My roommate and I were awoken at 6:30am by the shrill, warbly shriek of a European telephone. It sounded like R2-D2 was being sodomized by the bad guy from Terminator 2, but I guess it beats having a frantic pounding on the door like we had gotten the night before.
Patrick's a bag fan of sleeping in, so once again I got to hop in the shower right away and rush down to breakfast. The same spread from the day before was there again, and so I once more took full advantage of this. The clock was ticking, though - I had just sat down with my plate o' calories, tar/coffee/espresso, and a stack of Spanish newspapers (which I ended up keeping - I always look out for foriegn newspapers in every country I travel to, they're great souvenirs) when Fran waltzed into the hotel's 'restaurante' (whatever that room in a hotel is called) and informed us that our seminar would be starting in a couple minutes.
I quickly chugged two cups of black espresso (about 8 shots worth - I don't recommend it) and ran downstairs to the conference room. Once again, I opted to sit in the far back so that I could play on my new phone without being noticed. After all, this meeting was scheduled from 8am to noon-thirty. . . and I knew damn well it'd be covering a bunch of crap I already knew (as I was one of 3 teachers who had already taken kids overseas with EF - it was all old news to me, frankly.)
The time passed pretty fast, though (thank God) - the presenters (our trainers) were knowledgable, and between texting back and forth with the wife and indulging in more of the Simpsons Tapped Out, I didn't feel like my time was being wasted too bad. When they finally dismissed us for lunch, I opted to skip out of the free meal (I was still full from my mega-breakfast) and headed up to my room instead.
Knowing that I'd most likely be out drinking and adventuring until 1 - 2am, and that I'd have to wake up at 5am in order to be down in the lobby in time to catch my bus back to the airport, I decided to take some time in order to repack my bags and get my things in order for my flight.
While I repacked, I was able to Skype with Kris and the girls for a bit, too (being New Years Eve and everything, I realized I probablyl wouldn't have a lot of opportunity to do so later.)
Fran, our plucky tour director, offered to take a group of teachers into the heart of Madrid - the Puerto del Sol - at 1:45pm, and I wanted to accompany them. Surprisingly enough, only about 1/3 of our group took him up on this - the rest opted to rest up in the hotel and prepare for the late evening. I, personally, was on quest:
. . .to track down and purchase a genuine Spanish sword from Toledo.
I figured a few hours in Madrid's historic district was my last great shot at this.
We met in the lobby at 1:45pm and walked the familiar block-long stretch to the San Bernardo Metro Station. Once again, Fran bought our passes for us (booya) and after three stops on down the ol' Red Line, we were back in the Puerto del Sol.
Fran told our group that we had some free time to kill in Sol. It was now 2:30pm, and we were to meet back in front of the centrally-located Hotel Montalvo at 5:45m. Most of us headed towards the old city square - the Plaza de Mayor (main square, for you gringos.) Here, hundreds of years ago, thousands of guilty (and innocent) men, women and children from all walks of life (peasant to royal) were executed for various crimes against the Spanish crown.
Pretty macabre stuff.
Today, as it were, there were no hanging or public beheadings to be had. Instead, the Plaza de Mayor - like the Puerta del Sol we had just came from - was packed with locals and tourists, all revved up and dressed out for the upcoming New Years' Even celebrations (That, coincidentally, were taking lace in the same area we'd be spending our evening in - Sol.)
Lining the square on all sides of the Plaza Mayor were souvenir shops and restaurants, with nine, tall stone arches leading to winding alleyways and sidestreets, all equally lined with shops and cafes. Our group of teachers disbanded and we all agreed to meet outside one of the corner shops in an hour and a half.
I started off going counter-clockwise along the inside of the square, ducking into one shop after the other. I was gunning for that elusive espada, which, up until now, had escaped me. I'd come across occasional swords and knives in stores, but they were what I like to call "mall swords" - shiny swords made from 440 stainless steel and the like. Cheaply made in Chinese, Pakistani or Indian factories and suitable for letter-opening at best.
They're sword-shaped, not swords.
