Spring Break: Arrivals

Shortly after the crack of dawn on April 1, I groggily rolled out of bed after one hour of REM-less sleep, threw some remaining toiletries into my suitcase, and ran out the door to catch my 7:30am bus to Madrid. Although accustomed to the almost three hour ride, I was happy to immediately fall asleep and not wake up until the bus was rolling through the outskirts of Madrid. As I sleepily stirred in my seat, my Murcia-bound friend Ana said to me, "Good morning." "Buenos días,*" I replied, fluffing my matted hair. We got off the bus, retrieved our luggage from the bus's gaping belly, and sat down for a coffee before heading our separate ways: me to the Salamanca neighborhood and Ana to Pinar Chamartín to catch her train to Murcia.

It being the very beginning of April, good weather was still fairly scarce, so I was thrilled that Madrid was sunny and warm. I spent the day in El Retiro, stopping in Thyssen-Bornemisza for a couple of hours to see the Monet exhibit as well as some Hopper, Kandinsky, and 16th century Flemish art. My night ended early due to my lack of sleep the previous night. Paris tomorrow, I thought excitedly as I fell asleep. My francophone adventure was about to begin.

After a delicious lunch of falafel with a friend in Puerta del Sol the next day, I headed to Barajas Airport, all my thoughts centered on one: that Ryan Air won't make me check my bag for an extra 35E. Upon getting my boarding pass stamped, getting through security while balancing two bins, my shoes, and my suitcase, and walking ten miles to my boarding gate, I decided to attempt to repack my suitcase in hopes of eliminating as many lumps as possible and fitting the suitcase into the carry-on luggage size checker, thus avoiding the possibility of having to check my bag and paying 35E. After several tries, I had the brilliant idea of stuffing as many bulky items as would fit into my coat pockets. My plan succeeded and I basked in my own genius the entire flight to Beauvais, concocting appropriate Facebook stati regarding the matter, my suitcase resting safely in the luggage bin above my head.

Paris Beauvais Airport is tiny. I walked out of the gate practically right into the shuttle bus to Paris, eliminating all my worries about getting lost and not finding the shuttle. Phew. The bus arrived at Port Maillot in Paris a touch before 9pm. Port Maillot is completely on the opposite side of the city from where I needed to be, the Latin Quarter, so I had a good 40 minutes of metro surfing ahead of me. Finally, after almost losing my right arm to the malicious metro doors in Port Maillot, transferring lines, and getting slightly lost upon getting off at Censier-Daubenton (lost enough to have to employ my very best je cherche rue Larrey** with a couple who turned out to not be French), I made it to my mom's friend's apartment, memories of staying there nine years ago rapidly coming back to me. After two metros, a plane, a bus, and two more metros, I was finally in Paris.

*good morning
**I'm looking for Larrey Street

Madridalicious

Coming back to Madrid was like seeing an old friend again. Stepping out of the Sevilla metro, I was warmly greeted by Puerta del Sol, which quickly hugged me with its familiar sights before I slipped into Hotel Regina, my suitcase disappearing through the sliding doors behind me. My mind somersaulted to September, when I first walked into Hotel Regina, sweaty and jetlagged with more luggage than I could manage. It was delightful to be back, this time more collected, temperate, and with one light suitcase. It is at random moments like these that I selfishly feel incredibly sophisticated. I don't apologize. Have you seen Hotel Regina?

After dropping off my maletas*, I went on a brief tour of Old Madrid with the rest of the Burgos group, if three people even merits the word group. Walking down the street I fondly refer to as The Club Promoters' Lair, although it is harmless in the daytime, we arrived at the Palacio Real just in time to see a royal procession. Although I had been previously elucidated to the fact that there was state business going on in the palace that weekend, I had not expected to see men dressed in traditional guard garb on horses, wielding rifles. There was a marching band, and as we sauntered over to the other side of the palace, we observed, to our great surprise, an 18th century horse-drawn carriage, with footmen looking like they had just walked off the Amadeus set.

Unfortunately, this is the best picture I managed to take. Can you see the men's wigs? You know the old saying: come to Madrid, see some 18th century foot soldiers.

