Weekend in Madrid
Through the night I did not sleep. A six-hour flight from Boston to
Lisbon, a two and a half hour stop in Lisbon and then a one hour flight
to Madrid. I arrived at my hotel relatively rapidly and got straight
into bed. I slept for one hour and then got up to go and meet friends.
Before I left Madrid, there was a lady I used to see from afar at lunch
times, I referred to her as ‘The English Princess’ because she looked
exactly like that. Milky white vampiric skin, raven black hair, a tiny
sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and the looks of a super
model. To my surprise, she was at our gathering when I arrived,
accompanied by her Spanish friend – an exceptional beauty, too. My
arrival was a surprise to my friends and they all started to jump on me
and hug me whilst cheering. The English Princess and her friend noticed
this and looked on with smiles. A couple of hours later the Spanish
friend departed and, astonishingly, the English Princess walked directly
over to me and started to talk to me and my friends. She was French and
shortly after that I was sharing a bottle of wine with her. She told me
that she had a thing for ginger hair and English people and that I was
‘her type’ but that she was in love with her boyfriend. It was pleasant
to hear that even if it was the result of inebriation. At 2am we were
asked to leave the bar. A short taxi ride and I was alone in my hotel
bed as I have been in so many cities in so many countries over the
course of so many years. Everyone is so excited to see people and, I am
sure, even more excited to get away from those very same people. Very
strong words… very strong hugs… very strong drinks… and then that
inevitable moment of solitude where I sit and miss someone who is
somewhere far away.
Friday morning, I awoke at midday and decided to go for a walk, a walk I had made countless times whilst living in Madrid. I took the metro to Alonso Martinez where I had lunch and then marched that beautiful route along Calle de San Mateo up past the museum of romanticism past the bars I used to frequent such as Lola 09 in which there was a couch at the front looking out into the street, in that couch I had sat many times sipping a cocktail. Towards the end is the ‘In Dreams Café’ where I sat and had beers twice and both times staff were loading the new beer barrels into stock and had to drag those heavy metal articles, scraping, right alongside the table at which I was sat and yet it retained a charm. Walking to the corner and turning left into Calle de Fuencarral there is Harvey’s Diner on the left where I had drinks and dinner with ‘Miss Paris’, a lady who had come to Madrid as a contractor and drove me half mad with desire. I also ate there with my friend from the Czech Republic and she now always refers to it as ‘our place’. A little further along on the right is Mercado San Idelfonso. Here is the spot I blew hundreds of euros upon my return from a week in Boston when I was preparing to make the move. I got so horribly drunk with my girlfriend at the time that I suffered for two days afterwards. After that we frequented the place for an early Saturday afternoon drink and snack before walking around the city. This beautiful city that was my home and in which I felt so safe and at ease. This beautiful city in which I thought I would grow old and die whilst taking short and frequent trips back to England and other parts of Europe. As I walked on towards Gran Via I started to feel a little bit anxious… I was still in love with the city and started to wonder if I was doing the correct thing in applying for permanent residence in America. The only thing that I disliked was that I couldn’t express myself in Spanish. I couldn’t engage in random conversations with people… oh, but it would come, it would surely come. I walked to Puerta del Sol and turned right towards Opera and through to the Royal Palace, emotions flooding me. I thought of every lost love, every magnificent party, every walk both romantic and solitary, every lonely moment spent reading books and gazing at that palace with its backdrop of brilliant blue sky. This day the sky was grey and yet the love affair was still there. The questioning was still there. ‘I miss you’ I had said to her. ‘You are too nostalgic’ came her response. She was right. She was always right.
That evening was the party for which I had travelled and I prefer not to go into too much detail in fear of boring the reader, if that has not already been done, and because the party itself was something of a messy, overcrowded affair. Never the less, I got to see many people I hadn’t seen in some time and I met a few new ones too. We had a dinner before the party that was a very spontaneous and enjoyable affair with a wide variety of Spanish food. The most mentionable memory of the party was that of seeing the lady with whom I became involved on my previous visit, a little over two months ago. She was back with her ex-boyfriend but spent the night of the party following some tall, handsome guy around like a lost puppy. I never saw them really talking but never saw them apart either. There was a brief moment where we bumped into each other and spoke but, as if by the forces of a short attention span, she was gone in a flash. Sad how sometimes the flames of passion die so quickly.
