Thomas L. Friedman wasn't kidding around when he said the world was flat. Four years ago, when I was a wee young 'un in high school, an exchange student from Estonia came to my high school to spend a year experiencing the American culture and lifestyle (he was a big fan of Homecoming and Halloween in particular as I recall). His name was Marko and we ended up going to prom together that year. When he left for Estonia that summer (2009) we decided to stay in touch over Facebook as best we could.
Time passed, as usual, and Marko rarely used or visited Facebook--it simply isn't as popular in Estonia as it is in other parts of Europe and in the States. We fell more or less out of touch.
Then, sometime during the beginning of this semester, around mid January, I messaged him saying that I would be in Madrid for the spring semester and--fingers crossed--that hopefully we would have an opportunity to meet up. He thought that sounded like an excellent plan.
We both dropped the idea after that and didn't say another word to one another.
Until Tuesday last week (the 21st) when he messaged me saying that June 1st was coming up very soon and that soon I'd be home in the States and thousands of miles away . . . so could he come visit for the weekend to catch up and spend some time in Madrid? He'd never been here before.
Now, this is the beauty of being young. I have no obligations, no strings attached, nothing to keep me from practicing my independence and ultimate autonomy in all things. So of course I said, "Sure! Come crash on our couch for a few days!"
And that's precisely what we did. Here's where the flat world part comes in: we reconnected via Facebook, within a matter of hours Marko bought his tickets online, and on Friday he took a boat to Finland and a plane from Finland to Madrid, where I met him at the airport. Let the weekend commence!
I found it amazing that someone I hadn't talked to in four years came thousands of miles (2,300 in case you were wondering) to hang out in one of Europe's greatest cities for the weekend, and all in just a split second decision. I love being young. Viva la fiesta.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
All Hail the Bull
Due to its cultural significance and the rapid waning of our time here in Spain, my friends and I decided that we needed to experience the centuries old tradition of bullfighting. All four of us--Taylor, Tom, Melanie, and I--entered the Ventas stadium, Madrid's main bull ring, that towered above the pavement, all red brick with swooping Moor-style archways along the curved outer walls with a distinct sense of nervousness and foreboding. Outside the front of the stadium stood a cast iron statue depicting a slightly larger than life bull emerging from the iron; below him, a group of run-of-the-mill citizens stood looking adoring up at the figure raised far out of the metal sculpture, rising out above the bull: a heroic bullfighter, his cape in his left hand, flaring downward, and his right hand uplifted in a gesture of triumph.
After climbing what felt like thousands of stairs, we finally reached Grada 3 and found Fila 5, after the help of an old man and later, a security guard. The seats were nothing more than cement steps with numbers painted in black on the front, vertical side and spaced out about every two feet. Cushions were available for rent, but we're all young after all and don't require such creature comforts.
We ended up, by some stroke of luck, in a covered area on the penultimate level, only the top two levels being covered. This was a fact we had not known when we bought our tickets several days in advance (these matches sell out very quickly) but ignorance sometimes yields good results by accident.
The skies were that ominous cobalt-gray and several rumbles of thunder drew excited cheers from the expectant audience as the white-faced clock, silently standing vigil over the five story structure, showed that it was ten minutes to seven. The stadium was packed, mainly with adults and older couples, but there were a significant number of young children with their parents--a strange idea for a family night out, in this writer's opinion anyhow. But I suppose that's one of the definitions of culture.
Being round and multi-leveled, the arena reminded me of a baseball stadium, which I've only been to twice in my life--perhaps three times?--that I recall. But this spectacle resembled nothing like the nine inning, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" inspiring tradition from the States.
As the clouds gathered, a band began playing in a section to our right; this was not a national anthem however, as we first thought it might be, and nobody stood. This was the, "Attention, the show is about to start" fanfare. Drums, deep heavy warlike drums that recalled Native American ceremonies then began pounding somewhere down and to the left. The large clock perched atop the roof of the highest section now showed with its black hands that five past seven had arrived.
Something like a parade began then: first, two men dressed in black, colonial garb with a single long orange feather in each of their caps, came out into the ring on white horses, rode to the far right side (from our perspective) and swept off their caps in salute to the empty white box, which we felt we could safely assume would have been for the royal family if they chose to attend.
Next, the two horsemen rode to the gate directly in front of us, where then entered three bull fighters each in a shining white costume known as a traje de luces, or suit of lights. Seven or eight men in similar attire, but black, entered afterwards; all wore brilliant pink socks.
Next came more horsemen, these dressed in gold, their horses draped in thick, padded material and their eyes covered by black cloths so as to avoid their spooking later on during the fight. Their riders bore long spears.
Lastly came a team of three donkeys lashed together and toting a thick wooden beam with several small iron loops along it, which dragged behind them.
After this prancing about concluded, the ring was emptied, the drums pounded again, and the first bull was released inside.
Can you imagine the fear of the bull? Bright lights glaring in your eyes, thunder booming overhead, a strange roaring noise pierced by sharp whistlings all around you, red and yellow banners hung up everywhere--off every balcony and wall--and a searing pain in your back that you have no idea as to the cause of, but that, in reality is several colored ribbons attached to long pins, stabbed into the top back of your neck before the fight even began, to enrage you and to mark the target of your attackers.
The men dressed in black essentially served to weaken the bull for the main fighter in white, el torero. They would dash out into the ring, only a few feet away from the thick, wooden walls, wave their pink capes (not red, actually fuchsia) to anger the bull who would charge them of course. Then the men in black scampered back behind a door-like structure in the wall and the bull would either turn away or run into the wall. This would go on for awhile with the six or so men popping out of different barriers, forcing the bull to run back and forth. Recall the men in gold on horseback, los picadores, to whom the bull is directed, spear the back of the bull several times while the horse stumbles against the furious charge of the terrified animal.
Eventually, they would all coax him out into the middle of the ring, all together, where other men in black would arrive, one at a time. These secondary round of men dressed in black trajes would come with a pair of colored rods, the first two white and the last pair red and yellow for the colors of Spain. These rods must have had hooks in them because the men brandishing them at the bull would get charged and, at the last minute, sidestep so as to stick the rods in its back, which then hung down from the nape of his neck and swing around as the bull ran.
By this time, the poor thing had been run around for ten minutes and was now bleeding profusely. Its sides heaved.
Finally, the main fighter in white would come out, the crowd cheering ecstatically. He carried a sword and the traditional red cape. Whenever the bull would pass, he would slash at it with his sword. This would continue until the bull grew visibly weaker, declining to charge the fighter despite his waving of the red cape.