After the guards marched out, there was not much left to see, considering the palace was closed to the public due to state business, so we began making our way to lunch via Calle Mayor, Plaza Mayor, Calle de los Cuchilleros, and Calle de Atocha. We dined in an Arabic restaurant, because Bourbons+Arabs=Spanish history (pretty much), and we had just done the Bourbon portion. Despite the disagreeable waitress, the food was delicious. I ordered eggplant stuffed with feta, obviously for the cheese, and rape (RA-peh),** which came with a dollop of mashed potatoes and a lime garnish. Estoy harta de pescado,*** but yum.

The rest of my time in Madrid was spent in the Prado, Parque Retiro, Chocolatería San Gines, the Mercado de San Miguel, and the Rastro. And I saw Confetti Goat Man! It was good to be back.

*suitcases

**monkfish

***I'm sick of fish

Madrid, Te Amo*

I am sort of obsessed with this picture I took of downtown Madrid tonight:

Unfortunately, my camera was not able to do this view total justice.

*I love you

Sargeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

On my way out earlier today, I heard clarinet next door (or downstairs, since I cannot tell the difference). A few minutes ago, I chanced to hear drums. Add that to flamenco and gospel vocals and the trumpet, and the vecinos* have got themselves a band. I'm cool with it as long as I can sleep at night.

*neighbors

P.S.-

Yep, that's my neighbor. Gospel Girl is also in the video. I, however, prefer this version:

Bank Search Yields Some Wonderful Things

How pathetic is it that I have seen more of Madrid in the last two days than I have in the last month because of the constant search for a Barclay's Bank? Colorful Malasaña, swanky Salamanca, the festive museum circle, glitzy Gran Vía, and charming Chamberí, I saw them all. As much as I enjoy traipsing through various Madrid neighborhoods, I prefer not to be bank hunting simultaneously, because the rule is that when you intentionally look for something, you are not able to find it. It happened with the pastelerías* and it happened with the bank, which, in my opinion, can go follar un pez.**

Despite my quejas,*** I did discover some wonderful things this weekend, so the bank did not ruin everything. Read, enjoy, and come to Madrid and check them out.

carrot cake-I love a good carrot cake, so when a friend said to me, "There's a café near here that is famous for its carrot cake," I didn't hesitate. It was not the best carrot cake I had ever tried, but it was delicious nonetheless, with a thick layer of cream cheese frosting dribbled with chocolate. The café also had a relatively big selection of teas, juices, and coffees. I had a white pear tea, served in my own little teapot. The atmosphere of the eatery was just the way I like it: artsy, cozy, smoky, and warm, with clashing, yet comfortable, couches. I don't remember the name of the café, but I do remember where it is, which is more important anyway, right?

holiday spirit-Although it bothers me that Madrid is decked out in lights and Christmas trees that aren't yet lit (it's not too early, is it?), I am excited about the day when the city decides to press the 'on' switch. It will be a spectacular view. Speaking of holiday spirit, kudos to Starbucks. The employees are wearing red and green, holiday cups are being filled to the brim with the seasonal drinks, and I swear I heard "White Christmas" playing at the museum circle Starbucks on Saturday while I sipped my post-Thyssen mocha praline latté and discussed The Beatles with my friends. The only thing that feels unnatural to me is the warm weather. I am not used to seeing Christmas lights and frosty window displays without actual frost.

Calle de Goya-Fluorescent lights illuminating the street? High-heeled shoppers bearing stuffed shopping bags? Sounds like my kind of world.

VIPS-Until last week, I thought VIPS was a phone company or a business of that sort. The franchise's exterior doesn't really hint at food, and I had never stopped to look inside, so naturally, I did not assume it was a café/convenience store that, get ready, carries Reese's Peanut Butter Cups! Madrid does not generally stock them in regular stores, so I was thrilled to see the reddish orange package resting on the candy rack by the cash register. As I was leaving with my newly found treasure, I caught a glimpse of President's Choice cheeses in the refrigerator. I'll be coming back.

*pastry shop

**fuck itself

***complaints

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

You know how after taking a fixed route at a certain hour everyday for a long period of time, you start seeing many of the same people? Or if you always take the 8am train, you notice the same people and, eventually, their behavior as well? It is not much different when you live in an apartment. Even if you never actually meet your neighbors, you get to know their habits and ways pretty darn well due to thin walls and open windows (and the fact that Spaniards are generally loud). Think of Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. His neighbors across the garden included the dancer, the lonely women, the woman who lowered her dog into the garden several times a day, and the murderer, of course. He probably had those nicknames for them, too.