Pseudo-swords aside, most of the souvenir shops carried all the same crap. A lot of soccer memorabilia (the local team, Real Madrid, is a pretty big deal, so I'm told), a lot of bullfighting stuff, and various Don Quixote knick-knacks. Each shop wall was plastered with various 'fridge magnets, their shelves stocked with shot glasses, t-shirts, knick-knacks, and figurines, and their floor space choked with spinning towers of postcards.
All in all, carbon copies of every other store in Madrid. . . and eventually they all started to bleed together so that it became hard to differentiate between them.
I had circumnavigated my way around the perimeter of the Plaza, staying clear of the side alleys and streets for the time being. In one of the last crappy souvenir shops I ducked into I purchased a 10" resin Don Quixote statue, a "Spain" shot class, and a fridge magnet. . . all for thirteen euros (about $17 - the guy gave me a discount, as he seemed really, really bored.) I then picked up some 'Madrid' post cards from another shop before meeting back up with some of the other teachers at our designated rendezvous point.
Oddly enough, nearly all of them wanted to return to the hotel and rest before the big New Years Eve festivities kicked off. I wasn't down with this - God knows when I was going to be in Madrid again, I could hangout in a hotel room anytime. Fran was pretty disgusted with our group for wanting to return to the hotel (who can blame him), but was genuinely pleased with myself and two of the other guys who were willing to hangout in the chilly, packed streets of Madrid.
The three of them were headed off to grab a coffee at some joint Fran swore served the best coffee in all of the city. They invited me along, but I was forced to politely decline: I still needed a sword and there was only two hours remaining before we were to meet up with all of our group in front of the Hotel Montalvo.
I back-pedaled my way back through the winding, drunk-infested alleyways towards the heart of the city, the Puerta del Sol. Along the way, I continued ducking into one store after another, to no avail. Again, some shops would tease you by having a few knives or swords in their front display window, but then once you walked in you'd realize that those items were the only ones for sale in the entire store, or else all they had was the usual 'Made in China,' stainless steel bullshit. Or both.
Again, nothing says "Spanish Sword" like a 440 stainless steel Japanese katana stamped "Made in China."
I had practically hit every shop within a three-block radius of the Puerta del Sol with no luck, and had just about given up hope, when I trudged into a shop bordering the square. How I had missed it before, I have no idea. But there tucked in the back of the store, was a full rack of authentic, Toledo swords.
Hallelujah.
I was limited by the size of my checked suitcase, and therefore was forced to select a dagger or short sword under thirty inches in length. I found an exquisite court sword (or 'dress sword,' if you will) called 'El Gran Capitan' (the Grand Captain) for thirty-five euros ($50 - a great price, considering it was genuine.)
All of you non-sword nerds out there probably can't tell or appreciate the difference between a 'mall sword' and a real sword, but the different feel in the hand is profound.
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It was a huge weight off my shoulders.
Using my terrible Gringo Spanish, I asked one of the young women in the shop to wrap the piece in bubble wrap - I wasn't about to waltz around Madrid with a bare blade. They also placed a plastic tip over the blade point, which was cool.
I also picked up a Don Quixote rapier letter opener for eight euros ($12) which was also Toledo-made, and walked back towards the Puerta del Sol with no small bounce in my step.
As I was walking towards the plaza, I bumped into another teacher from my group - three sheets to the wind. He had been getting drunk with a bunch of Spaniards who attended college at Valencia, and soon we found ourselves back at the bar he had just left.
The Spaniards were drunker than he was - a rowdy, boisterous group of college kids that wouldn't have been out of place at an American bar back home. They were excited to have a second American to drink with, but were confused that one of us spoke Spanish and the other butchered it (the other teacher taught high school Spanish, which was definitely convenient.)
The college kids were also a little weirded out by the bubble-wrapped sword blade sticking out of the top my backpack, and I'm pretty sure they routinely made jokes about this as we shared a few rounds beers, but I didn't mind. I would've too, had the situation been reversed.
Tourists.
Before we knew it, it was 5:40pm. We had to quickly say our farewells to our Spanish drinking companions and high-tail it back through the alleyways until we once again hit Sol. There, in front of a random Burger King next to the Hotel Montalvo, was the EF Yellow Group, huddled together - many of them wearing brightly-colored wigs (which were quite popular with the Spanish New Years revelers.)