Saturday was a disaster. I went to meet a friend of mine from Miami who happened to be in Madrid at the same time. The plan was to walk and talk and drink and eat all afternoon and night but it turned out that both of us were feeling quite ill. She was suffering a sinus infection and migraine and I was suffering from a severe hangover. I had one beer, she had one cup of tea and we both went back to our respective hotels. At the hotel I felt a tremendous sense of peace and spent the afternoon reading. I decided not to venture out at all and ordered a food and wine delivery. When I received the bottle of wine I realized that I had no bottle opener. A party had started downstairs in the hotel and so I put my jeans and flip flops on to go down in search of the elusive opener. I walked into the restaurant area and was approached by a waiter. I asked him for the item and he looked at me in terror. He walked away and was soon replaced by a second waiter. The second waiter informed me that he couldn’t give me a bottle opener but that his colleague would come to my room and open the bottle for me. I returned to my room and a few moments later there was a knock on the door. I picked up the bottle and took it to the door, fearful that he might see the mess of clothes and the meal for one on my bed. I opened the door and the waiter walked straight past me and into the room as if he were my best friend. He was holding two wine glasses and a bottle opener. He looked around my room and then asked ‘one or two?’ Somewhat embarrassed I whispered ‘just one’. Nevertheless, he seemed happy and left the room almost dancing as he walked.
Sunday the sun shone down brightly and reminded me powerfully of the immense beauty of Madrid. I awoke early, showered, checked out of the hotel and set off to meet my Miami friend for breakfast. I arrived too early as usual and had forgotten how late Madrid comes to life on a Sunday morning. Fortunately, I found a place next to my friend’s hotel that was open and ordered Orange Juice and coffee while I waited for her to join me. Sitting there sipping my drinks I fell slowly back in love with Madrid. The ease with which people live and go about their daily activities is truly comforting and inspiring. And they are so beautiful. That morning it seemed like every man, woman, child, dog and cat was beautiful. I started to feel a slight sadness that this was no longer my home. My friend arrived and awoke me from my reverie. We indulged in glorious breakfast and then took the metro to one of my favourite places in Madrid, Circulo Belles Artes, with a rooftop bar that boasts a 360 degree panoramic view of Madrid. Breathtakingly beautiful under a bright blue sky as this day was… I felt saddened only by the fact that my flight back to the US was later that evening. I ordered beers and we sat at a table in the corner overlooking Palacio de Cibeles. As we started to sip our drinks I noticed my friend starting to hold her head and her eyes starting to water again. She excused herself and went to the bathroom. As I sat alone it seemed that endless streams of tourists sauntered by and asked me to take a photo of them. My friend returned and was crying. She said she was really unwell and really scared because she didn’t know what was happening to her. I offered to accompany her to a doctor but she insisted that she was okay and that I should wait for my friends who were due to start arriving any moment. I told her I would see her later and she left to get a taxi back to her hotel. Seconds later my first friends arrived and the afternoon passed in spectacular Spanish fashion with lots of food and alcohol.
I left early and went to Miss Miami’s hotel room where I had dropped my bags earlier. She was looking much better than earlier and seemed very happy to see me. We started to kiss and did so for a very long time. We spent so much time that way that I was becoming dangerously close to being late for my flight. Eventually I pulled myself away and left for the airport. To my horror I discovered that the stopover in Lisbon, which I had thought was one hour and thirty five minutes was actually thirteen hours and thirty five minutes. The flight from Madrid to Portugal is around forty five minutes long and had I known my stopover was that long I would have spent an extra night in Madrid. Arriving in Portugal I simply looked for a comfortable place and began to psychologically prepare for the 13.5 hours of discomfort that lay ahead. I had landed at 9pm and walked around the airport trying to tire myself so that I might be able to sleep. I read a little while and even watched a couple of episodes of Californication. Then I lay down on the end of a seat in the dining area and watched the clock above me tick… 23:58… 00:02… 00:06. Pain. I fell asleep and awoke… 00:18. Throughout the night I had these momentary snatches of sleep punctuated by some stretching and, eventually, at 5am, when the business lounge opened, I paid to enter it so I could have a shower (I had no towel and had to drip dry) and then lie down to read and try to sleep for a few hours before my flight.