After having lived in my apartment in Madrid for two months, I feel like I have gotten to know my neighbors well enough to tell you all about them and their colorful lives. I even have nicknames for all of them--just like Jimmy Stewart.

Gospel Girl-Gospel Girl is an American singer. I often hear her rehearse the same verse over and over. And over. She also blasts Whitney Houston whenever I am trying to nap. Once in a while, I can hear her speaking loudly on the phone in Ebonics. Sometimes I have to assure myself that I did, in fact, leave Chicago.

Pitingo aka Flamenco Singer-Pitingo is his actual stage name, but I usually refer to him by his nickname when complaining to my friends. At 11pm, I do not want to hear hoarse vocal undulations and dramatic, strumming guitar. I know Spain runs on a late schedule, but you're not the only tenant in the building, Señor* Perfectly Coifed Hair and Carved Biceps (I've seen YouTube videos). Also, it isn't in good taste to blast your own CDs for the entire courtyard to hear.

The Mother-Almost every night around midnight, the smell of tortilla española,** or some other fragrant delicacy, wafts through my open window. I hear the clanking of silverware and the family's docile speech, The Mother always insisting, "¡Cómelo! ¡Cómelo!"*** Typical.

Mysterious Trumpeter-Once in a while, I hear brief bursts of trumpet playing. It sounds like it is coming from the apartment next door, but sometimes it sounds like Pitingo's singing is coming from next door and he lives below me, so I don't actually know if Mysterious Trumpeter lives next door or if he is Pitingo. Pitingo, if it is you, 12am is not an ideal time for playing the trumpet! Jolines!****

The Buzzers-Every morning, and several times in the evening, the doorbell next door rings. Except it isn't a ring as much as a buzz, and every single time I jump, startled. I don't mind it much, except at 8am, when the stupid buzzer wakes me up, along with the elderly shouts of vengo***** that accompany it. Who is visiting you people everyday at 8am?!

*sir

**thick omelet with potatoes

***eat it

****jeez

*****I'm coming

Madrid vs. Paris

The Metro

The Madrid metro is clean, punctual, and every single platform has a counter that informs you how soon the next train will arrive. The Paris metro is not so clean, only a few stops have countdowns for the next train, and I saw multiple people hopping over the turnstiles. I've never seen that in Madrid, although it would be considerably easier because the Madrid metro does not have a turnstile and a swinging door at each thruway. Furthermore, while the doors on the Madrid metro do not open until the train has completely stopped, people hop off the Paris metro while it is still moving. I was waiting for the train to stop so I could safely get off, and the Parisians behind me got impatient and a little pushy, like New York drivers at a fresh green light. However, the speed of the Paris metro slows the Madrid metro down to a crawl. The Paris metro literally zooms from stop to stop, taking me through ten stops in fifteen minutes.

Eating Outside

In Madrid, a person eating on the street is seen as an aberration to society, with the exception of ice cream in the summer. In Paris, people galavant down the streets eating sandwiches, crepes, etc. I am so accustomed to never seeing food on the street, that I was legitimately surprised to see people in Paris eating on the street. And then I joined in.

Cold Weather

When the temperature drops below 60 degrees, the madrileños* don their pea coats. When the temperature drops below 50 degrees, the madrileños walk around in down coats and thick scarves. The weather in Paris was in the high 40s/low 50s when I was there. The Parisians did not look like abominable snowmen. They were wearing pea coats and trench coats because they, like me, do not believe that 50 degrees is cold enough to dress as though they are headed to the wintry forests of Siberia. For that same reason, outdoor terraces in cafés were not empty. People were enjoying their coffees outside in the chilly Paris air, coats and scarves included, but outside nonetheless. Terrace seating in Madrid is not even available anymore.

Staying on the Right

On escalators and moving walkways in Madrid, those who want to stand keep to the right so the walkers can walk through on the left. The Parisians spread out all over the place, barring those who wish to walk. In the airport, I witnessed some very confused Spaniards trying to walk down the moving walkway past a group of Parisians--without much success.