Several of those men in black costumes would come out with their fuchsia capes and all would harass the bull, attempting to wring the last dregs of energy and fury from him. At last, the main fighter would stab his sword into the bull's neck, from the top, and the creature's knees would buckle. It collapsed to the ground amidst whistles and cheers.
Then enter the team of donkeys with their lead, the bull was somehow attached to the harness and after being dragged around, the carcass finally was taken out of the ring.
People stood up between the fights to stretch their legs and chat while men below--and this too was reminiscent of a baseball diamond-- would rake the dirt flat and smooth, doing their best to preserve the two white circles of chalk that ran along the outer section of the ring. (The significance of these was never made known to us).
We stayed for only three out of the six bulls; three bulls being tortured to death for sport seemed like more than enough for us for one night. There are those who will defend this "tradition" as an art form; say what you will, I respect that some will view this as a part of their culture, having grown up with it, however I still firmly hold that it is cruel.
I don't really recall the third bull's fight so much. I think by then I was mentally checked out. The first however, was clearly a calm bull by nature. He never wanted to charge anyone. He simply stood there, looking at this aggressors until finally they would manage to anger him a bit. Angry cries of, "Venga, venga!" could be heard in the crowd. ("Come on! Come on!").
From beginning to end about twenty-five minutes later, that first bull clearly held pacifist beliefs. Even when routed towards the men on horses all in gold, even when they stabbed him with their spears, he still did not seem to want to fight. When he finally collapsed near the center of the ring, I was deeply sad.
When the second bull was killed, I was, contrastingly, furious.
This one came out fast and infuriated. Enormous in stature, he was enormous in courage as well. He charged his opponents fearlessly, including the man on the horse and in fact slamming into the side of the padded horse so hard that the steed almost lost his balance. The bull was stabbed long and deep by the picador for his retaliation.
People ate ham sandwiches in the stands, joked and chatted, clapped, shouted words of encouragement to the fighters, and smoked cigarettes. The ashes floated out from the level above us and fell like snowflakes.
The booming thunder rumbling overhead must have been a mighty knock at the gates of the heavens and those gates must have in consequence been opened because an absolute torrent of hail crashed down from the sky, falling in front of us like a waterfall of ice as a result of the floor above our heads. The hailstorm pelted the crowd below us in the uncovered section though with marble-sized chunks of ice.
Umbrellas of all colors sprouted up like flowers around the entire ring of the stadium. Some people abandoned their seats, but the vast majority remained to watch as the light brown dirt of the ring filled with hail and water puddled in the hoof-marks and the track where the first bull's body had been dragged out and where the dirt-rakers clearly had failed to make the ground level again.
When the man in white, glittering beneath the flashes of lightning in his sequined "suit of lights", the crowd seemed to double in size judging from the noise. We figured he must be something of a celebrity. As I noticed then, and for the third fight, the torero would always enter the ring with a black cap on, receive his applause, then lay the cap on the ground, which he collected after slaughtering the bull.
This second bull incurred many shouts of, "Óle!" from the crowd that seemed to be for every subsequent pass after the primary one. To be clear, the passes had to be in quick succession, which seemed rather difficult to do.
Finally, blood pouring down his sides--much more than the first, placid bull-- rib cage heaving, he found himself locked into a wall where three men in black trajes waved their capes in his face, as did the lead.
But the bull, despite his tremendous size and his desperate, furious attempts to ward off his attackers before now stood exhausted, incapable or anything more than a shake of his head, as if to swat away the capes. To please the crowd, the man in white did his best to reinvigorate the bull's fury: he stabbed its face with the tip of his glinting sword again and again while the poor beast merely tried to move his head out of the way.
Anger boiled inside me. The creature was breathing his last, racking breaths and those "fighters" accosted him relentlessly. Ceaselessly.
So the hail pounded, the cool breeze blew, the crowd screamed and clapped, thunder shook the metal framework bones of the stadium, and after three final stabs to the head and neck by the man in white, the bull took a few faltering steps in one last attempt at escape, then folded up and became an unmoving heap upon the ground. The white faced, black handed clock had cut through almost half of its own face by now, twenty-five minutes.
I knew only anger then. That noble animal had fought so bravely for his life and, in his last, agonizing, rasping moments, saw nothing but pink and red flaring before his eyes, heard nothing but guttural shouts, and felt nothing but the tormenting sting of silver cutting his face again and again and again.
So, with the deepest respect, I hail the hero of the night, that second bull that clung to life so desperately and so fiercely. On behalf of the humans in the ring and those that applauded as you were tortured and at last dragged through the mud and ice out of the stadium, I apologize.
After climbing what felt like thousands of stairs, we finally reached Grada 3 and found Fila 5, after the help of an old man and later, a security guard. The seats were nothing more than cement steps with numbers painted in black on the front, vertical side and spaced out about every two feet. Cushions were available for rent, but we're all young after all and don't require such creature comforts.
We ended up, by some stroke of luck, in a covered area on the penultimate level, only the top two levels being covered. This was a fact we had not known when we bought our tickets several days in advance (these matches sell out very quickly) but ignorance sometimes yields good results by accident.
The skies were that ominous cobalt-gray and several rumbles of thunder drew excited cheers from the expectant audience as the white-faced clock, silently standing vigil over the five story structure, showed that it was ten minutes to seven. The stadium was packed, mainly with adults and older couples, but there were a significant number of young children with their parents--a strange idea for a family night out, in this writer's opinion anyhow. But I suppose that's one of the definitions of culture.
Being round and multi-leveled, the arena reminded me of a baseball stadium, which I've only been to twice in my life--perhaps three times?--that I recall. But this spectacle resembled nothing like the nine inning, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" inspiring tradition from the States.
As the clouds gathered, a band began playing in a section to our right; this was not a national anthem however, as we first thought it might be, and nobody stood. This was the, "Attention, the show is about to start" fanfare. Drums, deep heavy warlike drums that recalled Native American ceremonies then began pounding somewhere down and to the left. The large clock perched atop the roof of the highest section now showed with its black hands that five past seven had arrived.
Something like a parade began then: first, two men dressed in black, colonial garb with a single long orange feather in each of their caps, came out into the ring on white horses, rode to the far right side (from our perspective) and swept off their caps in salute to the empty white box, which we felt we could safely assume would have been for the royal family if they chose to attend.
Next, the two horsemen rode to the gate directly in front of us, where then entered three bull fighters each in a shining white costume known as a traje de luces, or suit of lights. Seven or eight men in similar attire, but black, entered afterwards; all wore brilliant pink socks.
Next came more horsemen, these dressed in gold, their horses draped in thick, padded material and their eyes covered by black cloths so as to avoid their spooking later on during the fight. Their riders bore long spears.
