Aventura Española - Part 2

I woke up to the breakfast cart making its way down the aisle, passing out flaky pastries and shitty cups of what I can only assume was 'coffee.'

Descending into Spain

Opening up the window, I found that the horizon was beginning to show a thin band of orange, and that in the cool grey morning one could begin to make out the mountains of Spain underneath the scattered clouds.  You could still see the lights of cities through the early morning grey as we began to make our descent into Madrid.

Madrid Airport

Getting off the plane and going through customs was pretty painless, as was finding my suitcase.  Unfortunately, I noticed a few abrasive tears at the bottom of my bag, right above the wheels.  Not sure exactly how the hell this happened - I think the wheels were busted and the suitcase tears were caused by dragging it across the floor.  Regardless, I wasn't too thrilled about this.

I was part of the EF Yellow Group, and as I exited the Baggage area, two of our Group Leaders (Jeremy and Courtney) were there to intercept me.  After giving me a color-coded name tag to use throughout my time in Madrid (which I promptly tucked into my suitcase and never wore again for the duration of my time in Spain), I was given fifteen minutes to freshen up. This I had done before before exiting the baggage area, so I stopped off at a nearby cafeteria-style cafe and ordered myself a large cappuccino (at a ridiculous sum of 2.90 - approximately $5.)

Granted, it was good, but no cup of coffee is worth more than $3.

You hear me, Starbucks?!

Anyway, following this over-priced indulgence I rendezvoused with the rest of the Yellow Team and we made our way to a large greyhound-ish bus.  Here, we swung around to the airport's other terminal in order to pick up the other half of our group members.  There were to be 51 of us in the Yellow Group, but 5 or 6 of our group were flying in later, so we left a few EF personnel behind at the airport and proceeded on to the hotel, which was in the San Bernardo neighborhood of Madrid.

Unfortunately, upon arrival, we discovered that our rooms wouldn't be ready until 2 or 3pm, so our new Tour Director - a short, portly Spaniard by the name of Fran - decided to give us some free time in Madrid.  Since it was Sunday, the city's largest Flea market - El Rastro - would be open in the Plaza de Toledo neck of the woods.  One of our EF trainers - a guy from Linden, MI named Matt - offered to take whomever wanted to go and check it out, which ended up being about a third of the group.

Metro Entrance, San Bernardo

Fran warned us (quite dramatically) that the area, and the Flea Market itself, was notorious for its pickpockets, so I think this spooked a number of people and prevented them from going.  I myself was concerned about being accosted by Spaniards, but I wasn't about to venture out on my own in a city I hadn't had the time to familiarize myself with (at least not until I had a sound night's sleep.)  I'd rather save that for Day Three, when we're given a few hours to do so.  By then I'd more than likely know my way around somewhat.

Since our rooms weren't ready yet, we carried our luggage into a large, wood-panelled room where several, covered tables were pushed up against the walls.  This was some kind of a food-serving room, adjacent to where we would eventually hold our daily EF seminar/workshops, but since it was a lockable room we all dumped off our luggage here and splintered off to check out the city.

. . .Directions?

Matt, myself, and about nineteen others headed out for El Rastro.  In order to get to the Plaza de Toledo, we had to utilize Madrid's subway system, El Metro.  The entrance to our station was about a block from our hotel, and was very similar to other subway systems I've been on (I was told that Madrid ranks behind London as the best system in Europe.)

In Spain, people are encouraged to chase large, moving blocks.

It was about three stops down the Red Line to our exist, so all in all we were on the train for about ten minutes.  As it turned out, we got off one stop too early, and consequently had to walk several city blocks to reach our destination.  Our route took us through the older section of the city, including the old Toledo Gate that marked the old boundary of the city.

Nothing screams EUROPE like a bunch of gay, little scooters. . .

Gates to the Old City

Matt got a us a little turned around here and there, but eventually we found our way to the plaza, where the giant Flea Market - El Rastro - was set up.

Madrid reminds of a lot of Florence, where old, medieval buildings house modern shops and cafes and highly-fashionable people stroll about the narrow sidewalks and cobblestone streets smoking cigarettes (everyone smokes over here - don't ask me why.)  El Rastro poured out from the main square, lining the sidestreets and alleyways with kiosks, stands, stalls, and blankets - all filled with goods.

Who wants to buy some crap?

The place was packed, too - I could see how pickpockets would be attracted to a place like this.