Creepy Men

I was a pretty big hit with all the creepy men of Paris, who appeared out of nowhere to tell me that I had nice eyes or some merde** like that. An old man clacked while walking past me. I was even addressed as vous*** by someone older than me. I was standing on a bridge, taking pictures of the Seine, when a man walked up to me and asked, "Comment allez-vous****?" I actually understood him, so it gave me even greater satisfaction to mumble, "Je ne parle pas français.*****" In Madrid, the only compliment available is guapa****** and no one in his right mind would use usted******* in such a situation. Maybe blondes are more rare in Paris than in Madrid and thus merit vouvoyer.********

*people who live in Madrid

**shit

***formal you (French)

****how are you

*****I don't speak French

******pretty

*******formal you (Spanish)

********to address someone using vous

It's a Beautiful Day in My Neighborhood

The appetizing fragrance of tortilla española* wafts through my open window. The clanking of silverware and rapid maternal speech echo through the courtyard. It’s midnight. While I am ready to turn in for the night, the families that live in my building are just sitting down to dinner, their dynamics on display for everyone to see and hear. From another part of the building, I enjoy a different kind of performance. The flamenco singer who lives in the apartment below mine is practicing, his raspy voice gliding all over the scale, crooning Andalusian tunes.

The quiet, residential neighborhood of Alfonso XIII, more commonly known as El Barrio de Prosperidad, is a cesspool of a large variety of people from several different generations. Teenagers traipse up and down the streets, stopping at the shoe boutiques or electronics stores that pepper the blocks. They congregate near the large McDonalds across the street from the metro. Mothers walk alone or in pairs, pushing strollers or lovingly leading their well dressed, newly walking toddlers by the hand. Sharply dressed businessmen plow down the sidewalk, their shiny dress shoes reflecting the sun as they make wide strides, briefcases bouncing at their sides. The older generations stroll arm in arm, always dressed fashionably in dresses, woolen cardigans, and fedoras, brandishing their canes. The abuelas** chat while the abuelos*** discuss politics. Once in a while, a Real Madrid player can be spotted gracing the humble streets, or so my host mother tells me.

Although a completely modern neighborhood, Alfonso XIII emanates a comfortable, lived-in, familiar feeling. There are no big businesses in sight, only small stores and private boutiques. Hair salons and cafeterías**** abound—and are populated at all hours of the day. Walking to the metro every morning, I am accustomed to the delicious aroma of coffee and the sounds of spoons tapping the saucers and murmured exchanges between proprietors and customers filling the streets. Except for the dead of night, when the street lights are faintly reflected in the naked pavement, the neighborhood is always lively, despite its generally slow pace.

A mere 10-minute walk from the Alfonso XIII metro is the Berlin Park, which is a haven on sunny days. Birds chirp, laughing children chase each other, and runners run. The park’s entrance on Concha Espina boasts a modest fountain adorned with the unmistakable pieces of the Berlin Wall, engulfed in the trickling fountain water. Not much farther, the majestic Santiago Bernabéu Stadium towers over the street corner.

While the Alfonso XIII area does not offer chic shopping or swanky lounges, it does offer a first-class view of daily Spanish life. Walking down the neighborhood’s main street, Lopez de Hoyos, or eating lunch in one of the many sidewalk restaurants is a good way to pass a lazy, autumn, Saturday afternoon before getting dolled up and heading to the trendier districts for some evening entertainment.

*thick omelet with potatoes
**grandmas
***grandpas
****cafés

P.S.-I wrote this article for the My Metro section of the magazine I intern for. Every month, the section profiles a different neighborhood. The December issue will feature mine!

Hey Boys, Where the Pastelerías* At?

There is no doubt about it, Madrid is a city full of foodies. Some sort of gastronomical establishment occupies every other building and bars give you more free food with every cerveza** you purchase. Walk by a bar or café at any given moment in the day and you will see at least one person leaning against the bar, having a merienda*** and chatting up the bartender, or sitting in a corner enjoying a coffee and the newspaper. So why is it that the one evening I decided to shell out a couple euros and treat myself to a pastry to celebrate the end of midterms, there wasn't a pastelería to be found? From Callao to Sol to Anton Martín, nothing. I discovered at least five Irish pubs. I found a Hawaiian bar. I was offered free food at not one, but two tapas places. But a pastelería? God forbid.