Four days later I am at home in Boston, sick (probably because of that night) and very grateful to be entering into a weekend with no plans. The party I was meant to go to tonight I will not be attending.
Friday morning, I awoke at midday and decided to go for a walk, a walk I had made countless times whilst living in Madrid. I took the metro to Alonso Martinez where I had lunch and then marched that beautiful route along Calle de San Mateo up past the museum of romanticism past the bars I used to frequent such as Lola 09 in which there was a couch at the front looking out into the street, in that couch I had sat many times sipping a cocktail. Towards the end is the ‘In Dreams Café’ where I sat and had beers twice and both times staff were loading the new beer barrels into stock and had to drag those heavy metal articles, scraping, right alongside the table at which I was sat and yet it retained a charm. Walking to the corner and turning left into Calle de Fuencarral there is Harvey’s Diner on the left where I had drinks and dinner with ‘Miss Paris’, a lady who had come to Madrid as a contractor and drove me half mad with desire. I also ate there with my friend from the Czech Republic and she now always refers to it as ‘our place’. A little further along on the right is Mercado San Idelfonso. Here is the spot I blew hundreds of euros upon my return from a week in Boston when I was preparing to make the move. I got so horribly drunk with my girlfriend at the time that I suffered for two days afterwards. After that we frequented the place for an early Saturday afternoon drink and snack before walking around the city. This beautiful city that was my home and in which I felt so safe and at ease. This beautiful city in which I thought I would grow old and die whilst taking short and frequent trips back to England and other parts of Europe. As I walked on towards Gran Via I started to feel a little bit anxious… I was still in love with the city and started to wonder if I was doing the correct thing in applying for permanent residence in America. The only thing that I disliked was that I couldn’t express myself in Spanish. I couldn’t engage in random conversations with people… oh, but it would come, it would surely come. I walked to Puerta del Sol and turned right towards Opera and through to the Royal Palace, emotions flooding me. I thought of every lost love, every magnificent party, every walk both romantic and solitary, every lonely moment spent reading books and gazing at that palace with its backdrop of brilliant blue sky. This day the sky was grey and yet the love affair was still there. The questioning was still there. ‘I miss you’ I had said to her. ‘You are too nostalgic’ came her response. She was right. She was always right.
That evening was the party for which I had travelled and I prefer not to go into too much detail in fear of boring the reader, if that has not already been done, and because the party itself was something of a messy, overcrowded affair. Never the less, I got to see many people I hadn’t seen in some time and I met a few new ones too. We had a dinner before the party that was a very spontaneous and enjoyable affair with a wide variety of Spanish food. The most mentionable memory of the party was that of seeing the lady with whom I became involved on my previous visit, a little over two months ago. She was back with her ex-boyfriend but spent the night of the party following some tall, handsome guy around like a lost puppy. I never saw them really talking but never saw them apart either. There was a brief moment where we bumped into each other and spoke but, as if by the forces of a short attention span, she was gone in a flash. Sad how sometimes the flames of passion die so quickly.