Most of the stuff being sold seemed old and used, so it reminded more of a garage sale rather than a a Flea Market here in the States.  There were several kiosks/vendors selling old books, comics, and magazines - these were extremely popular with people.  Others hawked DVDs, CDs, off-brand electronics, household goods, hats, clothing, plumbing and electrical parts, old farm equipment, knives, sunglasses, trinkets, jewelry, pottery, etc.  Anything you could possibly want or need, really.  And lots and lots of stuff you don't.

Pulp fiction and comics are big sellers in Spain, too.

I ended up buying a really cool pulp comic magazine from this stand - totally vintage, all in Spanish.

Crowds for as far as the eye can see.

I decided to stay in the spacious plaza, where most of the activity was centered, opposed to venturing down any of the narrow side streets and alleys where the crowds bottlenecked considerably.  I figured the chances of me being robbed were greater there.

I had left my backpack and most of my valuables back at the hotel room, slinging on my trusty Maxpedition pack and keeping my phone and euros in my money belt.  I did have my SLR around my neck, but I was more than willing to fight a Spaniard to the death over it, if it came to that.  Nevertheless, I wanted to avoid bumping into people in the Rastro if I could avoid it, so I took extra care to walk around everybody and move aside if people got too close.

Remember Pokemon cards?  I guess in Europe it's totally acceptable for grown men to trade these.  They were a huge draw throughout the market.

A bunch of teenage Spaniards, trying to look cool wearing scarves.  Oh, wait. 

This old man made it a point to yell at every, single person passing by as if they had just ran over his dog.  You'd think that wouldn't be very good for business, but this dude was making a killing.

Thanks in part to these precautionary steps - and perhaps my appearance, who knows - I spent an hour and a half shopping and looking around the great flea market without incident.

I didn't see much that caught my interest, though - not a lof of stuff that I couldn't otherwise buy in flea markets back in the States.  I did pick up a vintage Spanish pulp comic/magazine for two euros before meeting back up with the rest of my group at the Rastro entrance at 12:45, and from there we once again boarded the Metro and made our way back to our hotel, the NH Alberto Aguilero.

Our hotel.  I never learned how to pronounce it correctly.

A better room than I was expecting - much better than its Italian counterparts, for sure.

It wasn't quite 2pm yet when we returned, and our rooms were supposed to be ready sometime around 3pm, but I figured it was worth a shot seeing if my room was ready yet.  Fortunately, it was, so after giving my credit card information to the front desk ("in case of incident," I was told. . . as if I was going to Keith Moon the place or something) I hauled my luggage up to the sixth floor.

Lucky me.

This hotel was much better than any of the hotels I had stayed in while traveling throughout Italy.  The Wi-Fi was excellent, so I was able to text Kris and other family members, use the Internet, etc. - both on my laptop and my new smartphone.  The room itself was of similar size and quality as my Italian rooms of the past, but the view was excellent:

San Bernardo

I ended up sharing my room with a high school Spanish teacher from Vermont named Patrick, and after we had both settled into the room and charge our phones somewhat (I managed to get mine up to 64% before we had to leave), we met the full group, including those late arrivals I mentioned earlier, down in the hotel lobby.  There, Fran (our tour director) rallied us and gave us a briefing of the evening's itinerary.

We set off down the street, back to the San Bernardino Metro station, and once again hopped on the ol' Red Line.  This time, we were taking it into the very heart of Madrid - the Puerta del Sol.

Graphic Design.

Exiting the Metro into the heart of Madrid. . .

El Palacio de Cibeles

El Calle de Alcala

En route to the Prado. . .

From here, we waltzed through the Plaza Mayor towards the Prado Museum, Madrid's principle art museum (and one of Europe's finest), which houses works from Ancient to Modern eras, and pieces by Spain's greatest painters, like Goya, Velasquez, and El Greco. . .

The Prado.

I hate performance art.  It's not art.  It's retarded. 

Fran points out something to the group.  Probably a dire warning of some kind - he was a big fan of the dramatic.

San Jerónimo el Real

Statue of Francisco de Goya.

Side entrance to the Prado Museum.

Unfortunately, we couldn't take any pictures or video inside. . . again, who knows why.  I mean, I totally understand the ol' "No Flash Photography" rule, as camera flashes can obviously destroy priceless pieces of art over time. . . but I do not see the harm in some simple, non-flash photography/videography.

I can only assume they do this to force people to buy prints in the museum gift shop. . . as if Google Image Search doesn't exist.

