The big city

 

I wake up early in Madrid. Potter awhile in the dark and cuddle one of the cats, Mae, the friendly one. Try to make a cup of tea but cannot for the life of me find the teaspoons or sugar so give up on that and come back upstairs to do some writing. 

After a shower, I dress in walking clothes and prepare to get a coffee and something sweet to eat before heading off for a big walk, such is my usual routine (10km a day has been my average). 

Ordering a sandwich and coffee should be easy enough but it takes quite an effort when I speak no Spanish. I know the word Chorizo so that’s what I get in my Bocatines (small sandwich). My coffee arrives as an espresso (pico) but in a regular sized cup and I’m relieved when the waiter pours hot milk through it at the table. He is annoyed with me for not speaking Spanish so I get no response to my hearty ‘grazias!’.

It’s 8.40am and the workers are conversing over churros (sweet donut type things) and coffee. People are in and out quickly - they are merely stopping in for caffeination. Unlike New Zealand cafes, the news channel blares in the background on a large tv. The trade wars dominate here too. Trump has Europe in a tailspin. The news might be the same but the language sounds beautiful. I’m surrounded by a purr of Spanish and more hand gestures than I’m used to. 

I leave the cafe with a satisfied stomach and a little shame when paying the waiter who couldn’t understand me, especially as I am using cash which isn’t used here anymore. He will not make eye contact. I have a plan to walk through the botanical gardens which are close by, and where I’ll get my kms in for the day. I plan to pass back through the city via a museum or two.

I reflect on how fortunate I have been to grow up speaking English - it is widely spoken and is a language of business. I am a little shocked at how isolated I feel in a non-English speaking city. I am the foreigner. In Dubai, everyone speaks English. In Madrid, I am the outsider. Under pressure, with the taxi drivers last night and the waiter this morning, I have reverted to French - ‘merci’ rather than ‘gracias’ - ‘oui’ rather than ‘si’. 

In the streets people are well-dressed. I stand out like a sore thumb in my active wear. I attract eyes because I am so obviously a tourist with my boxy back pack and trainers and wide-eyed attention on all the shops I’m passing by. The locals walk past me with deliberation, like I would do at home on my walking commute. 

The gardens are expansive and beautiful. It seems everyone is there - dog walkers, buskers, commuters, hand holders, and lots of city gardeners. Spring has sprung and the lawns need mowing. Trees need trimming. The gardens are abuzz with activity and the day is heating up fast. After an hour or two I finally find a hill to climb, let’s call it another incline. From there I am about head level with the tree tops. It confirms what I thought I saw at the airport when landing. 

In every direction the land goes on and on. There’s no ocean. You look out and see a haze all around, a panoramic horizon line of development and city pollution.

On my walk back I visit a church with a mosaic domed ceiling and stop in to absorb the atmosphere. Then I stumble across an art gallery and have my first successful conversation in Spanish, ordering my single general entry ticket, ‘Entrada Generale’. Here I see an exhibition of surrealism. It is wonderful. There are works by Dali, Picasso, and many other big guns. They depict the stuff of dreams and nightmares. Surrealism is about making the unconscious visible. It is hard to believe these were painted a hundred years ago. They seem so modern.

My natural sense of direction is good and I find my way easily back to my accommodation without using a map and look for a local lunch restaurant. I sit inside and order three ‘pinchos’ or small bites. After this I’ll be ready for a siesta.

I buy a postage stamp for the postcard I bought this morning. Stamps are sold at tobacco stores, which I find amusing. Again, I am hindered by my English, as I ask for a stamp for New Zealand. I am told how to pronounce it in Spanish - Nueva Zealanda (pronounced Nueba Thelanda). No smile from the saleswoman.

I think I might be missing kiwi hospitality. The old smile and wave, the nod, a polite hello - eye contact! Kiwis are not well dressed but they are friendly. It will be interesting to see how it changes when I dress up, which I do for our evening out. I wear a short lacy black dress and gold wedge heels to dinner with Tara, Nick and our friend Georgia who is here for one night on her way through. The nightlife is good here - walking through the city I notice that the men are not tall. The women aren’t either but are more or less the same height as the men. Nick towers above at 6 foot 3. Us girls fit in nicely at 5 foot 5.

At dinner we are talking in English which is a relief, but we try to order in Spanish. The staff are more friendly here and take a photo of us. We finish the night at a dive bar overflowing with local young people, then walk home, happy and laughing.