The sun had all but set by this point in time, and after doing another one of his now-famous head counts, Fran led us down another side-street towards our next event: Flamenco dancing.
We passed through the old square of the Plaza Mayor, now lit up with festive Christmas lights and packed with brightly-colored patrons preparing for New Years Eve. A definite far-cry from the Plaza's bloodied past, an irony not lost on Yours Truly.
When we reached the place where the 'Flamenco Evening' was to be held, me and a few of the other guys nabbed some of the best seats in the house, closest to the stage. I was familiar with Flamenco-styled guitar, sure enough - all that picking intricate melodies with every finger on the strumming hand, etc. - but i didn't know much about the dancing part of it.
As the lights dimmed, a waitress (not sure what the hell you call them in Spain) came around and offered us a choice between Sangria and red wine. I wasn't about to waste my time with glorified fruit punch again, so I stuck with red wine (which was pretty good.)
There were three female dancers and one male counterpart, accompanied by a very talented guitarist (that kinda looked like 1971 Pete Townsend) and a burly vocalist/percussionist. Every one of the dancers was extremely skilled, and put on a great, hour-long performance. Flamenco seems to be a very high-tempo, dramatic dance - tons of fast footwork, very Spanish-y (which I suppose only makes sense, seeing how we're in Spain and everything.)
I can't explain it all that well, so check out this video I was supposed to take:
Once the show was over, Fran - now inexplicably wearing a bright, pink pig-tailed wig - rallied us outside and informed us that we had an hour and a half of free 'drinking time' before we were to head to our designated restaurant for dinner.
Welcome news, indeed.
I joined up with the usual group of guys, and some of the trainers, and headed through a historic district - under the old city walls - to a crowded bar full of Spanish drunks. Here, we elbowed our way to a long table and ordered several buckets of hobbit-sized beer bottles. There were no chairs to speak of.
What there was an abundance of was drunken Spaniards, notably a group of five or six high school-aged boys three sheets to the proverbial wind. Drinking at the table next to ours, dressed up in cheap fedoras and clubbing outfits - it was a lot of fun making fun of them in English.
After an hour and twenty minutes, we realized in was about time to set out for Fran's rendezvous point. I had drank more than my fair share, but had somehow managed to do so without dropping a cent. . . which, again, was totally cool with me. We quickly backtracked our way along the old wall until we met up with the rest of our group.
Everyone, by the looks of things, had been spending their 90 minutes of free time in a similar fashion.
With Fran at the helm of our motley ensemble, we stumbled through the streets until we reached a large restaurant. EF had seemingly booked the entire joint - along with our Yellow Group of 51 or 52 teachers, a similarly-sized EF group (the Greens) were also in attendance.
I sat myself at the head of one of the long tables as servers came around with bottles of red wine and hot soup of some kind (which was much-needed, as it had gotten quite cold outside.) Following the soup came a chicken dish with ribs and pasta, which was quite filling. I would've been cool with just this, but then the servers came around a third time with - wait for it - lobster.
Seriously.
As we ate heartily, joking and sharing tales of travel and home and downing bottle after bottle or red wine, the EF trainers began a slideshow presentation. I'm assuming it was more of background thing, for a lot of people weren't really giving it much attention.
There was a lot of drunken trash-talking between our yellow group and the other one, and myself and a few of the other guys routinely hopped next door to order more beers at the adjoining bar. I'm used to drinking beer quite regularly at home, so despite keeping pace with the other teachers in my group, considering the evening's cold air, foriegn location, and hectic pace, I was faring far better than my compatriots. Once again, I didn't have to buy a single drink.
Drunks seem to be pretty forthcoming with their euros, so I've found. Not that I'm complaining.
This went on for a couple hours, as we awaited the stroke of midnight. The restaurant was conveniently located about a block and a half away from the epicenter of the city's New Year's Eve celebration in the Puerta del Sol. As we got closer to 11:45pm, Fran passed out small bags of twelve white grapes to everyone in our group. I guess this is a famous Spanish custom: during the final countdown, you're supposed to eat one grape per second, signifying good fortune (or something) for each of the upcoming twelve months.
