I sensed it was time to leave Barcelona. I was restlessness and the gravity of other countries pulled me away from a town that I can now call familiar. Rome was next on my list of places to visit.
When looking at my travel options, I was surprised to learn that Thai Airways (...yes, Thai Airways) flies to Rome from Madrid. That sounded interesting so I decided to take the night bus to Madrid. I would only have to wait a few hours in the airport and then I would be off to Rome - or so I thought.
There is absolutely no way to sleep soundly on a night bus and there are a only a limited number of positions one can take while sitting in a bus. Let's review them:
- First, propping the day pack against the window which allows for a slightly comfortable 15% angle of the head. The problem with this position is not so much the risk that the entire position can collapse with the slightest movement, but rather the "hip-numbness" that results from forcing all my weight to lean against one hip.
- Second, turning perpendicular to the seat and curling one’s legs in a ball. The problem with this position is that it can only be used by short or very stubby legged people.
- Third, balancing my head directly up and down while sitting as straight as possible. This lasts only until the bus makes a turn or my mouth drops open and I am awakened by my body's natural "avoid slobbering in public" instinct.
- Lastly, you can always try leaning against the stranger seated next to you. Unfortunately, on a midnight bus ride, this approach is completely inappropriate in the cultures of at least thirty-eight countries.
Eye pain is an unexpected consequence of a sleepless bus ride. I expected the back pain, neck pain, impatience, and even the fuzzy teeth - but not the eye pain. Arriving at the airport at 7:30 AM I had only two and half hours until the Thai Airways counter opens. After the bus ride, sleeping on the hard marble floor in front of the Thai Airways window, actually seemed attractive to my heavy eyes. Unfortunately, Spanish people, and maybe all smokers for that matter, like to discard their smoldering cigarettes underneath vending machines. My head lay next to the vending machine.
Lately I am beginning to question how I ask questions. I think I ask fairly direct questions in simple language. At 8:30 AM I asked the information desk when the Thai Airways desk would open and they replied 10:00 AM. At 9:30 AM I asked when the Thai Airways desk would open and they said two hours before the flight time and they should be there shortly. At 10:00 AM I asked when the desk would open and they said it is a Spanish holiday and they might not come in today. At 10:30 AM I asked and they said there are no flights scheduled today and you should come back tomorrow or call Thai Airways in Madrid, which I can't do because it is a holiday and they, as well as my sanity, have packed up and moved on.
In my fatigue, I start noticing the some of the things around me are a bit strange. For example, the Madrid airport has a plastic wrap machine that wraps your luggage with a protective coat of fibrous plastic. All the Spanish travelers seem to fall for the airport's equivalent of undercoating. To me the airport is saying, "Welcome to our state of the art airport where we don't trust ourselves with your bags. We'll charge you a few extra Euros to protect you from us."
I would like to introduce you to the Yogi Berra rule of travel, "You shouldn't say shouldn't unless you really should." As I ride the metro to Madrid it occurs to me that maybe I shouldn't have left Barcelona.
In an ideal world riding the night bus is a great way to save money on a night's accommodations. When you arrive in the morning you can always get a shower and some people, with super human abilities, might actually be able to rest during the night ride. However, when I am wandering around hot Madrid, with a backpack that seems to only hold dead weight and heat, and being told "no accommodations available" for the third time, I can no longer think of anything positive about the night bus and I begin to blame it for all of my problems.
Sleep deprivation is a good excuse for failed attempts at figuring out the map as I get lost reading it upside down, sideways, and across tears. Los Amigos, a friendly backpacker's hostel, gave me my best option for accommodations. This consisted of a pullout bed, in a common room with four other "common room" delegated serfs, that you can't get to until twelve midnight, and that you have to vacate at 8:00 AM because the breakfast is served in an adjacent room. But, at least I have a place to stay and I can unpack and change my smelly clothes into less smelly clothes.