Saturday was a disaster. I went to meet a friend of mine from Miami who happened to be in Madrid at the same time. The plan was to walk and talk and drink and eat all afternoon and night but it turned out that both of us were feeling quite ill. She was suffering a sinus infection and migraine and I was suffering from a severe hangover. I had one beer, she had one cup of tea and we both went back to our respective hotels. At the hotel I felt a tremendous sense of peace and spent the afternoon reading. I decided not to venture out at all and ordered a food and wine delivery. When I received the bottle of wine I realized that I had no bottle opener. A party had started downstairs in the hotel and so I put my jeans and flip flops on to go down in search of the elusive opener. I walked into the restaurant area and was approached by a waiter. I asked him for the item and he looked at me in terror. He walked away and was soon replaced by a second waiter. The second waiter informed me that he couldn’t give me a bottle opener but that his colleague would come to my room and open the bottle for me. I returned to my room and a few moments later there was a knock on the door. I picked up the bottle and took it to the door, fearful that he might see the mess of clothes and the meal for one on my bed. I opened the door and the waiter walked straight past me and into the room as if he were my best friend. He was holding two wine glasses and a bottle opener. He looked around my room and then asked ‘one or two?’ Somewhat embarrassed I whispered ‘just one’. Nevertheless, he seemed happy and left the room almost dancing as he walked.
Sunday the sun shone down brightly and reminded me powerfully of the immense beauty of Madrid. I awoke early, showered, checked out of the hotel and set off to meet my Miami friend for breakfast. I arrived too early as usual and had forgotten how late Madrid comes to life on a Sunday morning. Fortunately, I found a place next to my friend’s hotel that was open and ordered Orange Juice and coffee while I waited for her to join me. Sitting there sipping my drinks I fell slowly back in love with Madrid. The ease with which people live and go about their daily activities is truly comforting and inspiring. And they are so beautiful. That morning it seemed like every man, woman, child, dog and cat was beautiful. I started to feel a slight sadness that this was no longer my home. My friend arrived and awoke me from my reverie. We indulged in glorious breakfast and then took the metro to one of my favourite places in Madrid, Circulo Belles Artes, with a rooftop bar that boasts a 360 degree panoramic view of Madrid. Breathtakingly beautiful under a bright blue sky as this day was… I felt saddened only by the fact that my flight back to the US was later that evening. I ordered beers and we sat at a table in the corner overlooking Palacio de Cibeles. As we started to sip our drinks I noticed my friend starting to hold her head and her eyes starting to water again. She excused herself and went to the bathroom. As I sat alone it seemed that endless streams of tourists sauntered by and asked me to take a photo of them. My friend returned and was crying. She said she was really unwell and really scared because she didn’t know what was happening to her. I offered to accompany her to a doctor but she insisted that she was okay and that I should wait for my friends who were due to start arriving any moment. I told her I would see her later and she left to get a taxi back to her hotel. Seconds later my first friends arrived and the afternoon passed in spectacular Spanish fashion with lots of food and alcohol.
I left early and went to Miss Miami’s hotel room where I had dropped my bags earlier. She was looking much better than earlier and seemed very happy to see me. We started to kiss and did so for a very long time. We spent so much time that way that I was becoming dangerously close to being late for my flight. Eventually I pulled myself away and left for the airport. To my horror I discovered that the stopover in Lisbon, which I had thought was one hour and thirty five minutes was actually thirteen hours and thirty five minutes. The flight from Madrid to Portugal is around forty five minutes long and had I known my stopover was that long I would have spent an extra night in Madrid. Arriving in Portugal I simply looked for a comfortable place and began to psychologically prepare for the 13.5 hours of discomfort that lay ahead. I had landed at 9pm and walked around the airport trying to tire myself so that I might be able to sleep. I read a little while and even watched a couple of episodes of Californication. Then I lay down on the end of a seat in the dining area and watched the clock above me tick… 23:58… 00:02… 00:06. Pain. I fell asleep and awoke… 00:18. Throughout the night I had these momentary snatches of sleep punctuated by some stretching and, eventually, at 5am, when the business lounge opened, I paid to enter it so I could have a shower (I had no towel and had to drip dry) and then lie down to read and try to sleep for a few hours before my flight.
Four days later I am at home in Boston, sick (probably because of that night) and very grateful to be entering into a weekend with no plans. The party I was meant to go to tonight I will not be attending.
Comments
Post a Comment