What I'll Never Understand

I’ve been living in Madrid for seven months now, seven whole months. In fact, I haven’t left the city much; my attitude towards weekend excursions has been that of a recalcitrant resident rather than that of an excited American abroad. With my very presence I’ve tried to really live in Madrid, to make this city my home. It is an unusual approach to a year abroad, this one I’ve taken, and I won’t try to argue that it’s any better or worse than the plan you might have for your European tenure. I’ll only say that for me it has worked. Still, despite all my time in Madrid spent watching and listening, discussing and asking, touching and tasting, there are a few things that I still don’t understand.

 1. Why churros seem like a remotely good idea for a breakfast food. Personally, if I’m going to take a giant leap in the direction of clogging my arteries, I like to do so once I’ve already lived through the day. What happened to “the most important meal of the day”?

 2. The rollerblading phenomena. What is this, the 90’s?

 3. People who will wait in line just so they can stand on the escalator. It’s not that hard to walk up a moving staircase… in fact, half of the work is done for you!

 4. The canned tuna obsession. The other day I was presented with a slice of pizza that had canned tuna on it. I’m all for the tuna salads… put pizza is pushing it.

 There are any number of other critiques that I have for Madrid, Spain, the Spanish, but at the moment I am feeling humbled by the reality of my impending departure, so we’ll leave it at that. The top four things I just don’t understand about Spain. Surely you’ll find your own.

Dar un paseo

The Spanish have a cultural tradition, not quite understood in the States because we tend to drive and not quite understood in other major European cities because they’re always in too much of a rush, of going for a walk, simply for the walk itself. This Sunday pastime always struck me as amusing in Salamanca, where the city was so small that the old couples would have to spend their time parading down just one or two streets, and then in several slow and deliberate circles around the Plaza Mayor. Those most represented in Madrid are young families, and from this perspective I understand the utility of the event. The kids cannot be kept in the house all day, both for their own health and safety and for that of their parents; the urban California version of this, I seem to recall, was driving around the immediate and surrounding neighborhoods in search of garage sales.

But that slow and easy stroll, that is so very natural to the Spanish, is still so very uncomfortable for me. I admire it as a way to spend relaxed family time, or, if one happens to be alone, thinking time, so I’ve been trying to ease myself into the idea. For most of my tenure in Madrid my personal version has been to get up Sunday morning, make my way to an unknown metro stop, get breakfast, and then try to find my way home. I like this, but I cannot pretend that it is true to the original. In these Sunday adventures I always have a goal… never am I simply walking for the sake of the walk.

So yesterday I decided to try a true paseo. I left my apartment and marched towards the Retiro park, my feet moving faster and faster as my mind moved from thought to thought. By the time I arrived in the park I had worked myself up into a mild state of panic at the thought of all the things that I needed to get done, that I could be doing, but the pacing had also taken the edge off my energy. I took a deep breath, and proceeded into the park. Retiro is amazingly beautiful in the spring… with each and every tree at full leafy capacity… an Eastertime wonderland. And so I strolled, at my best Spanish pace, enjoying the dappled sunlight, the smiling faces, and the fresh air. I circled through the rose garden, around the lake, and then headed home and back to work. It was a little bit uncomfortable, and not that remarkable, but, if only for a moment, I was able to calm my mind. And that, being the holy grail of mental states, was probably worth the effort.

Characters

One of the things I particularly love about living in a big city is all the possible people there are to meet. Life surrounded can be paradoxically lonely some days, but then, all of the sudden, you’ll meet the most interesting person, all because you were sitting, minding your own business, in the right place at the right time (or the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on your point of view really). I, personally, live for such days.