As people started trickling out to Sol, Fran told us that we should take our belongings with us. Odds were our backpacks, purses, what-have-you would be fine left behind n the restaurant, but he couldn't guarantee it. Many people opted to risk it, as the Puerta del Sol was going to be packed and likely teeming with pickpockets.
I was hesitant to do so, though. The sword I had recently bought, though bubble-wrapped and swaddled in my scarf, was sticking out about a foot from the top of my backpack. Considering all the trouble I had gone through in acquiring this souvenir, I wasn't about to see it stolen. Fran was adamant about leaving it behind, though - in order to get back to Sol, we'd have to pass through a police barrier, and if they saw a sword wrapped up and protruding from my backpack, they'd arrest me.
Definitely a quandary, but I had a plan.
Even if it was a bad one.
I removed the sword and used my backpack's extra straps and ties to secure the pack and render it thief-proof, not that there was much inside anyway (I had kept it as close to empty as possible in order to accommodate additional souvenirs and the like.) The sword went hilt-first into my front jeans pocket, with the blade running up my torso underneath my jacket. It stuck about an inch above my shoulder, but with the backpack on, my scarf and SLR around my neck (I wasn't about to leave the camera in the bag where I couldn't see it), you really couldn't tell.
Well, Fran said he could, but I was willing to risk it anyway.
Me and a couple of the guys stowed away a few beers (oddly enough in can-form. . . not sure where those came from) in our coat pockets along with baggies containing the traditional grapes, and set off down the road. Up ahead, six machine-gun-wielding police officers guarded a barricade that spanned the entire length of the street as well as the sidewalks running along either side. A torrent of drunken, ridiculously-dressed revelers tricked through. We fell into line and, after a terrifying few moments passing where the cops looked us over a few times, we were allowed through.
In your face, Fran.
Bodies were packed pretty tight in the streets leading into the Puerta del Sol, and in the surging crowd I managed to lose the rest of the guys I was with. Eventually, as I worked my way forward through the masses, I came across our EF trainer, Matt, and - randomly - some chick from Bangkok. By this point in time, we had gotten much closer to the center of the 'ball drop' than I thought I would have, given the high density of people on hand. We were right at the edge of the square:
We stood around waiting for about ten minutes, among drunks and singing party-goers, before the countdown started. I was video-recording with my phone at the time (see below), so it wasn't until partially through the countdown that Matt reminded me of the grapes. I tore into the bag with one hand while still recording with the other, and frantically began shoving grapes into my face.
As 2014 was rung in, I had successfully devoured seven grapes.
So I guess five months next year are going to suck. Awesome.
We drank our beers and began working our way back to the restaurant, following the swarms of bodies through the tightly-packed cobblestone streets. The cops didn't seem to care anymore about drunks and whatever weapons they were or were not carrying on them, so we passed through the barricades a lot faster this time around.
Back at the restaurant, Fran told us a bus would be coming by within twenty minutes to take everyone back to the hotel. I decided to join a few other guys at the adjoining bar for a final beer while we waited. Unfortunately, we had just ordered a second beer when the bus pulled up. Assuming we still had time to finish our beers while people began loading onto the bus, we stayed at the bar. During this time, I got up and went off to use the restroom.
When I came back to the bar, the other teachers - and the bus - were nowhere to be seen. They were gone. They had left for the hotel, leaving myself and one of the EF trainers (the guy in the green wig, whose name escapes me) behind. His phone was dead, so we had no way of contacting Fran and the bus driver.
Just as we were about to set off to the nearest Metro station (something we were not looking forward to, seeing how it was bound to be packed with all of the people leaving the Puerta del Sol), we ran into another EF trainer, Courtney. She had been visiting with a friend of hers in Madrid and had missed the rendezvous with the bus.
Fortunately for us, her EF phone still had a charge on it, and she was able to reach Fran.
The bus was on the road, and couldn't come back for us in the heavy traffic - we'd have to run and try and catch it.