Lastly came a team of three donkeys lashed together and toting a thick wooden beam with several small iron loops along it, which dragged behind them.
After this prancing about concluded, the ring was emptied, the drums pounded again, and the first bull was released inside.
Can you imagine the fear of the bull? Bright lights glaring in your eyes, thunder booming overhead, a strange roaring noise pierced by sharp whistlings all around you, red and yellow banners hung up everywhere--off every balcony and wall--and a searing pain in your back that you have no idea as to the cause of, but that, in reality is several colored ribbons attached to long pins, stabbed into the top back of your neck before the fight even began, to enrage you and to mark the target of your attackers.
The men dressed in black essentially served to weaken the bull for the main fighter in white, el torero. They would dash out into the ring, only a few feet away from the thick, wooden walls, wave their pink capes (not red, actually fuchsia) to anger the bull who would charge them of course. Then the men in black scampered back behind a door-like structure in the wall and the bull would either turn away or run into the wall. This would go on for awhile with the six or so men popping out of different barriers, forcing the bull to run back and forth. Recall the men in gold on horseback, los picadores, to whom the bull is directed, spear the back of the bull several times while the horse stumbles against the furious charge of the terrified animal.
Eventually, they would all coax him out into the middle of the ring, all together, where other men in black would arrive, one at a time. These secondary round of men dressed in black trajes would come with a pair of colored rods, the first two white and the last pair red and yellow for the colors of Spain. These rods must have had hooks in them because the men brandishing them at the bull would get charged and, at the last minute, sidestep so as to stick the rods in its back, which then hung down from the nape of his neck and swing around as the bull ran.
By this time, the poor thing had been run around for ten minutes and was now bleeding profusely. Its sides heaved.
Finally, the main fighter in white would come out, the crowd cheering ecstatically. He carried a sword and the traditional red cape. Whenever the bull would pass, he would slash at it with his sword. This would continue until the bull grew visibly weaker, declining to charge the fighter despite his waving of the red cape.
Several of those men in black costumes would come out with their fuchsia capes and all would harass the bull, attempting to wring the last dregs of energy and fury from him. At last, the main fighter would stab his sword into the bull's neck, from the top, and the creature's knees would buckle. It collapsed to the ground amidst whistles and cheers.
Then enter the team of donkeys with their lead, the bull was somehow attached to the harness and after being dragged around, the carcass finally was taken out of the ring.
People stood up between the fights to stretch their legs and chat while men below--and this too was reminiscent of a baseball diamond-- would rake the dirt flat and smooth, doing their best to preserve the two white circles of chalk that ran along the outer section of the ring. (The significance of these was never made known to us).
We stayed for only three out of the six bulls; three bulls being tortured to death for sport seemed like more than enough for us for one night. There are those who will defend this "tradition" as an art form; say what you will, I respect that some will view this as a part of their culture, having grown up with it, however I still firmly hold that it is cruel.
I don't really recall the third bull's fight so much. I think by then I was mentally checked out. The first however, was clearly a calm bull by nature. He never wanted to charge anyone. He simply stood there, looking at this aggressors until finally they would manage to anger him a bit. Angry cries of, "Venga, venga!" could be heard in the crowd. ("Come on! Come on!").
From beginning to end about twenty-five minutes later, that first bull clearly held pacifist beliefs. Even when routed towards the men on horses all in gold, even when they stabbed him with their spears, he still did not seem to want to fight. When he finally collapsed near the center of the ring, I was deeply sad.
When the second bull was killed, I was, contrastingly, furious.
This one came out fast and infuriated. Enormous in stature, he was enormous in courage as well. He charged his opponents fearlessly, including the man on the horse and in fact slamming into the side of the padded horse so hard that the steed almost lost his balance. The bull was stabbed long and deep by the picador for his retaliation.
People ate ham sandwiches in the stands, joked and chatted, clapped, shouted words of encouragement to the fighters, and smoked cigarettes. The ashes floated out from the level above us and fell like snowflakes.
The booming thunder rumbling overhead must have been a mighty knock at the gates of the heavens and those gates must have in consequence been opened because an absolute torrent of hail crashed down from the sky, falling in front of us like a waterfall of ice as a result of the floor above our heads. The hailstorm pelted the crowd below us in the uncovered section though with marble-sized chunks of ice.
Umbrellas of all colors sprouted up like flowers around the entire ring of the stadium. Some people abandoned their seats, but the vast majority remained to watch as the light brown dirt of the ring filled with hail and water puddled in the hoof-marks and the track where the first bull's body had been dragged out and where the dirt-rakers clearly had failed to make the ground level again.
When the man in white, glittering beneath the flashes of lightning in his sequined "suit of lights", the crowd seemed to double in size judging from the noise. We figured he must be something of a celebrity. As I noticed then, and for the third fight, the torero would always enter the ring with a black cap on, receive his applause, then lay the cap on the ground, which he collected after slaughtering the bull.
This second bull incurred many shouts of, "Óle!" from the crowd that seemed to be for every subsequent pass after the primary one. To be clear, the passes had to be in quick succession, which seemed rather difficult to do.
Finally, blood pouring down his sides--much more than the first, placid bull-- rib cage heaving, he found himself locked into a wall where three men in black trajes waved their capes in his face, as did the lead.
But the bull, despite his tremendous size and his desperate, furious attempts to ward off his attackers before now stood exhausted, incapable or anything more than a shake of his head, as if to swat away the capes. To please the crowd, the man in white did his best to reinvigorate the bull's fury: he stabbed its face with the tip of his glinting sword again and again while the poor beast merely tried to move his head out of the way.
Anger boiled inside me. The creature was breathing his last, racking breaths and those "fighters" accosted him relentlessly. Ceaselessly.
So the hail pounded, the cool breeze blew, the crowd screamed and clapped, thunder shook the metal framework bones of the stadium, and after three final stabs to the head and neck by the man in white, the bull took a few faltering steps in one last attempt at escape, then folded up and became an unmoving heap upon the ground. The white faced, black handed clock had cut through almost half of its own face by now, twenty-five minutes.
I knew only anger then. That noble animal had fought so bravely for his life and, in his last, agonizing, rasping moments, saw nothing but pink and red flaring before his eyes, heard nothing but guttural shouts, and felt nothing but the tormenting sting of silver cutting his face again and again and again.
So, with the deepest respect, I hail the hero of the night, that second bull that clung to life so desperately and so fiercely. On behalf of the humans in the ring and those that applauded as you were tortured and at last dragged through the mud and ice out of the stadium, I apologize.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Chicago for the Paint!