Not long ago I was sitting at my favorite neighborhood café, doing some philosophy reading, when I met a most intriguing character. I like this café so much because there is just one big wooden table, and as everyone sits around it drinking coffee, eating, and chatting it is perfect for eavesdropping, another one of my favorite Spanish pastimes. On that particular evening I noticed that there was a man sitting to my right, though since he was reading as well I didn’t pay so much attention to him. No eavesdropping to be done. After a while he asked me if I had a pencil, and, as I fished one out of my bag, noted that I was “very prepared”. I smiled and tried to explain that I just can’t be sure when the urge to write will come upon me, hence the preparation. I’m not sure what parts of this came across in Spanish, and how. In any case, no further conversation seemed necessary and we each returned to our reading. A bit later, as I finished my chapter, he initiated conversation once again. “How do you like the book?” he asked. And so I started in… I like reading Bertrand Russell, I said, as his sense of humor suits me, but some aspects of philosophy are really challenging for me, and while I do enjoy the mental exercise, I’m not sure I am so masochistic as to like the experience. “Oh I know how it is,” he said as I finished struggling to explain my relationship to the subject, “I studied philosophy too”. I will admit that I was a bit floored, immediately hoping that I hadn’t sounded as ignorant as I heard myself to be, but quickly remembered that that is one of the excitements of starting café conversations… you just never know for sure who you are talking to.

Since then I have met for further conversations with the unexpected philosopher, which, aside from being of infinite value for my Spanish language skills, are also always terribly interesting. And all this over a nonchalant cup of coffee…

HUELGA GENERAL!

My first experience with a European labor strike came when I was about ten. My family had planned a summer trip to England/Ireland to visit my grandmother… and the pilots went on strike. In a journal that I kept at the time I write about it all very matter-of-factly… we ended up canceling the trip.

So on Thursday morning I was excited to wake up and walk through the city and see my first strike first-hand. I decided not to even try the metro, instead taking a 45-minute trek to class. Early in the morning activity was scarce… leaflets coated the ground and stickers the building windows, remnants of the previous nights’ enthusiasm, but actual strikers were hardly seen. So after class I headed downtown—to the “protest route” between Cibeles and Sol, and there I found it. Thousands of people carrying labor union signs, chanting slogans, and blowing whistles; an exciting and claustrophobia inducing mob. I set about my exploration.

I have been to several protests in Spain in the past year or so, and every time there are certain things that stand out to me. Being American, the first is, necessarily, the sheer number of people who turn out. In the States it seems that protesting is really hard. Perhaps the recent Occupy movements have changed this, but in my experience, protest is usually the political means taken by the perhaps too-devoted fringe. If you’re protesting, you’re probably a little bit fanatic. By contrast, in Spain, EVERYONE likes to protest. It’s basically an excuse to get out in the streets, hang out with your friends, chat, have a beer, and perhaps chant some slogans. This ties in closely with the other aspect of Spanish demonstrations that always impresses me—that being the demographics represented. Young and old, the visibly affluent and the visibly poor alike participate. It’s heartening, to me, to see this level of social cohesion. Even if some are only there for the botellón.

Yesterday, just hours after the general strike ended, the conservative government revealed its budget for the coming year. With deep cuts aimed at appeasing the European Union, it is likely that Spain will be the stage for more protests, demonstrations, and strikes in the coming months. So if you’re coming to Spain, I urge you to take this opportunity to immerse yourself in the global zeitgeist. The demonstrations in Madrid have been overwhelmingly peaceful, and you’d be surprised how much you can learn just by taking a walk with your eyes open.

The Game

As an avid people-watcher, I have developed many “anthropological” games over the years. One, however, is a particular favorite in Madrid. Called “spot the one who doesn’t belong” (yep, still in need of a more catchy name…), it basically consists of detecting a tourist, study abroad, or Erasmus student, having a quick guess as to where that person might be from, and then getting close enough to overhear a bit of conversation and either prove, or disprove, my guess. It’s good fun, and I highly recommend it.

I play this game almost constantly, and mostly subconsciously. The other day, however, after victoriously identifying a group of Germans, I found myself wondering how easily I would fall prey to this method of spotting the foreigner. Certainly I don’t look Spanish, but having lived in Madrid for almost 7 months now I am able to go about my daily tasks with what I imagine to be a knowledgeable and directed air. Provided I wasn’t speaking English at the time, would a fellow game-player be able to spot me easily as an American? Or would I escape the scan? I can’t imagine that I stick out as much as the water-bottle-and-camera wielding tourists, but am I one of those who just doesn’t belong, though not for any immediately ascertainable reason?

