Madrid

I'm posting the one journal entry I made while everyone was asleep the first day of arrival in Madrid. More details to come later, after I've gotten all the pictures from Georgia and Ivy and made a Flickr album.

March 8, 2007 - Madrid

Schoolchildren are singing outside in Spanish. It sounds a little like 'Camptown Races' but I know that's impossible. Ivy and Alex are asleep in the double bed abutting the window of our hostel, emitting gentle snores every few minutes then drifting away again into silence. The waning sun is shining warmly through the cracks in the brocades. Georgia sleeps on the bunk above me.

Getting here was relatively easy, although there was a slight delay in the flight and Night Bus service from Katie's was long (plus the Coach from Victoria to the airport in Luton, 45 minutes away). Eventually, tired and zombie-like, we made it to the hostel, making our way down Paseo del Prado and to the 6th (American 7th) floor office of Hostel Sudamericano. A man helped us work the antiquated lift (which no one could work, and frankly, scared us a little). We got up to the floor and the door. An old woman opened.

"Paso, paso," she said beckoning irritably with a stream of incomprehensible Spanish. I caught only the part where she asked for a name.

"Julius," I said. Georgia had made the reservation. We all sat down, and would soon discover that Madrid was a Spanish city, not a bi-lingual one, despite being the capitol. Yes, there were smatterings of English on signposts here and there, but this was Spain. Don't expect us to cater to foreigners. It was, in a way, refreshing -- both a far cry from London and a way to force us out of our comfort zones.

Eventually a bearded man in a pair of big black sunglasses came into the office -- the same man who greeted us in the first floor foyer. He was short and stout with a big salt-and-pepper beard, a bald head, and a broad smile. He spoke English with an expansive lilt, giving one the impression of a wares-hocking Santa Claus. He gave us forms to fill out and cheerfully took the extra money for the linens without returning the change.

We made small talk with another Chris from Jersey, a fluent Spanish speaker who flew in yesterday to meet friends. He was to be our dorm-mate, living in the room across the hall. He seemed nice enough and I was grateful for his interpretation between us and the young man who set up our rooms. I invited him to drink with us tonight, half from companionship and half from the desire to have someone around to assimilate this big, new place. He still hasn't come 'round yet, however, which means he probably won't. C'est la vie. (Note: Later, we'd all become quite well acquainted with him as travel companion and sometimes-guide.)

Eventually we get to our hostel room, which is small, but adequate. Enough space for a big bed and the bunk, with its own toilet and shower, although the shower is ancient and mildewed, with an imitation-porcelain base that is little more than cracked white paint. The hot water knob on the faucet is broken and tied up with some sort of twine ('I will look for a replacement in the morning,' the landlord said cheerfully. But it's clearly been defunct for a long time.) Still, it's a good setup for 20 dollars a night. We have windows facing La Plaza de Las Cortes in the heart of the city. The room faces a posh-looking Palace Hotel (est. 1912), and the sounds of car horns, church bells, and occasional song streams up from the streets. It feels irrepressibly alive.

Everyone is still crashed out form our long night of travel. I slept too, but my body is ill-disposed to long mid-day rests. I finished the last 200 pages of Oryx and Crake, looking out the window a bit into the plaza. Eventually, I settled on this journal. Still no signs of life from my compatriots and I'm getting hungry. Tengo hambre.

My phone says its half-five but I'm not sure if it accounts for the time difference automatically. It might be 6:30. I suppose I should go explore.