Madrid has plenty of excellent qualities, I think I've made that pretty clear throughout the creation of this blog, which nonetheless is sadly coming to a close pretty soon. I have only about two weeks left before I fly home so my friends and I are striving to make the most of each tick of the clock that we have left here.
On this past Friday, the 10th, Melanie, Taylor, and I left the residence hall at midnight to seek out the club known simply as Penelope, where our international student org had advertised that there would be a paint party.
I've only been to one such clubbing experience and it was in Chicago with a big group of amazing friends just last year, sometime during the beginnings of the spring semester. The memory of that night is one giant rainbow of paint--so much paint, shooting through the air, girls with enormous paint guns standing on the stage and pumping multi-colored awesomeness through the air, dousing everyone. My hair, by the end of that incredible night, resembled a helmet of crusted paint of every color imaginable, a twin to that of my friend Kelsie, the only other girl in our big group. Absolutely worth it, of course. The paint washes out very easily and I actually felt pretty disappointed when it washed completely out of the white v-neck that I'd bought for the occasion hoping that it would be entirely destroyed by paint and therefore make an excellent souvenir of the night.
That's not quite what happened. The only sign of that shirt having gone through some tremendous clubbing experience is that somehow, through some magical chemical reaction or other, both armpits were permanently dyed pink. Perhaps the sweat combined with the paint and somehow ended up in my armpits, amalgamating into this rosy-hued blotch of a hybrid of the two. Science may never know.
The point here, folks, is that THAT was a paint rave and I cannot wait to try that again once I'm home.
Madrid, at least in this instance, fell to second place. Instead of the paint being shot from all directions such that any slightly reluctant participants could not hold onto even the tiniest sliver of hope of escape, the staff at Penelope handed out small tubes about the size of a tube of Carmex to random people in the club, including Melanie, whereupon everyone decorated themselves and their friends. And then went off to find victims to smear.
While this was no doubt an interesting variation and while I give Penelope credit for the glowing paint and the black lights, a nice effect overall, I have to give Chicago the blue ribbon here. When I went out, much fun as I had with my chicas, I was counting on being soaked in paint to the point of being unrecognizable to even my roommate.
Ahh well. The night was still an excellent one: the drink of choice for the three of us was vodka orange (yum) and Melanie scored top points for the evening when a tall, tanned, and handsome mid-20's Spanish guy couldn't resist dancing with her virtually the whole night. Being the heart breaker that she is, Melanie declined to give him her name or number and so poor hot Spanish man had to fade back into the night when his group decided to leave the club around 3:30 in the morning. There are other fish in the sea, hombre.
And there are also other paint raves in the sea, which I look forward to most avidly. Until we paint again.
On this past Friday, the 10th, Melanie, Taylor, and I left the residence hall at midnight to seek out the club known simply as Penelope, where our international student org had advertised that there would be a paint party.
I've only been to one such clubbing experience and it was in Chicago with a big group of amazing friends just last year, sometime during the beginnings of the spring semester. The memory of that night is one giant rainbow of paint--so much paint, shooting through the air, girls with enormous paint guns standing on the stage and pumping multi-colored awesomeness through the air, dousing everyone. My hair, by the end of that incredible night, resembled a helmet of crusted paint of every color imaginable, a twin to that of my friend Kelsie, the only other girl in our big group. Absolutely worth it, of course. The paint washes out very easily and I actually felt pretty disappointed when it washed completely out of the white v-neck that I'd bought for the occasion hoping that it would be entirely destroyed by paint and therefore make an excellent souvenir of the night.
That's not quite what happened. The only sign of that shirt having gone through some tremendous clubbing experience is that somehow, through some magical chemical reaction or other, both armpits were permanently dyed pink. Perhaps the sweat combined with the paint and somehow ended up in my armpits, amalgamating into this rosy-hued blotch of a hybrid of the two. Science may never know.
The point here, folks, is that THAT was a paint rave and I cannot wait to try that again once I'm home.
Madrid, at least in this instance, fell to second place. Instead of the paint being shot from all directions such that any slightly reluctant participants could not hold onto even the tiniest sliver of hope of escape, the staff at Penelope handed out small tubes about the size of a tube of Carmex to random people in the club, including Melanie, whereupon everyone decorated themselves and their friends. And then went off to find victims to smear.
While this was no doubt an interesting variation and while I give Penelope credit for the glowing paint and the black lights, a nice effect overall, I have to give Chicago the blue ribbon here. When I went out, much fun as I had with my chicas, I was counting on being soaked in paint to the point of being unrecognizable to even my roommate.
Ahh well. The night was still an excellent one: the drink of choice for the three of us was vodka orange (yum) and Melanie scored top points for the evening when a tall, tanned, and handsome mid-20's Spanish guy couldn't resist dancing with her virtually the whole night. Being the heart breaker that she is, Melanie declined to give him her name or number and so poor hot Spanish man had to fade back into the night when his group decided to leave the club around 3:30 in the morning. There are other fish in the sea, hombre.
And there are also other paint raves in the sea, which I look forward to most avidly. Until we paint again.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
My Name is Bagel
The semester wraps up to a close here in Madrid and free time abounds. Unlike in the US, at least unlike at my home university, finals here are not one or two days after the class period. We have about two weeks off between the end of classes and the beginning of the academic gauntlet known with fear throughout the land as Final Exam Period.
It's a scary time, but here the judgment day of such tests has been postponed. My last class was May 9th and my first final isn't until May 22nd, which is far more time than I need to prepare.
Oh what is a person to do in the azure skied, golden sun, metropolis of modern and historical beauty known as Madrid? Well, folks, we make like Lewis and Clark and explore.
Thursday was a holiday in Getafe, the Madrid suburb where our campus is located so everyone had off, even those who had classes through the 10th. As such, Tom, Melanie, Taylor, and I all decided we need to head out to Gran Vía, grab some Frappuccino's from Starbuck's (again? Yes, yes I know, but they are so good) where I discovered an interesting thing.
Granted, they've never gotten my name right on any order here in Spain. To a native English speaker, "Megan" doesn't seem like such a ridiculous moniker, but to the Spanish it is apparently an exotic mangling of syllables because I've gotten everything from "Magui" to "Magei" to "Maeg" written on my cups, receipts, and such.
But this was new. As we lined up our four Frappuccino's for their photo shoot, I noticed that on my cup the word, "Bagel" was written. Bagel? I can only imagine the conversation that went on in the mind of the barista who took my order.