Thank God I'm in such great shape. (pfft.)
We took off down the sidewalk, cutting through side alleys, parks, and parking lots, while Courtney frantically provided Fran with updates on our current location. We had to change directions several times as the bus zoomed past our designated meeting point, one after another. We'd have to time our extraction perfectly in order to get picked up, because it was illegal for the bus to pull over on the side of the road it was on.
Out of breath and physically drained, we ran to the side of a highway and were forced to make a mad dash across it (see below.) Moments later - with perfect timing - the bus rolled by, its doors wide open. I don't even think it came to a full stop, honestly - as it slowed down the three of us leapt aboard and piled up the stairs. As the bus sped back up, we fell into the remaining empty seats and were met with thunderous applause from the rest of our group.
Everyone - well, I assume everyone - fell asleep on the remainder of the bus ride back to the hotel. God knows I did. When we finally got back into San Bernardo, it was nearly 1:30am. Our group stumbled off the bus and back to our rooms, where there was lots of last-minute packing to be done before our early-morning flights.
I had packed most of my stuff earlier in the day (being the smart guy that I am), but was nervous about the sword fitting in my bag. Barely - and I mean just barely - the sword was able to squeeze into my suitcase diagonally (the pommel at the base of one corner and the tip of the blade at the top of the opposite corner.) I don't know what I would've done if it hadn't.
I finished preparing my carry-on and suitcase, and by the time I finally laid down to sleep, it was a little past 2am. My wake-up call was at 4:30am, and I'd have to be one the bus out front by 5am. About two and a half hours of sleep. Didn't seem too awesome to me, but I guess so goes the saying: "an adventure is an inconvenience rightly considered."
Patrick's a bag fan of sleeping in, so once again I got to hop in the shower right away and rush down to breakfast. The same spread from the day before was there again, and so I once more took full advantage of this. The clock was ticking, though - I had just sat down with my plate o' calories, tar/coffee/espresso, and a stack of Spanish newspapers (which I ended up keeping - I always look out for foriegn newspapers in every country I travel to, they're great souvenirs) when Fran waltzed into the hotel's 'restaurante' (whatever that room in a hotel is called) and informed us that our seminar would be starting in a couple minutes.Knowing that I'd most likely be out drinking and adventuring until 1 - 2am, and that I'd have to wake up at 5am in order to be down in the lobby in time to catch my bus back to the airport, I decided to take some time in order to repack my bags and get my things in order for my flight.While I repacked, I was able to Skype with Kris and the girls for a bit, too (being New Years Eve and everything, I realized I probablyl wouldn't have a lot of opportunity to do so later.)
Fran, our plucky tour director, offered to take a group of teachers into the heart of Madrid - the Puerto del Sol - at 1:45pm, and I wanted to accompany them. Surprisingly enough, only about 1/3 of our group took him up on this - the rest opted to rest up in the hotel and prepare for the late evening. I, personally, was on quest:. . .to track down and purchase a genuine Spanish sword from Toledo.
I figured a few hours in Madrid's historic district was my last great shot at this.
We met in the lobby at 1:45pm and walked the familiar block-long stretch to the San Bernardo Metro Station. Once again, Fran bought our passes for us (booya) and after three stops on down the ol' Red Line, we were back in the Puerto del Sol. |
| Arriving in the Puerta del Sol. . . |
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| The famous 'bear jackin' up some tree' statue. I forget its real name, but it's a pretty big deal over here. |
Fran told our group that we had some free time to kill in Sol. It was now 2:30pm, and we were to meet back in front of the centrally-located Hotel Montalvo at 5:45m. Most of us headed towards the old city square - the Plaza de Mayor (main square, for you gringos.) Here, hundreds of years ago, thousands of guilty (and innocent) men, women and children from all walks of life (peasant to royal) were executed for various crimes against the Spanish crown.
Today, as it were, there were no hanging or public beheadings to be had. Instead, the Plaza de Mayor - like the Puerta del Sol we had just came from - was packed with locals and tourists, all revved up and dressed out for the upcoming New Years' Even celebrations (That, coincidentally, were taking lace in the same area we'd be spending our evening in - Sol.)