Speaking of which, here's some of the famous highlights from the Prado (courtesy of Google Images):

The Knight with His Hand on His Breast, by El Greco (1580) 

Saturn Devouring One of His Children, by Francisco de Goya (1819 - 1823) - probably my favorite painting at the Prado.  Incredible in person.

The Surrender of Breda, by Diego Velázquez (1634 - 1635)

Another shot of a church I didn't go into. . .

The exhibits - paintings mostly, not a lot of sculpture - were very impressive.  I spent most of my time viewing the works from the 14th - 19th century, from Raphael to Goya (their ancient and medieval sections I found lacking, and I'm not a huge fan of anything post-1850s).  We had been instructed to meet outside the museum under a statue of Goya himself at 7:45pm.  However, around 6:50pm or so, the museum officials (security guards, whatever you want to call them) began ushering all of the museum patrons towards the front entrance.

Leaving the Prado. . .

Evidently the museum closes at 7pm, not 8pm, like Fran had told us.

Our group reformed under the statue of Goya, as instructed, but we had to stand around and wait for stragglers. . . including Fran himself.  It was in the low 40s by this point, so being a Floridian and all, I was obviously pretty miserable.

Why can't more mannequins dress in historical garb?

Eventually, when we were all assembled, we set off back through the Plaza Mayor and off towards the Puerta del Sol, where we were scheduled to eat dinner at 8pm.  This walk, while scenic sure enough, was a bit of a pain in the ass.  There were huge masses of crowds cramming the streets, so that passing cars had to nearly plow their way through in order to get people to move out of the way.

Walking towards the Puerta del Sol.

It's against the law to photograph police officers or vehicles in Spain.    Noted.

Evidently some important building.  The name's on it, but I don't speak Spanish.

A huge, metal X-Mas tree.

There were lots of Christmas lights and decorations still up, seeing how Christmas had only been a couple days earlier and everyone was seemingly still in Holiday mode.  In addition, New Years Eve was coming up, and Fran told us that the area we were walking through would be where 'the Ball' would drop for New Year's.

A random Spaniard and his pet pig.  Seriously.

Essentially, Spain's Time Square.

Cowabunga.

Crowds and chaos aside, I was absolutely miserable.  I've been suffering from a pretty bad sinus infection/ head cold for the last week.  It was really bad at the beginning of Christmas Vacation, had gotten better by the time Christmas Eve rolled around, and then rolled back around with a vengeance in the days leading up to my departure for Spain.

El Comunidad de Madrid, in Puerta del Sol

May this shitty Donald Duck forever haunt your dreams.

Now that I was walking through the biting cold streets of Madrid, my cough came out in full force.  I had been chowing down on cough drops like the shit was candy, but it hadn't done much good.  Now whenever I coughed, pain exploded throughout my lower back. . . I can only assume this was the aftermath of my shitty plane-sleep positions the night before. 

Stupid planes.

Creepy. As. Shit.

I hacked and wheezed my way along with my group, snapping way too many pictures and overall feel like a jolly ol' sack of buttholes.  We finally reached the restaurant and sat down to a meal that consisted of some sort of soup (the warmth was well-needed), paella (yellow, oily rice mixed with vegetables and meat - a Valencian dish that's super popular throughout Spain), a brownie, and a glass of Sangria (I'm yet to be convinced there was booze in it - I'll stick with whiskey, thanks.)

I'm okay with Europe's stereotype for American culture.

Throughout the meal, my health steadily deteriorated further.  My head began pounding.  I felt feverish, and my body was in full-on shutdown mode.  I sat there, miserable, probably for an hour, never moreso loathing the European custom of stretching a meal out over a ridiculously long period of time.

When that hell finally ended, I was in for one far worse.  The walk back to our Metro station was little more than a forced march.  To make matters even worse, I had to piss extremely bad - worse than I've had to in years.  I was in complete and utter agony, until we finally trudged up our hotel's steps, where I promptly ran downstairs to use los servicios in the lobby basement (my roommate had, in a similar situation, made a mad dash upstairs to our room.)

Arriving at the restaurant - after this, I didn't really feel like taking any more pictures. . .

Bladder drained, I walked up the six flights of stairs, talking to Kris and the girls via Wi-Fi Calling as I made my way up.  When I reached the sixth floor, I said my farewells to the Fam, got into my room, took some meds, and passed out.

Fully dressed with my shoes still on.

- Brian