"Oh Dios. What did she say? Ma--- no Ba--- no . . . crap. Everyone's looking at me with those 'hurry up' expressions. Mierda. Okay, okay, um, what sounds close to the garbled sound that came out of that Americana's mouth? Uhhh . . . what did I learn in English 101? Um, bagel? Yeah. Vale. Bagel. Perfect."
In his defense, his spelling of Bagel was flawless. I'll give him props for that.
The day included a stop at H&M so that Melanie could buy a white t-shirt for the paint party that we all were going to on Friday night (I'll try and do a separate post on that) and while there, Tom decided to try on some clothes. Sporting some very spiffy Ray-Bans (expensive sunglasses, for those of you who don't know) he took them off in the fitting room to try on a shirt, forgot them there, and when he went back to pick them up-- gone.
The second secondhand robbery I've experienced here in Spain. I'm only hoping that I can come through unscathed, but all of us pitied poor Tom. Those were some sleek shades and I have no doubt that all the girls will agree he pulled them off like no other. Don't worry, Tom. Somewhere out there is a Spanish man wearing contraband Ray-Bans who doesn't look half as good as you. I only hope he knows.
After all this madness and our wonderful Starbuck's-- I'm really not being paid; I'm simply a homegrown enthusiast-- we made our way down side alleys, around roundabouts, running across streets as the 'do not walk' sign came on, up hills, down stairs, over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house essentially, until we discovered, about five hours later, Teleférico, a cable car ride 12km through the air over the enormous Casa de Campo park. Fun fact, Casa de Campo is five times the size of New York's Central Park. Incredible. We decided we would have to have a picnic there at some point so hopefully we can manage to fit that into our next three weeks before the adventure is over. Fingers crossed!
The ride cost only 5.75 Euro for round trip (so 24km) and also showed off the skyline of Madrid. I took a bunch of photographs of course and they're posted up under April & May Pics. Melanie did as well but I haven't been able to digitally nab any of them because, due to technical difficulties, she can't post any of her pictures until she gets home. Ah well. I suppose I will have to shoulder the personal responsibility of continuing to chronicle my trip.
We arrived home exhausted after all the walking, but satisfied. There is something beautiful in the interconnectivity of this city, it's small streets and big streets, its mega-stores and it's little thrift shops. There's something wonderful about thinking you are absolutely lost in a city of over three million people and then, turning the corner, discover that you know that plaza and hey, remember when we drank at that cervecería two months ago and it was pouring rain?
You find that you can't be truly lost in Madrid, because everything is a part of everything else. And maybe that's not only in Madrid, you think. Maybe that's the case everywhere.
At least, these are the late night musings of a young lady named Bagel.
It's a scary time, but here the judgment day of such tests has been postponed. My last class was May 9th and my first final isn't until May 22nd, which is far more time than I need to prepare.
Oh what is a person to do in the azure skied, golden sun, metropolis of modern and historical beauty known as Madrid? Well, folks, we make like Lewis and Clark and explore.
Thursday was a holiday in Getafe, the Madrid suburb where our campus is located so everyone had off, even those who had classes through the 10th. As such, Tom, Melanie, Taylor, and I all decided we need to head out to Gran Vía, grab some Frappuccino's from Starbuck's (again? Yes, yes I know, but they are so good) where I discovered an interesting thing.
Granted, they've never gotten my name right on any order here in Spain. To a native English speaker, "Megan" doesn't seem like such a ridiculous moniker, but to the Spanish it is apparently an exotic mangling of syllables because I've gotten everything from "Magui" to "Magei" to "Maeg" written on my cups, receipts, and such.
But this was new. As we lined up our four Frappuccino's for their photo shoot, I noticed that on my cup the word, "Bagel" was written. Bagel? I can only imagine the conversation that went on in the mind of the barista who took my order.
"Oh Dios. What did she say? Ma--- no Ba--- no . . . crap. Everyone's looking at me with those 'hurry up' expressions. Mierda. Okay, okay, um, what sounds close to the garbled sound that came out of that Americana's mouth? Uhhh . . . what did I learn in English 101? Um, bagel? Yeah. Vale. Bagel. Perfect."
In his defense, his spelling of Bagel was flawless. I'll give him props for that.
The day included a stop at H&M so that Melanie could buy a white t-shirt for the paint party that we all were going to on Friday night (I'll try and do a separate post on that) and while there, Tom decided to try on some clothes. Sporting some very spiffy Ray-Bans (expensive sunglasses, for those of you who don't know) he took them off in the fitting room to try on a shirt, forgot them there, and when he went back to pick them up-- gone.
The second secondhand robbery I've experienced here in Spain. I'm only hoping that I can come through unscathed, but all of us pitied poor Tom. Those were some sleek shades and I have no doubt that all the girls will agree he pulled them off like no other. Don't worry, Tom. Somewhere out there is a Spanish man wearing contraband Ray-Bans who doesn't look half as good as you. I only hope he knows.
After all this madness and our wonderful Starbuck's-- I'm really not being paid; I'm simply a homegrown enthusiast-- we made our way down side alleys, around roundabouts, running across streets as the 'do not walk' sign came on, up hills, down stairs, over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house essentially, until we discovered, about five hours later, Teleférico, a cable car ride 12km through the air over the enormous Casa de Campo park. Fun fact, Casa de Campo is five times the size of New York's Central Park. Incredible. We decided we would have to have a picnic there at some point so hopefully we can manage to fit that into our next three weeks before the adventure is over. Fingers crossed!
The ride cost only 5.75 Euro for round trip (so 24km) and also showed off the skyline of Madrid. I took a bunch of photographs of course and they're posted up under April & May Pics. Melanie did as well but I haven't been able to digitally nab any of them because, due to technical difficulties, she can't post any of her pictures until she gets home. Ah well. I suppose I will have to shoulder the personal responsibility of continuing to chronicle my trip.
We arrived home exhausted after all the walking, but satisfied. There is something beautiful in the interconnectivity of this city, it's small streets and big streets, its mega-stores and it's little thrift shops. There's something wonderful about thinking you are absolutely lost in a city of over three million people and then, turning the corner, discover that you know that plaza and hey, remember when we drank at that cervecería two months ago and it was pouring rain?
You find that you can't be truly lost in Madrid, because everything is a part of everything else. And maybe that's not only in Madrid, you think. Maybe that's the case everywhere.
At least, these are the late night musings of a young lady named Bagel.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Experience Springtime, Madrid Style!
Saturday, May 4th, my roommate Melanie, our friend Taylor, and I went and explored Parque Retiro, Madrid's more or less Central Park sister. Most of the time we had absolutely no idea where we were, but that's the way exploring ought to be.