*pastry shops

**beer

***snack

P.S.-The title of this post references a movie. Name that movie!

Reunited: Sima and Confetti Goat Man

The title says it all. While walking through Plaza Mayor last night, I noticed all the street performers and immediately turned to search for Confetti Goat Man from my first day in Madrid. I found him!

P.S.-If you are devilishly confused, read this blog post.

Calle Arenal: The Club Promoters' Lair

Party time is quite a big deal here in Madrid. While Americans scoop time out of their day to go sweat at the gym, madrileños reserve time to party. And if they are not the ones participating in the actual physical act of partying, they certainly do one hell of a job organizing parties. Bouncers, security guards, promoters, bartenders. They are the nighttime creatures that prowl until the morning hours. And prowl is the choice vernacular, as I learned last night. I walked out of the Sol metro stop yesterday evening around 10:30pm to a bustling Puerta del Sol. Although I am well aware of Madrid's late hours, part of me was nevertheless surprised to see so many people out and about. I met up with some friends and we commenced a stroll down Calle Arenal, in search of a cozy, cute café where we could pasar un rato* before the clock turned to zero (that means midnight, all of you AM/PM Americans) and the festivities really began.

Vividly recalling the chupitas adventure of 9/11, I attempted to steer clear of men standing in place holding cards and pamphlets in their hands. My attempts were in vain, because as soon as someone from our group did not manage to escape, more club promoters appeared out of the shadows. I am not exaggerating. They literally appeared out of nowhere and walked towards us, eager to shower us with offers and promotions. It was both hilarious and slightly creepy, because had they not been moving at their own pace and inflecting their voices, they would have been comparable to zombies. Club zombies on the hunt for females dressed for a good time: the horror movie event of the year.

Ok. So. After the café, a touch after midnight, we headed to Club Joy. Club Joy is sort of a big deal. People know about it. And after having been inside, I can see why. Although it is just a plain, stone building with a neon sign screaming the club's name on the outside, the inside is immaculate and plush. There are several levels, the top ones reserved for VIP attendees. The seats are black velvet cushioned couches. There are two bars. There is a screen at the front of the relatively big dance floor and lots of lights, strobe included. As it was student night at Club Joy, the place filled up rather fast, exceeding all appropriate capacities. The entire club--not just the dance floor-- was soon stuffed tighter than fish in a barrel. Talk about getting to know people well. There was no pocket of space to retreat to when accosted by, say, slightly creepy Italians, one of whom proceeded to give me my own personal disco dance, to "Saturday Night Fever", nonetheless! I thought of that lovely bar dance sequence in Airplane. Here it is, for your enjoyment (the Italians are pretty much the only interesting story from last night, anyway).

*to pass the time

Madrid Needs to Borrow the Big Citgo Sign for My Directional Convenience

I get off the train at the Moncloa metro stop and follow the morning crowd and the signs towards the salida*. I check my phone. It is only 10:30am; my interview with European Vibe Magazine is at 11:00am. Mentally shrugging, I climb the stairs up to the Tuesday sunlight, which is actually exactly the same as the sunlight on every other day of the week, and look around me. Not only do I have no idea where I am--considering the fact that I have never gotten off at the Moncloa stop--I do not even know which way north is. Or east, south, and west, for that matter. Back homes (Chicago and Boston), I orient myself using the appropriate body of water. Or, occasionally, the Sears Tower or Prudential Building, respectively. Here in Madrid, not only is there no body of water nearby, there are no tall buildings, so I simply have to learn. But I digress. Coming out of the metro station, I pick a random street and direction, praying that it will lead me to Calle de Fernando Católico 63, local 1 (I do not know what local 1 means in terms of the address). I quickly arrive at the realization that a)I have no idea where I am or where I am going and b)I am glad that I got to the neighborhood so early. And to think I was beginning to admonish myself for perpetually being early for various functions.

