they feel. Their answer was that they feel 'reasonably' European, but counterintuitively, they feel more European during the crisis because they feel like they have to prove the strength and cohesion of Europe as a whole. An interesting and rare opinion, especially from Northern European countries which tend to be net lenders of money, not receivers.
We went on to talk the whole bus ride back from Toledo- I'm sure the other people on the bus despised us and our invasive English. But we talked about work, politics, travel- the whole deal. The man turns out to be a teacher for people with learning disabilities- a hard job. He is a tall man, and I couldn't help but notice his ears were even big on him. On me they may have reached my shoulders. He went on to tell me his secret of teaching. He listens. Speaks as little as possible. Thus, he learns a lot through teaching.
I guess that's why he has such big ears.
As we were parting ways he gave me some good advice. In my studies, he said, I should talk to the people on the street as much as possible- often times they have more insight, despite less formal education, than the politicians and rulers. He told me that I would learn a lot more this way. And of this he is a prime example.
Its a good day when you learn something. One of those days that gives you a little more faith in humanity. And maybe a little more European identification as well. 

Second Semester Student

There are a lot of differences between the first and second semesters spent abroad. Second semester you can´t help but feel a littler wiser, a little more informed, a little more comfortable in Madrid. First semester you feel like there´s an inside joke everyone gets except for you.
In Madrid they play a game. Here´s how it goes: Person A walks on to the train, and persons B, C, D, E, F, G (and so on...) stare. They analyze your shoes, your posture, your clothes, your soul. We were told Spaniards are curious people- but the first time you get the metro-staredown its a bit uncomfortable. Its all in good spirits, I´m sure, yet you feel a little on the outside.
By the next stop, or for many of us the next semester, you get participate in the game on the winning team. You watch the poor outsider get on the metro, unsure if its even the right train. They look around, trying to read the complex map, while the old Spaniards, thinking they´re sly, silently observe this odd specimen in front of them.
There are more unspoken rules of the game in the Madrid Metro. Perhaps king of all- walk on the left, stand on the right. I´m talking of course about the golden rule of escalators, cherished and strictly followed by all self repecting madrilenos. Those who dare defy the rule are subject to fiery looks of disapproval, taps on the shoulder, and curt ´perdona!´s. I myself experienced some harsh reprimanding for not being aware of the unspoken rule of all rules.
Yet this is the beauty of being a second semester student: I walk down the escalator this morning, down the left side of course, and politely ask the extanjero standing in front of me to move. Confuzzled, he quickly shuffled to the right, allowing me to pass only to see another stander just a few steps down. I decided, rather than being rude, to simply stand for the remainder of the ride, turning around to see the looks on the witnesses´faces. One woman, clearly from Madrid, gave me a laugh and an agreeing shake of the head, acknowledging what she must have thought was my deep pain and frustration with this person not knowing how the escalator works.
She leaned down and said something to me in Spanish with a laugh. I nodded my head, agreeing and laughing (even though I didn´t understand a word). But I´m quite sure it was something meant only for another madrileno.
I felt at home.

The Friend Zone

Back in the States I work in a restaurant, and one of the biggest differences in Spain is how the service industry is run. In the United States the waiter is at your beck and call, a slave to your tip-discretion, sweating, running, using a fake, overly friendly tone to talk to the table. In Spain, its like teenage mindgames. They pretend they don’t see, and if they see you, they don’t want to. Should we call them over? Do they even know we’re here? are common questions.

 The thing is, its not as bad as it sounds- because once you get to know a place, and prove you’ll go back time and time again despite being ignored and seemingly unwillingly served (probably the wrong thing if your Spanish is as bad as mine), they treat you like their best friend. Its like an endurance test, but once you get past the test it great. You walk in the door feeling like a celebrity. You get a loud, enthusiastic welcoming, usually accompanied by an overly friendly invasion of your personal bubble.

Last night I think we finally hit the friendly-zone at the restaurant across the street from our apartment. We walk by it all the time and we’ve gone in a handful of times before. Luckily the chef, the quintessential Spanish chef, (round, plump, hairy, and uber-friendly) smokes more than he cooks, so he’s always out front when we walk by to engage us in some small talk. Although half the time we don’t know what he’s saying, more due to his accent and speed then his language, we laugh when he laughs, smile when he smiles, and try to squeeze his hand as hard as he squeezes ours when he shakes hands.


 Apparently it’s paid off.

So we walk into the restaurant which looks like no one is working at it. We stand next to the podium that says, please wait to be seated. Standing awkwardly for a few seconds we decided to just b-line for the bar stools and have a seat. That we did, and just as we were sitting down we hear a loud authoritative voice. Great, I thought, they’re really going to be mad we sat ourselves. Instead I turn around to see the chef, in all his mustache-y glory, with a big smile and an extended hand. So we have a couple of laughs and before we know it we’re looking at a plate of complimentary chips with some sweet salsa. They were SO good we inhaled them. So the Chef, walking by and seeing the empty plate, assumes we’d like some more. 

Now in Spain “Spicy” does not exist. If you want spicy, go to Taco Bell. That’s honestly your best bet. So when he asks me if I like spicy, of course! I love spicy food, and it didn’t occur to me that it would even be moderately spicy. 

Next thing I know theres a small bowl of bright red salsa, filled with seeds, sitting in front of me, and a circle of anxious waiters waiting to see the look on my face when I try it. Yet I’m still not believing that anything in Spain could possibly make my mouth burn the way it did. So with a smile I took a big scoop and chomped right down. 

“Not too spicy, right?” He asks, sarcastically.

“No, no” I say, before it actually hits me.

Everyone knew when it hit me. My eyes popped out and I had that concerned look that only the person who eats too much spicy food has on their face. We all shared a laugh, and I made sure to take minuscule dips after that, although I couldn’t just abandon it for fear of offending my new over- zealous friend. 

Luckily they brought us some frozen drink to quell the burning before we left, we shared another laugh, and its sure that we’ll be going back there, although with a little more caution. So if you find yourself in one of these Spanish restaurant mind games, stick with it. It’ll pay off.