In the process we found the Crystal Palace, several sets of children's play equipment that Melanie couldn't resist, ducklings in need of rescue from a harassing three year old (no worries guys; Melanie stepped in), an exercise park, a few hot men rollerblading shirtless, and a great experience running across a highway in the attempt to make it to Starbuck's before the half-off Frappuccino happy hour was over.
We didn't make it.
But we still bought Frappuccinos. Anyhow, enjoy the pictures!
Thursday, May 2, 2013
The Final Hand
The old Horner bank building is about to
be demolished until a ghostly presence alters the course of events. Jack, Sam,
and Rene's lives begin to unravel after finding a worn leather journal from the
1920's, a journal belonging to a reluctant mobster, a man who finds himself
thrust into the seedy underbelly of the Prohibition era. In it he details his
ordeal and a curse that has altered time forever.
He crosses paths with Charles, a vicious gangster whose blood lust and hunger for power lure him down a dark road to control the curse and manipulate time. The rough ride he takes will change his life forever as well as those of people in the future.
He crosses paths with Charles, a vicious gangster whose blood lust and hunger for power lure him down a dark road to control the curse and manipulate time. The rough ride he takes will change his life forever as well as those of people in the future.
A
ruthless 1920's mobster, a level headed accountant from 1986, and a playboy
project manager from 2007 become entangled in a series of bizarre ghostly
events that distort the boundaries of reality and time.
To Charles killing people was just part and parcel for the life of a 1920's gangster. That is until somebody tries to take him down. If only he could see it coming or did he? A déjà vu event sets him to question if time could be manipulated.
Tim was often accused of having his head in the past, collecting all kinds of twenties memorabilia. He was particularly fascinated with the 1920's, however becoming a gangster wasn't what he had in mind. Reality sure didn't mesh up with the allure of his imagination.
Jack is a hard living young womanizer whose life is suddenly turned upside down after a new job forces him to relocate from New York to Minneapolis, where he encounters a new love, old friends, and an ancient curse. The discovery of an old journal from a 1920's mobster may hold some of the clues. Jack will have to attempt to put the pieces together in order to fix his unraveling life.
To Charles killing people was just part and parcel for the life of a 1920's gangster. That is until somebody tries to take him down. If only he could see it coming or did he? A déjà vu event sets him to question if time could be manipulated.
Tim was often accused of having his head in the past, collecting all kinds of twenties memorabilia. He was particularly fascinated with the 1920's, however becoming a gangster wasn't what he had in mind. Reality sure didn't mesh up with the allure of his imagination.
Jack is a hard living young womanizer whose life is suddenly turned upside down after a new job forces him to relocate from New York to Minneapolis, where he encounters a new love, old friends, and an ancient curse. The discovery of an old journal from a 1920's mobster may hold some of the clues. Jack will have to attempt to put the pieces together in order to fix his unraveling life.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
The Heist
Crowded, noisy, hot.
The brain stimulus overload of colors and people and shining objects and buildings with restaurants along the streets of the marketplace crammed with people--it's enough to jolt anyone out of a reverie and into the present heart beat by heart beat moments of sidestepping the thousands of people all invariably going a different direction than everyone else. It's a sweet madness.
Squeaking raucously, the wandering vendors who sell various cheap products all over the city, not exclusively el Rastro by any means, make high pitched squeals with plastic toys held hidden in their palms while moving their lips so that it seems the shrieking non-syllabic gibberish is pouring from their own lips. Pleasanter sounds greet the ears as well, five man bands who smile as though the whole world is theirs when their fingers caress the strings of their bass or the buttons of their trumpet--but whom, one can tell, own little more than the instrument in their hands and the clothes on their backs. Parents comfort toddlers, teenagers poke fun at one another, lovers hold hands and point at decorations for apartments owned or dreamt of, and bargains are struck left, right, and diagonal.
Hot in the absence of the wind and with the sun bearing down beneath the buildings, funneled now as though intent, focused on our trio of brunettes winding through the streets of el Rastro, my aunt Chris finally ordered a halt. "I'm so thirsty. Where can we find a Coke?"
Pulling ourselves out of the steady stream of el Rastro would be a task equal to only the most confident race car drivers, accustomed to dealing with out of the ordinary driving maneuvers such as immediate stops, crash collisions, and no hesitation moments where you have to clutch the wheel, gun the gas, and go for all your worth. The thronging multitudes of endless people that Rastro bears witness to every Sunday morning and early afternoon present such a heart-rate-elevating challenge and, though none of the three of us have ever even followed NASCAR on television, we somehow managed to veer out of the human river onto the safety of a shaded sidewalk and find an Alimentación, or snack shop.
They're fairly common and very cheap so we all grabbed a bottle of water (me) or Coke (Chris and Annette).
Annette went into her purse for her wallet, but kept fumbling around in the giant bag pit until Chris finally took out her own wallet and asked me to dig around for the right changed. We paid and made our way back to the street, but something was wrong.
"Stop! I need to check my purse out here."
"What's wrong, Annette?"
She didn't answer, kept rummaging about her bag, zipping and unzipping pockets, rifling through goodness knows what with a growing air of panic about her. I have a purse; I understand the mysterious depths of a woman's handbag as well as any of the female sex, but I have not had the years to hide the myriad treasures that surely hide in the abyss of the vast majority of purses. I am young yet, but I'm sure there will come a time when a map with a big red 'X' to mark the spot will become necessary to find my car keys, not to mention the less commonplace items of that sacred female cache.
After conducting a thorough search and rescue however, Annette came up empty-handed. "My wallet's been stolen." She ducked her head down toward the bag again briefly, seemed to confirm some dark suspicion, and amended, "My wallet and my phone have been stolen."
"Oh . . ." Chris and I fell silent, then attempted a barrage of "I'm really sorry", "This is terrible", and "How could this even have happened?" type questions until Annette cut us off and said, "Well, nobody was hurt so it's not really a big deal."
"How much did you lose?" The million dollar question (or some other denomination between that and zero). Chris looked expectantly at her sister.
"Well, I had $550 in USD and 250 Euros." I nearly swooned. Once you do the conversion that's not too shy of $1000 in USD. For a college student such as myself, that is an incredibly high sum of money to just lose. And then to be so calm about.
"You're really handling this way better than I would be," I admitted to her.
Annette shrugged, let out a sigh, and said, "Well, when you've been in a serious, almost fatal, car accident like I was six months ago, stuff like this doesn't seem to matter as much. At least I'm alive, here, and able to lose money."
But the trail was not yet cold, at least not in the minds of we three Drewry/Markin/Webster family sleuths! (Yes, we all have a different last name; makes writing moments like this difficult). Based on the clues, we pieced the crime together . . . .