I started off going counter-clockwise along the inside of the square, ducking into one shop after the other. I was gunning for that elusive espada, which, up until now, had escaped me. I'd come across occasional swords and knives in stores, but they were what I like to call "mall swords" - shiny swords made from 440 stainless steel and the like. Cheaply made in Chinese, Pakistani or Indian factories and suitable for letter-opening at best.They're sword-shaped, not swords.
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| These things are creepy as hell. |
Pseudo-swords aside, most of the souvenir shops carried all the same crap. A lot of soccer memorabilia (the local team, Real Madrid, is a pretty big deal, so I'm told), a lot of bullfighting stuff, and various Don Quixote knick-knacks. Each shop wall was plastered with various 'fridge magnets, their shelves stocked with shot glasses, t-shirts, knick-knacks, and figurines, and their floor space choked with spinning towers of postcards. All in all, carbon copies of every other store in Madrid. . . and eventually they all started to bleed together so that it became hard to differentiate between them.
I had circumnavigated my way around the perimeter of the Plaza, staying clear of the side alleys and streets for the time being. In one of the last crappy souvenir shops I ducked into I purchased a 10" resin Don Quixote statue, a "Spain" shot class, and a fridge magnet. . . all for thirteen euros (about $17 - the guy gave me a discount, as he seemed really, really bored.) I then picked up some 'Madrid' post cards from another shop before meeting back up with some of the other teachers at our designated rendezvous point. |
| Questing for coffee |
The three of them were headed off to grab a coffee at some joint Fran swore served the best coffee in all of the city. They invited me along, but I was forced to politely decline: I still needed a sword and there was only two hours remaining before we were to meet up with all of our group in front of the Hotel Montalvo.
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| Back in the Puerta del Sol |
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| Something tells me Walt Disney World wouldn't allow this kinda shit at their parks. . . |
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| I guess Spaniards don't get down with donuts. . . |
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| There's a lot of weird shit going on in this picture. |
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| Who knows what the hell this is. . . |
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| Some Spanish guy, not quite feeling his Alien costume. |
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| The Ham Museum. Seriously. |
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| The creepiest Papa Smurf you will ever see. . . |
Again, nothing says "Spanish Sword" like a 440 stainless steel Japanese katana stamped "Made in China."I had practically hit every shop within a three-block radius of the Puerta del Sol with no luck, and had just about given up hope, when I trudged into a shop bordering the square. How I had missed it before, I have no idea. But there tucked in the back of the store, was a full rack of authentic, Toledo swords.
Hallelujah.
I was limited by the size of my checked suitcase, and therefore was forced to select a dagger or short sword under thirty inches in length. I found an exquisite court sword (or 'dress sword,' if you will) called 'El Gran Capitan' (the Grand Captain) for thirty-five euros ($50 - a great price, considering it was genuine.) All of you non-sword nerds out there probably can't tell or appreciate the difference between a 'mall sword' and a real sword, but the different feel in the hand is profound.
It was a huge weight off my shoulders.Using my terrible Gringo Spanish, I asked one of the young women in the shop to wrap the piece in bubble wrap - I wasn't about to waltz around Madrid with a bare blade. They also placed a plastic tip over the blade point, which was cool.
I also picked up a Don Quixote rapier letter opener for eight euros ($12) which was also Toledo-made, and walked back towards the Puerta del Sol with no small bounce in my step.
As I was walking towards the plaza, I bumped into another teacher from my group - three sheets to the wind. He had been getting drunk with a bunch of Spaniards who attended college at Valencia, and soon we found ourselves back at the bar he had just left.
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| (The elderly fellow is American) |
The college kids were also a little weirded out by the bubble-wrapped sword blade sticking out of the top my backpack, and I'm pretty sure they routinely made jokes about this as we shared a few rounds beers, but I didn't mind. I would've too, had the situation been reversed.Tourists.