One of the things I have learned on this trip is that good sunglasses are worth every cent you spend on them - until you step on them while unpacking. At this point though, the cheap sunglasses, I subsequently bought from a street vender would have served as adequate replacements except for the annoying feature that makes me think that I can reach out and grab the hazy smoke-filled aberrations that seem to magically hover in front of me. After unpacking I walk out into the streets to forget my slightly tiring travels. Hopefully, Madrid's legendary liveliness will help me forget what has transpired so far, I think. Instead the city seems dead to me.
Everywhere I look I see the spray-painted shutters of closed stores. Oh, its a holiday I remember. In the rising heat, the afternoon air becomes positively "hair dryer-like". People seem to stroll through the wide avenues and narrowing streets without purpose. When the wind comes from behind they appear like ghost walking without the sound of steps or conversation. To find life I take turns down side streets and every turn seems to steer me down a street with more hookers, and strange men who lean against the storefronts with such purpose that I begin to wonder whether the buildings might collapse if they were to leave their position. There are also gambling joints where the hunched over posture of the patrons seems to suggest they have spent a significant portion of their lives planted in front of a slot machine.
Walking around Madrid I can't help but think "I'm sorry, Madrid". I'm sorry I am not impressed with your grand squares, magnificent palaces, landscaped parks, and your hold on Spain. I'm sorry that I don't find the slightly different fashion from Barcelona on the group of women that walk by in highly coordinated outfits of matching pants and tops interesting. I'm sorry Picasso, Goya, and the accessible art, or the millions of people living long days and longer nights roaming around labyrinthine neighborhoods do not inspire me.
Just than I realize that it's not Madrid, it is me. I have committed a traveler's faux pau. I have allowed my emotions to color my perception. My tiredness and longing for the familiarity of Barcelona has cast an unfair hue on Madrid.
It's time for me to adjust my attitude. Luckily I've brought my guitar with me. It's a bit of pain lugging around a computer, vials of antimaleria medicine, a huge bag, and a guitar. But it provides me solace and constancy among the unfamiliar. I head off to a beautiful garden adjacent to a stately palace.
There, I begin to enjoy the dry air as it cools with the setting of the sun behind the narrow pine trees. Parks in Europe are sanctuaries from the noise and frenetic activity of the city. Lovers, finally free from their parent's gaze at home, embrace for hours in unfiltered public displays of attraction. Madrilenos take slow paseos through the ornately landscaped greenery.
They are no longer people without purpose, they are relaxed. Their measured pace is calming and I begin to match their cadence with my music. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a dignified lady and her husband pass by only to return a moment later and pause for a listen. Standing only a few feet away her silent stare becomes piercing. Uncomfortable with the attention I end my song and look up with hesitation at the lady. She smiles and begins talking to me in excited, very fast Spanish that sounds to me like the Speedy Gonzalez cartoon character saying, "Arriba, arriba, undalay, undalay."
I try to explain to her that I don't speak Spanish and she continues to say, "Arriba, arriba, undalay, undalay." "How does the tongue move that fast?" I think.
After five minutes of "talking" with her, which is probably the equivalent of a good half-hour of English talking, I begin to realize she wants to play my guitar. This dignified looking woman taking a slow paseo in her conservatively dressed outfit and shawl wants to play my guitar? I hand her the guitar and she starts singing a song gradually building the intensity as she settles into a rhythm.
In three minutes of singing she becomes a different person from the conservative middle aged woman she appears to be. Her second song is so intense that I almost fall off the back of the bench as I leaned back in...well...fear.
After she played she asked me to play. After I played she apparently found it so beautiful that she hugged me, kissed me on both cheeks, and gave me a seashell while saying, "Bonita, bonita, bonita!" Marisol, her husband, and myself talked for forty-five minutes non-stop without understanding but a few words of each other's language. The excitement and caring she showed me transformed my Madrid experience. Through this simple interaction in the park Madrid had became vibrant to me - it grew a soul.
My eyes had been opened on multiple levels, and my walk back from the park revealed beauty everywhere I looked. When I returned to the hostel, a party had started in the common room of the hostel (my bedroom for the night). For the next two days, my new friends from the hostel and I hang out in Madrid and enjoy each other's company like old friends.
Contact Ben