The people were beyond the counting; a shouting, chanting mass of politically charged youths, middle-agers, toddlers, grandparents, and any in between sector of society one can imagine. Almost everyone bore a red, yellow, and purple flag and waved it proudly above their heads. Others carried homemade signs strewn with slogans about the horrific cuts the government was making, about the corruption, about spreading the ideals of the PCE, the Partido Comunista de España, whose rally this was, after all.
Three of us made our way through the viscosity of that crowd, pausing at the beauty of the flowing fountain in the center of the roundabout where Calles Alcalá, Prado, and Recoletos converge: the Lady of Cibeles, glorious in her stone chariot drawn by two lions. We did not pause here long however, but instead made our way along the edges of the enormous rally that we'd found ourselves in the middle of, and over to the Banco de España metro stop. That we paused for several minutes to take videos of this chanting, massing mob as the throng bulged in front of the bank building with the clear intent of marching up Calle Alcalá despite the growing number of officers and police vans, may have made all the difference.
Our intent was el Rastro, the street market that any Madrid visitor must see, and to get there, we need only travel one stop by metro to La Latina; the market sprawls forth from there like some haphazard flower that took root in this sunny capitol and opened its petals in between the crooked turning twists of alleys and old brick buildings.
Making our way down into this older section of the metro system, we felt the heat from outside radiating into the tunnels, absorbed seemingly by the white ceramic tiling of the walls. Not long to wait now; the board overhead announced: Próximo tren llegar en 4 minutos (next train arrives in four minutes).
From a distance away in the dark tunnel, we three could hear the low rumbling thunder of the train coming up the track. It would quiet for a moment or two, then the roar would begin again, growing louder and louder, dying suddenly, then after the calm before the storm, the noise would swell throughout the darkness and two glowing orbs would appear and expand until the entirety of the white and blue train car came rushing past the platform, metal tracks shrieking as the reins were pulled in and the people began to crowd near the doors.
The cars were all packed solid and virtually no one stepped off when the doors opened, but we were determined--the three of us and all the waiting passengers on the platform. So we crammed on, holding on to the overhead bars for dear life, fighting to get a little bit of room for our lungs to expand.
Chris and I made it onto the train, but Annette stood yet on the platform, hesitant to shove and elbow the way that is necessary to board in such conditions. "Annette! Come on!" we called to her, urging her forward as the doors began to beep their warning of impending closure.
Two men also still on the platform who desperately wanted to get on began shoving and they pushed Annette in the back, forcing her onto the train. Her hand shot up and she grabbed the overhead bar for support. Chris gave her sleeve a tug to make sure that she was all the way on.
But the beeping had stopped and the train car remained where it was, stuck in some kind of inexplicable metro purgatory that has more than once stranded me at El Bercial for several minutes on end--of course only on the mornings where I'm rushing to class, as this stop is en route to the university.
The two gentlemen who'd been so desperately pushing to get on the train looked around, confused and began to consult with one another in harried, hushed Spanish that I couldn't make out over the din of the jammed car. Finally, they jumped back off, onto the platform and one pointed to the right, the other following his lead. Meanwhile, the beeping had resumed and now the doors sealed closed and began to speed us off into the darkness towards La Latina . . .
A look of dawning realization swept across Chris' features, but it was Annette who spoke first. "I had my wallet at the Prado because I bought some souvenirs in the gift shop, so I know I had it. And I called Megan with my phone--"
"Do you think it happened at the protest?" I suggested, looking to the enlightened Chris to see if my conjecture equaled her own.
"No," she shook her head, "it was on the metro. I'm positive now that I think about it. In retrospect, it's obvious." I exchanged a dubious look with Annette, but our homegrown Kenoshan sleuth continued, "Those two men who shoved Annette-- one was probably pushing her in the back to distract her, the other was reaching into her purse, which she never would have noticed with all the pushing and with how packed it was."
"And her purse--" I began.
"--was exposed because she had to hold on overhead!" (I'd been telling both of them to keep one hand on their purse at all times, just for precautionary measures). "And then the two jerks hopped off the train and got away."
"That's why they left! Not because they got on the wrong train, but because they'd just robbed Annette--"
"Exactly!" Chris was emphatic.
We had figured out the crime, but not much could be done about it. Although we returned to La Latina metro stop and inquired about a floral-print wallet and an Android that had recently gone missing, we found no leads. We were chuckled at and brushed away at La Latina, given a business card with some international hotline number at Banco de España and sent on our merry way.
Even for Chris, our private eye, the trail had gone cold. Wherever the perps are, they're probably living it up on Annette's wad of cash, despite that the phone has long been cancelled and is now only good for sale on the black market.
But as for the floral wallet, we never saw it again . . .
The brain stimulus overload of colors and people and shining objects and buildings with restaurants along the streets of the marketplace crammed with people--it's enough to jolt anyone out of a reverie and into the present heart beat by heart beat moments of sidestepping the thousands of people all invariably going a different direction than everyone else. It's a sweet madness.
Squeaking raucously, the wandering vendors who sell various cheap products all over the city, not exclusively el Rastro by any means, make high pitched squeals with plastic toys held hidden in their palms while moving their lips so that it seems the shrieking non-syllabic gibberish is pouring from their own lips. Pleasanter sounds greet the ears as well, five man bands who smile as though the whole world is theirs when their fingers caress the strings of their bass or the buttons of their trumpet--but whom, one can tell, own little more than the instrument in their hands and the clothes on their backs. Parents comfort toddlers, teenagers poke fun at one another, lovers hold hands and point at decorations for apartments owned or dreamt of, and bargains are struck left, right, and diagonal.
Hot in the absence of the wind and with the sun bearing down beneath the buildings, funneled now as though intent, focused on our trio of brunettes winding through the streets of el Rastro, my aunt Chris finally ordered a halt. "I'm so thirsty. Where can we find a Coke?"
Pulling ourselves out of the steady stream of el Rastro would be a task equal to only the most confident race car drivers, accustomed to dealing with out of the ordinary driving maneuvers such as immediate stops, crash collisions, and no hesitation moments where you have to clutch the wheel, gun the gas, and go for all your worth. The thronging multitudes of endless people that Rastro bears witness to every Sunday morning and early afternoon present such a heart-rate-elevating challenge and, though none of the three of us have ever even followed NASCAR on television, we somehow managed to veer out of the human river onto the safety of a shaded sidewalk and find an Alimentación, or snack shop.
They're fairly common and very cheap so we all grabbed a bottle of water (me) or Coke (Chris and Annette).