I continue walking, knowing that I either have to ask other pedestrians for directions or take out my embarassingly huge map, which doesn't really go with my Gap dress pants and Banana Republic sweater, and which wouldn't aid me either considering I do not know cardinal directions. To my right appear stores bearing the signs for the Universidad Complutense, which I vageuly know is somewhere northwestish. Shit. Maybe I am completely and utterly lost. After another block, I approach a woman walking towards me. ¿Perdóneme, sabe dónde está la Calle de Fernando Católico?** I ask, my nerves highlighting my American accent. The woman isn't sure. Next block. Same question. She thinks that Fernando Católico is somewhere farther, perpendicular to the street we are on now, but I should keep asking. I begin wondering if this street even exists. Several people later, a man overhears me asking a woman--who (surprise!) doesn't know the answer--and points me in the right direction. I walk two blocks, as directed, and hit Fernando Católico. Thank God. It's already 10:50am. Fernando Católico turns out to be parallel to the street I had been on originally. Thank you, Spanish man! Without you, all would have been lost! After a little more confusion regarding the local 1, I get to the European Vibe office at 11am sharp. Oh yeah, and the interview went swell.

*exit

**Excuse me, where is the street Fernando Católico?

Vodafone Hell and Free Chupitas*

Day two in Madrid was a little more hands on. After a rather lengthy, but completely thorough and helpful, orientation at the Instituto Internacional, where classes will be held, we were let loose among the Madrileños--alone with each other and our Metrobus passes. The following events occurred in the course of the last seven and a half hours.

Adventure #1: Getting off at the Gran Vía stop, we got slightly lost because nobody had payed attention to the route on the way to the metro in the morning due to the presence of our Madrid-savvy staff, but found our way quite quickly and proceeded back to the hotel.

Adventure #2: The first order of the afternoon was to purchase cell phones. We walked to the neighboring Corte Ingles, Madrid's biggest department store.

It has everything. Because it has everything, there are several buildings that house different departments. Although I distinctly remembered entering a building with electronics on yesterday's attempt to obtain phones, I followed the rest of the small group of six into the building with cosmetics and lingerie. Try again. We walked around until we realized it was the wrong entrance. We walked out. The street we had been on seemed to have vanished...or we had left through a different exit. We walked back inside, past the security guards dressed in vibrant red blazers, and found the correct exit. Across the street, the electronics department welcomed us and we escalated to the third floor, excited about finally getting phones. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I had no idea what I was supposed to do, so I looked at the available phones for a few minutes, trying to shake off the glances of the salespeople, not wanting to talk to them. I saw the phone I wanted, a 19E pre-paid LG phone. We finally got the courage to talk to the salespeople. Somos estudiantes y necesitamos teléfonos,** we said. ¿Qué tipos de planes hay?*** I know that I do not speak for just myself when I say that none of us fully understood the answer. We nodded, mumbled amongst each other, and asked about the pre-paid phone rates. There were two salespeople attending to us. ¿Cuánto cuestan los minutos?**** I really love Castillian Spanish, I think it is beautiful. It is a shame that I can barely understand it. After multiple explanations, we requested that the saleswoman write down for us the rules and rates. Major hubbub ensued. We finally all decided to get the same phones, only to discover that we needed our passports to purchase said phones. Thinking all activities that required my passport were done for the day, I had removed my passport from my purse prior to leaving the hotel, as had Dana. Fortunately, the hotel is located very close to Corte Ingles, so a 15 minute scurry later, Dana and I were back in the Vodafone department with our passports. We got the last two phones available and a new salesman who spoke English. Finally understanding all the answers to our questions, four of us returned to the hotel to figure out the phones and exchange numbers, only to discover that we had not been credited the 12E that come pre-paid with the phone. Disgruntled, we marched back to Corte Ingles. Upon seeing us yet again--the dimwitted Americans who supposedly speak Spanish but do not understand it--the saleswoman's face performed a maneuver that I cannot explain, but I know that she was not thrilled to see us. I was rather embarassed myself at that point, but explained to the salespeople our problem. Fortunately, I also understood the answer, so we headed back to the hotel again, exhausted but no longer disconnected from the world.

Adventure #3: Six of us girls had dinner in the Plaza Mayor: paella and sangría. Typical Spanish fare.

