Scheduled to meet up at 10am at my dorm, I was not at all surprised to find that, at 10:05 my parents were not yet here. Ahh the sin of being a whole five minutes late. Did their audacity know no bounds? So I decided, rather than sitting around in my room to just go outside and start walking towards the metro, calculating that we would have to cross paths on the large empty expanse of land directly across the street from my residence hall.
As I was leaving, and just as I'd put my hand on the door to empujar (push), one of the four women sitting at the receptionist desk went, "Pssst!" I looked up and she was motioning for me to come over; I obeyed. In Spanish, of course, she asked me if it were possible if she and a few of the other ladies took a few photographs of Melanie and my room for a promotional brochure for the dorm.
I nodded. "Claro, pero estoy saliendo ahora y mi compañera no regresa de sus clases hasta que tres horas más o menos. ¿Está bien?" (Sure thing, but I'm leaving now and my roommate isn't coming back from her classes for another three hours or so. Is that ok?)
The woman insisted she take the pictures now, just really quick before I leave. Stifling an exasperated sigh and wondering where my parents were, I agreed and walked with her back to my room. I opened the door and motioned her inside. Stepping in, she glanced around, laughed aloud, turned to look at me and said, "No."
Still chuckling to herself, she made a quick exit back down the hall. 'No?' I shot a quick glance around the room. Sure I had a pair of jeans flung across my ill-made bed and Melanie had a few Slim Jim's wrappers on her desk, but it certainly didn't look like the Armageddon implied by her emphatic, No.
Crushed at my unsolicited dreams of school residence life brochure fame, I locked the room once again and made my way outside, past a desk of now four giggling women. Why four today? There's normally only one!
My parents were crossing the land plot as I crossed the street and it was following a cheerful reproach at their tardiness that I conveyed Melanie and my failures as housekeepers. Oh the woe and misery that would surely follow us now until the end of our days. Dad just laughed.
We metro-ed it to Sol where I educated them in the uses of chain restaurant's easily accessible public bathrooms (thank you, Museo del Jamón; Museum of Ham). Then we stopped at Dunkin' Donuts directly next store for a caffeine pick-us-up and 2 donuts between the three of us.
There's nothing quite like sharing 2/3 of a donut with your parents on the sidewalk of Calle Mayor because the tour bus lady told you no food on the bus and now you'll have to wait ten minutes or so for the next one. We were doing a "hop on, hop off" tour, which I highly recommend. My parents did one in San Francisco and the whole family did the Chicago version a few summers ago. They're reasonably priced, double decker bus rides that take you to all the main sights of the city; you can get off at any stop, stay as long as you want, and then go back to the stop to catch another bus from the same company and continue on the route. The buses come about every 10 minutes so it's highly convenient and much cheaper than taking a taxi everywhere. For booking details, talk to my mother.
We stopped first at Parque del Retiro, which served as a place of emotional/mental refuge for the highly stressed monarchs and nobility during the 18th and onwards centuries. Oh the difficult life of the extremely wealthy.
The park was beautiful, flowers already in bloom despite it being mid-March only, lots of sunshine that day, mid 50's for us, and lots of people. That's what I love about parks and big cities in general; so many people passing every which way at any given time. We saw grandparents with their grandkids, boyfriends holding hands with their girlfriends, vendors selling magnets, jewelry, and hand puppets (yeah Dad and I bought a stuffed duck that squeaked when you squeezed it; we named him Parker--get it?)
Dad's particular favorite was this saxophone player; every time he started making a warm old tune with that gold jazz machine, this little old man complete with a cane and green suit jacket would start dancing this one-two skipping step. We figured they were in cahoots.
After lots of picture taking, we paused for a moment at one of the park's cafes. A glass of red wine for each of us and a gofre to split. A gofre is essentially a waffle and you can choose from a variety of toppings; we chose chocolate syrup. Taking two bites or so (Dad, we all know you were consistently taking three) we would pass it around the table and mull over the sweet dark chocolate taste that lingered even after a sip of wine. What a lovely way to spend the noon time.
After taking our time in true Spanish style we paid the bill--the padres were astounded by the "no tipping" concept, but didn't seem to mind much--and hopped back on the bus. This time we got off at Gran Vía and made our way up one of the offshoot side streets to a small Cuban restaurant named Zara.
Lunch at 3pm was already an adjusted concept to my parents so we didn't mind when the food took awhile to prepare. Meanwhile, we enjoyed the bustling atmosphere of the tiny several hundred square foot place that seemed to be the favorite of a handful of locals, judging by the way a small group of men and women in the back corner were chatting animatedly with the woman who owned the place. Or so I gathered by her demeanor.
Anyhow, the chicken soup and white bread (of course) that arrived was delicious. The entrees were honestly just average though, but the fare was fair and the decor quaint so when we left Zara's we gave it a B-. Not too shabby.
Next it was Return to the Bus: Episode 4 and this time we rode it to the Temple of Debod stop. The Temple was a gift from the Egyptian government to Spain in the late 1960's (so during the Franco dictatorship, if that implies anything) and the 2,200 year old stone structure was dismantled in Egypt, shipping to the southern coast of Spain, trucked up to Madrid and reassembled in a little park all its own that boasts a nice view of the back of the Palacio Real.
Ever moving, we went next to the Bilbao metro stop and I introduced my parents to a favorite stop of mine, Cafe Comercial. Opened in 1887, the interior of the cafe is all mirrors, stone tables, real wood, and towering pillars. There we decided to put up our feet for a bit, ordering my mom a Hawaino (coffee spiked with black rum) which was very strong in my opinion. It literally tasted like rum with a hint of java after taste. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? And is this the classy version of a jager bomb?
Philosophers, have at it.
We all split a crepe that honestly sucked, but the vanilla ice cream that topped it was yum and consequently devoured. After that we played a few hands of cards until it was time to head back to Sol for our walking tapas tour.
Getting off at Sol, Mom and Dad saw their first Madrid protest in the station! It was a big one too and the group was ringed by police officers intent on keeping the peace. Madrid riots don't get violent, not that I've ever seen or heard of. However, the government likes an accentuated police presence to reassure tourists of their safety; hurting the tourist business in Madrid right now would be quite injurious to an already smarting economy, but more on that later.
The tapas tour was led by a Dubliner who shall remain nameless for reasons soon to be revealed. We were led, along with two couples from Toronto and one couple from London, to the Asturian (northern Spain) bar, El Escarpin.
Several glasses of malted apple cider, bits of empanadas, sausage pieces and patatas bravas with paprika, patatas alioli (like potato salad), and ham and cheese cubes, Dubliner guy announces that in order to go to the next three stops on the tour, we'll all need to pay several euro; this first place was on him.
Ummm, what? This was a prepaid tour that included four stops . . . .
After making our excuses and bailing on the group we put our Webster heads together and came up with this: not only is Dubliner making whatever his wage from the tour company (also nameless here) he's also collected a little extra on the side by saying that the last three stops must be paid for separately. Pocketing just a little extra dough with that smooth Irish accent couldn't be too tricky. I tip my hat to you, sir. But I won't be tipping you.
We were tired and full anyways so we made the one hour metro trek back home. It would be a 6am start the next day and we had to be prepared for anything.
To Be Continued . . .
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