There really isn’t any way of finding out, though being asked for directions certainly boosts one’s feeling of legitimacy. This, in fact, is exactly what happened to me, as I was awakened from my musings by two young Spanish girls wearing ridiculously posh outfits and asking for the nearest “eStarbucks” or “Duunkeen Donuts”. I had no idea, of course, but that’s not really the point. Rather I am happy with the fact that, in that moment, I must have looked just a little bit like I belonged.

Lisbon

“We’re having a party tonight!” a very stylish young Portuguese man says to me, “they’re lowering the credit rating of Greece again”. I giggle, and we go on to discuss politics and education. Is an education in Political Science just an ivory tower? Will theory cause you to lose your connection to anything real? Will it drive you crazy? These questions, and others, keep reflective students awake at night.

Beyond the constant internal struggle though, my weekend in Lisbon was an absorbing investigation of the collision point of politics and the real world. Though Spain has the highest unemployment rate in the European Union, life here in Madrid continues with impressive normalcy. The crisis is a number one topic of conversation, but the bars and cafes are full and there is very little homelessness to be seen on the streets. By contrast, Lisbon is palpably crumbling. Around half of all buildings have shuttered windows and doors chained and padlocked shut; weeds already grow up from sills caked thick with grime. I saw more homelessness just walking to the nearest café than I have in my six months of living in Madrid; and graffiti on the walls of almost every building called for anarchy, solidarity with the Greeks, or spoke of the desire that the “Nazis” should return home.

My stylish friend had no delusions… “They don’t want to save Greece,” he said, referring to the so-called ‘Troika’—the IMF, European Union, and European Central Bank. Still, as a student of Political Science he had to recognize the utility of a European federation, which to me connoted some level of faith in the Union. I frowned, and wished I could explore the sentiments on the streets. Hindered by my lack of language skills and the all too swiftly passing time, however, I find myself back in Madrid with a head full of stories built around the powerful images of a collapsing capital.

Lisbon, I’ll be back.

Study days

“Guess where I am?” my friend texted me the other day, “Hint: the security was even more displeased with my computer case than was TSA”.

The Reina Sofia library, part of the famous Spanish modern art museum by the same name, is a truly lovely library. One of my very favorites, in fact. It’s dead silent, warm, and always full of exceptionally studious art history enthusiasts. I’ve never seen so many well-lit books. They have, however, a seemingly extreme security prerogative. You are required to show a government issued ID just to get in— I get by with my (expired) California drivers license, but the production of an unrecognized ID often prompts a re-reading of the rule book— and then you are asked to take only your study materials into the library proper, leaving your coat and bag in lockers by the front desk. While you are allowed to leave the library for a quick smoke or cup of coffee during your time, you will ONLY be given your jacket and bag back when you decide to leave the library for good. Bringing any type of food into the library is forbidden, of course, (this, amusingly enough, leads to the smuggling of small food items, ie nuts, dried fruit, power bars… which are then eaten in the sanctuary of the bathroom. I am NOT the only one…) but even water bottles are prohibited. Despite these uncomfortable measures, however, it really is a great place to study, and I spend almost every Friday there.

This past Friday, as I was packing my things back into my bag in preparation to leave, I managed to forget my computer charger. I only discovered my mistake once I had arrived home, just minutes from the library’s closing time, so I hurriedly called the front desk to explain my situation. Yes, they had my charger, they told me, and I could come pick it up on Monday. This morning, then, I walked into the library around opening time and revealed myself to be the girl who had left her computer charger. Perhaps you can imagine, now, the security excitement that surrounded my trying to get it back. It was a good thirty minutes of phone calls and radio conversations between the various officials, a trip to what I can only imagine is their underground lost and found vault, and at least three separate ID checks. It’s even possible that they’re learning how to spell “Tajha”. For all this, though, I can assuredly say that my computer charger has never been so well guarded in its life. If it weren’t such a hassle to get things back, I’d consider keeping more of my belongings at the Reina Sofia library…