We had trouble understanding the waiter. Spanish skills are slowly deteroriating. Walking back from dinner, we stopped in front of Club Joy to discuss the possibility of going there the following week. As we stood there gawking at the cyan neon, a club promoter approached us and gave us passes for free entry to a nearby club. We thanked him, but lingered a second too long. ¿Queréis algunas chupitas?***** he asked us. Stupidly, I blurted out yes (I had heard about the free chupitas before, and, please, someone else be leader next time), so we followed the man to the nearby club, rationalizing that if it were sketchy, we would not go inside. The club itself, Cibeles Madrid, was not sketchy. It was small, but there were lights, booming music, and a well equipped bar. And we definitely got more than just a chupita. The situation was slightly awkward because it was completely unfamiliar to us, although it is apparently normal in Madrid. Downing our vodka orange sodas, we bolted out of the club, laughing at our odd luck.

P.S.-I would like to explicitly state that although it may seem iffy, nothing about the chupita situation was particularly sketchy or dangerous. We were in a bustling, illuminated neighborhood full of bars and clubs and we watched the bartender make our drinks for us.

*shots

**We are students and we need phones.

***What kind of plans do you have?

****How much do the minutes cost?

*****Would you like some shots?

The City Where Street Performers Wear Confetti Suits and Goat Masks and Cat Whistle at Passersby

Finishing up an after-dinner walk through Old Madrid's most populated and club/bar dense streets, the group was shuffling gaily through Plaza Mayor when several yelps and hoots emanated from a white tablecloth adorned table situated in the square. I had noticed the tables and the masks propped up in the holes cut out in the table. It wasn't until the shouting did I notice the masks move. Startled, I realized that these were men wearing face paint and shaggy wigs: street performers!

I was rather amused, considering I had never before encountered such theatre. I nodded approvingly and continued walking. My feet barely stepped through the ark onto the street when I heard a cat whistle. ¿Ya?* (yes, my thoughts come complete with upside down punctuation marks. batteries sold separately.) I thought disdainfully as I turned around, preparing to furrow my eyebrows. I did not see a sleazy Spaniard. I saw a mountain of confetti topped with a goat head and a hat. I giggled. The human current on the street pushed me forward, so I did not get the opportunity to photograph this fabulous creature. However, I have no doubt that Confetti Goat Man and I will cross paths again in Old Madrid, although I have to admit I am apprehensive of coming too close to him.

With colorful caprine thoughts, I finished my first day in Madrid. Now, I am sitting in my room--obviously--at the Hotel Regina in La Puerta del Sol, the heart of Old Madrid, thinking about my long, crazy day. At O'Hare, I cruised through security and spent the rest of my time prior to boarding watching the people at the gate, trying to decide who was British (I was flying British Airways). Spot the Brit, a lovely variation on one of my favorite games, Spot the Russian, which, by the way, I've also played many times today, at Heathrow and in Madrid. The flights from Chicago to London and from London to Madrid were rather uneventful, except for my excitement regarding various English accents all around me for twelve hours and my phone's impotence. Apparently, my beloved LG Shine and Europe are not amigos**. After dragging about 100 pounds of luggage from the baggage carousel onto a cart, from the cart onto a sidewalk, from the sidewalk into the trunk of a taxi, I was ecstatic to relax in the cool interior of the cab as I looked hungrily out the windows. In Madrid at last...and no idea how much to tip the driver at the end of the trip.

Upon walking into the hotel, Dana and I were greeted warmly by the BU staff, sent up to our rooms, and immediately dragged out again for a walk through Old Madrid. I didn't object; my excitement shoved my exhaustion out of the way and I enjoyed the mini tour through the tourist heavy part of the city, despite the heat (note to self: start learning Celsius). After the walk and a failed attempt to buy cell phones at Vodafone, we returned to the hotel, where I proceeded to almost set my room on fire due to a silly mistake regarding adapters. I was not aware that the hotel provides an adapter for those who may need it. Without thinking, I just assumed it was part of the general Spanish electric process. I plugged my computer into my adapter and that adapter into the hotel's adapter. Don't judge. We've all made dumb mistakes, ok?! I lay down to rest and began to dose off, so I decided to get up and set my phone alarm so as not to sleep through dinner. As I walked by my computer, I noticed that the battery was not charging, so I leaned down to fix the heavy adapter, only to realize that it was scorching hot, steaming, and releasing an odor of melted plastic. This has not been my day with electronics, what with my phone not working, almost setting the room on fire, and losing some pictures on my camera unexpectedly during the walk earlier in the day. Lesson of the day: technology and I are not friends! Hopefully, tomorrow's lesson will be something more Spanish.

*already

**friends