Annette went into her purse for her wallet, but kept fumbling around in the giant bag pit until Chris finally took out her own wallet and asked me to dig around for the right changed. We paid and made our way back to the street, but something was wrong.
"Stop! I need to check my purse out here."
"What's wrong, Annette?"
She didn't answer, kept rummaging about her bag, zipping and unzipping pockets, rifling through goodness knows what with a growing air of panic about her. I have a purse; I understand the mysterious depths of a woman's handbag as well as any of the female sex, but I have not had the years to hide the myriad treasures that surely hide in the abyss of the vast majority of purses. I am young yet, but I'm sure there will come a time when a map with a big red 'X' to mark the spot will become necessary to find my car keys, not to mention the less commonplace items of that sacred female cache.
After conducting a thorough search and rescue however, Annette came up empty-handed. "My wallet's been stolen." She ducked her head down toward the bag again briefly, seemed to confirm some dark suspicion, and amended, "My wallet and my phone have been stolen."
"Oh . . ." Chris and I fell silent, then attempted a barrage of "I'm really sorry", "This is terrible", and "How could this even have happened?" type questions until Annette cut us off and said, "Well, nobody was hurt so it's not really a big deal."
"How much did you lose?" The million dollar question (or some other denomination between that and zero). Chris looked expectantly at her sister.
"Well, I had $550 in USD and 250 Euros." I nearly swooned. Once you do the conversion that's not too shy of $1000 in USD. For a college student such as myself, that is an incredibly high sum of money to just lose. And then to be so calm about.
"You're really handling this way better than I would be," I admitted to her.
Annette shrugged, let out a sigh, and said, "Well, when you've been in a serious, almost fatal, car accident like I was six months ago, stuff like this doesn't seem to matter as much. At least I'm alive, here, and able to lose money."
But the trail was not yet cold, at least not in the minds of we three Drewry/Markin/Webster family sleuths! (Yes, we all have a different last name; makes writing moments like this difficult). Based on the clues, we pieced the crime together . . . .
The people were beyond the counting; a shouting, chanting mass of politically charged youths, middle-agers, toddlers, grandparents, and any in between sector of society one can imagine. Almost everyone bore a red, yellow, and purple flag and waved it proudly above their heads. Others carried homemade signs strewn with slogans about the horrific cuts the government was making, about the corruption, about spreading the ideals of the PCE, the Partido Comunista de España, whose rally this was, after all.
Three of us made our way through the viscosity of that crowd, pausing at the beauty of the flowing fountain in the center of the roundabout where Calles Alcalá, Prado, and Recoletos converge: the Lady of Cibeles, glorious in her stone chariot drawn by two lions. We did not pause here long however, but instead made our way along the edges of the enormous rally that we'd found ourselves in the middle of, and over to the Banco de España metro stop. That we paused for several minutes to take videos of this chanting, massing mob as the throng bulged in front of the bank building with the clear intent of marching up Calle Alcalá despite the growing number of officers and police vans, may have made all the difference.
Our intent was el Rastro, the street market that any Madrid visitor must see, and to get there, we need only travel one stop by metro to La Latina; the market sprawls forth from there like some haphazard flower that took root in this sunny capitol and opened its petals in between the crooked turning twists of alleys and old brick buildings.
Making our way down into this older section of the metro system, we felt the heat from outside radiating into the tunnels, absorbed seemingly by the white ceramic tiling of the walls. Not long to wait now; the board overhead announced: Próximo tren llegar en 4 minutos (next train arrives in four minutes).
From a distance away in the dark tunnel, we three could hear the low rumbling thunder of the train coming up the track. It would quiet for a moment or two, then the roar would begin again, growing louder and louder, dying suddenly, then after the calm before the storm, the noise would swell throughout the darkness and two glowing orbs would appear and expand until the entirety of the white and blue train car came rushing past the platform, metal tracks shrieking as the reins were pulled in and the people began to crowd near the doors.
The cars were all packed solid and virtually no one stepped off when the doors opened, but we were determined--the three of us and all the waiting passengers on the platform. So we crammed on, holding on to the overhead bars for dear life, fighting to get a little bit of room for our lungs to expand.
Chris and I made it onto the train, but Annette stood yet on the platform, hesitant to shove and elbow the way that is necessary to board in such conditions. "Annette! Come on!" we called to her, urging her forward as the doors began to beep their warning of impending closure.
Two men also still on the platform who desperately wanted to get on began shoving and they pushed Annette in the back, forcing her onto the train. Her hand shot up and she grabbed the overhead bar for support. Chris gave her sleeve a tug to make sure that she was all the way on.
But the beeping had stopped and the train car remained where it was, stuck in some kind of inexplicable metro purgatory that has more than once stranded me at El Bercial for several minutes on end--of course only on the mornings where I'm rushing to class, as this stop is en route to the university.
The two gentlemen who'd been so desperately pushing to get on the train looked around, confused and began to consult with one another in harried, hushed Spanish that I couldn't make out over the din of the jammed car. Finally, they jumped back off, onto the platform and one pointed to the right, the other following his lead. Meanwhile, the beeping had resumed and now the doors sealed closed and began to speed us off into the darkness towards La Latina . . .
A look of dawning realization swept across Chris' features, but it was Annette who spoke first. "I had my wallet at the Prado because I bought some souvenirs in the gift shop, so I know I had it. And I called Megan with my phone--"
"Do you think it happened at the protest?" I suggested, looking to the enlightened Chris to see if my conjecture equaled her own.
"No," she shook her head, "it was on the metro. I'm positive now that I think about it. In retrospect, it's obvious." I exchanged a dubious look with Annette, but our homegrown Kenoshan sleuth continued, "Those two men who shoved Annette-- one was probably pushing her in the back to distract her, the other was reaching into her purse, which she never would have noticed with all the pushing and with how packed it was."
"And her purse--" I began.
"--was exposed because she had to hold on overhead!" (I'd been telling both of them to keep one hand on their purse at all times, just for precautionary measures). "And then the two jerks hopped off the train and got away."
"That's why they left! Not because they got on the wrong train, but because they'd just robbed Annette--"
"Exactly!" Chris was emphatic.
We had figured out the crime, but not much could be done about it. Although we returned to La Latina metro stop and inquired about a floral-print wallet and an Android that had recently gone missing, we found no leads. We were chuckled at and brushed away at La Latina, given a business card with some international hotline number at Banco de España and sent on our merry way.
Even for Chris, our private eye, the trail had gone cold. Wherever the perps are, they're probably living it up on Annette's wad of cash, despite that the phone has long been cancelled and is now only good for sale on the black market.
But as for the floral wallet, we never saw it again . . .
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