Before we knew it, it was 5:40pm. We had to quickly say our farewells to our Spanish drinking companions and high-tail it back through the alleyways until we once again hit Sol. There, in front of a random Burger King next to the Hotel Montalvo, was the EF Yellow Group, huddled together - many of them wearing brightly-colored wigs (which were quite popular with the Spanish New Years revelers.)
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| Spanish Mounties. |
We passed through the old square of the Plaza Mayor, now lit up with festive Christmas lights and packed with brightly-colored patrons preparing for New Years Eve. A definite far-cry from the Plaza's bloodied past, an irony not lost on Yours Truly. |
| In the Plaza Mayor. . . |
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| In Madrid, I guess the stupider your hat looks the 'cooler' you must be. |
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| This market's famous. We didn't stop in, so I don't know anything about it. |
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| This guy exiting the Flamenco place looks sinister. . . |
As the lights dimmed, a waitress (not sure what the hell you call them in Spain) came around and offered us a choice between Sangria and red wine. I wasn't about to waste my time with glorified fruit punch again, so I stuck with red wine (which was pretty good.)There were three female dancers and one male counterpart, accompanied by a very talented guitarist (that kinda looked like 1971 Pete Townsend) and a burly vocalist/percussionist. Every one of the dancers was extremely skilled, and put on a great, hour-long performance. Flamenco seems to be a very high-tempo, dramatic dance - tons of fast footwork, very Spanish-y (which I suppose only makes sense, seeing how we're in Spain and everything.)I can't explain it all that well, so check out this video I was supposed to take:
(I apologize in advance - my new phone takes awesome HD video, but the compression used to upload it to this stupid blog site makes it turn out less-than-desired.)
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| Fran rallies the troops. |
Welcome news, indeed.
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| EF Yellow Group soldiers forth. |
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| In search of a decent watering hole. . . |
I joined up with the usual group of guys, and some of the trainers, and headed through a historic district - under the old city walls - to a crowded bar full of Spanish drunks. Here, we elbowed our way to a long table and ordered several buckets of hobbit-sized beer bottles. There were no chairs to speak of.
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| Fran addresses the troops |
Everyone, by the looks of things, had been spending their 90 minutes of free time in a similar fashion.
With Fran at the helm of our motley ensemble, we stumbled through the streets until we reached a large restaurant. EF had seemingly booked the entire joint - along with our Yellow Group of 51 or 52 teachers, a similarly-sized EF group (the Greens) were also in attendance.
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| This was awesome. |
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| This was really awesome. |
Seriously.
As we ate heartily, joking and sharing tales of travel and home and downing bottle after bottle or red wine, the EF trainers began a slideshow presentation. I'm assuming it was more of background thing, for a lot of people weren't really giving it much attention.
There was a lot of drunken trash-talking between our yellow group and the other one, and myself and a few of the other guys routinely hopped next door to order more beers at the adjoining bar. I'm used to drinking beer quite regularly at home, so despite keeping pace with the other teachers in my group, considering the evening's cold air, foriegn location, and hectic pace, I was faring far better than my compatriots. Once again, I didn't have to buy a single drink.
Drunks seem to be pretty forthcoming with their euros, so I've found. Not that I'm complaining.
As people started trickling out to Sol, Fran told us that we should take our belongings with us. Odds were our backpacks, purses, what-have-you would be fine left behind n the restaurant, but he couldn't guarantee it. Many people opted to risk it, as the Puerta del Sol was going to be packed and likely teeming with pickpockets.
I was hesitant to do so, though. The sword I had recently bought, though bubble-wrapped and swaddled in my scarf, was sticking out about a foot from the top of my backpack. Considering all the trouble I had gone through in acquiring this souvenir, I wasn't about to see it stolen. Fran was adamant about leaving it behind, though - in order to get back to Sol, we'd have to pass through a police barrier, and if they saw a sword wrapped up and protruding from my backpack, they'd arrest me.
Definitely a quandary, but I had a plan.
Even if it was a bad one.
I removed the sword and used my backpack's extra straps and ties to secure the pack and render it thief-proof, not that there was much inside anyway (I had kept it as close to empty as possible in order to accommodate additional souvenirs and the like.) The sword went hilt-first into my front jeans pocket, with the blade running up my torso underneath my jacket. It stuck about an inch above my shoulder, but with the backpack on, my scarf and SLR around my neck (I wasn't about to leave the camera in the bag where I couldn't see it), you really couldn't tell.
Well, Fran said he could, but I was willing to risk it anyway.
Me and a couple of the guys stowed away a few beers (oddly enough in can-form. . . not sure where those came from) in our coat pockets along with baggies containing the traditional grapes, and set off down the road. Up ahead, six machine-gun-wielding police officers guarded a barricade that spanned the entire length of the street as well as the sidewalks running along either side. A torrent of drunken, ridiculously-dressed revelers tricked through. We fell into line and, after a terrifying few moments passing where the cops looked us over a few times, we were allowed through.
In your face, Fran.
Bodies were packed pretty tight in the streets leading into the Puerta del Sol, and in the surging crowd I managed to lose the rest of the guys I was with. Eventually, as I worked my way forward through the masses, I came across our EF trainer, Matt, and - randomly - some chick from Bangkok. By this point in time, we had gotten much closer to the center of the 'ball drop' than I thought I would have, given the high density of people on hand. We were right at the edge of the square:
We stood around waiting for about ten minutes, among drunks and singing party-goers, before the countdown started. I was video-recording with my phone at the time (see below), so it wasn't until partially through the countdown that Matt reminded me of the grapes. I tore into the bag with one hand while still recording with the other, and frantically began shoving grapes into my face.
Packed shoulder-to-shoulder alongside a bunch of shivering Spaniards.
Footage isn't the best, but gets better after the first 30 seconds or so.
As 2014 was rung in, I had successfully devoured seven grapes.
So I guess five months next year are going to suck. Awesome.
We drank our beers and began working our way back to the restaurant, following the swarms of bodies through the tightly-packed cobblestone streets. The cops didn't seem to care anymore about drunks and whatever weapons they were or were not carrying on them, so we passed through the barricades a lot faster this time around.
 |
| Last call |
When I came back to the bar, the other teachers - and the bus - were nowhere to be seen. They were gone. They had left for the hotel, leaving myself and one of the EF trainers (the guy in the green wig, whose name escapes me) behind. His phone was dead, so we had no way of contacting Fran and the bus driver.Just as we were about to set off to the nearest Metro station (something we were not looking forward to, seeing how it was bound to be packed with all of the people leaving the Puerta del Sol), we ran into another EF trainer, Courtney. She had been visiting with a friend of hers in Madrid and had missed the rendezvous with the bus.
Fortunately for us, her EF phone still had a charge on it, and she was able to reach Fran.
The bus was on the road, and couldn't come back for us in the heavy traffic - we'd have to run and try and catch it.
Thank God I'm in such great shape. (pfft.)
 |
| Snapped these while running full-tilt past them. . . |
Out of breath and physically drained, we ran to the side of a highway and were forced to make a mad dash across it (see below.) Moments later - with perfect timing - the bus rolled by, its doors wide open. I don't even think it came to a full stop, honestly - as it slowed down the three of us leapt aboard and piled up the stairs. As the bus sped back up, we fell into the remaining empty seats and were met with thunderous applause from the rest of our group.
Everyone - well, I assume everyone - fell asleep on the remainder of the bus ride back to the hotel. God knows I did. When we finally got back into San Bernardo, it was nearly 1:30am. Our group stumbled off the bus and back to our rooms, where there was lots of last-minute packing to be done before our early-morning flights.
I had packed most of my stuff earlier in the day (being the smart guy that I am), but was nervous about the sword fitting in my bag. Barely - and I mean just barely - the sword was able to squeeze into my suitcase diagonally (the pommel at the base of one corner and the tip of the blade at the top of the opposite corner.) I don't know what I would've done if it hadn't.
I finished preparing my carry-on and suitcase, and by the time I finally laid down to sleep, it was a little past 2am. My wake-up call was at 4:30am, and I'd have to be one the bus out front by 5am. About two and a half hours of sleep. Didn't seem too awesome to me, but I guess so goes the saying: "an adventure is an inconvenience rightly considered."
- fin -
- Brian
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