funI left for Gatwick airport, and two tubes, one train, and a tram later made it through security where I had my bags ex-rayed and my non-tennis shoes removed and searched. Apparently I wasn’t a highjacker, so I was let through and made it to the departure gate before realizing I’d left my purse in the security area. I jogged back past the duty free goods and found the airport security rooting through my card file, looking for some sort of identification that they could use to page me. It was not an auspicious beginning, but if you have to loose your purse, I suppose airport security is the place to do it. Everything was returned in tact, and I jogged back to the gate with ten minutes until boarding.
On the flight over I was seated next to a Spanish girl who was about my age. I tried to communicate with her, but I then realized just how little Spanish I actually speak. I took Latin and French in high school, and when I watch Spanish language films I’ve found that I can usually make out about half of the words when they’re coupled with subtitles. I was then absolutely shocked to realize that Spanish people don’t come with subtitles, and I couldn’t make out a single phrase the woman next to me was saying. I buried my nose in Tom Jones, and began to worry that maybe I should just have stayed at home and worked instead of subjecting myself to being, spat at, pick pocketed, and now mocked ruthlessly because I thought that Spanish people came with subtitles.
When I arrived at the airport I made my way through customs and to the baggage claim without too much hassle. Everything in the airport was in both Spanish and English, so it was easy to navigate. I met up with Hannah, and together we stumbled around looking for the bus to the metro that would take us to Hannah’s apartment.
I’ve known Hannah since we were two years old and met at day care. We went to the same school for first through twelfth grade and have very little in common. We are absolute polar opposites in so many things—I’ve often realized that if we met in college we would probably not have become friends. The only thing that binds us together is a deep mutual passion for Hitchcock films and Ella Fitzgerald. But Sondheim is right to make a distinction between good friends and old friends: Hannah is an old friend, and because of that I will always have a place to sleep on her sofa.
This is Hannah’s second time studying in Madrid, and she’s taking classes at an American University in Madrid. Most of the kids there are doing homestays, but she decided to get her own apartment. She lives in a place with three other twenty somethings of various nationalities who are all doing different study abroad programs in Madrid. The whole thing reminds me of L’Auberge Espanole if anyone’s seen that movie. The building itself is nice, with hard wood floors and a carved doorway, but her apartment is a little cramped for four people. Still, she has Internet and a room of her own and there was a spare mattress for me to sleep on.
We dropped off my luggage and then spent a long time trying to decide what to wear that evening for Going Out, which is what one does in Madrid apparently. It was pretty early by the time we headed out—eight-ish, which is practically morning by Madrid standards. We were not ready to start Going Out yet, but instead headed over to meet our friend Courtney.
I’ve known Courtney (or Co as she is called for reason’s obscure and ancient) for slightly less long than I’ve known Hannah; since about first grade, although we didn’t really become friendly until sixth grade. Courtney’s doing the same program Hannah did the first time she came to Madrid, and because of that Hannah gave her advice about how to work the system, and Co ended up with the same apartment Hannah had the first time she studied abroad. We met up at a metro stop and walked to a tavern-ish place for potatoes gravas, which are basically French fries with different types of sauce.
We spent a little time catching up, and I was happy to hear that both Hannah and Co are loving Madrid, and I can see why. Madrid is really an awesome city, much more laid back than London, but not so laid back that things don’t get done. The streets are wide, the traffic is not aggressive, and the price of living is relatively low for an EU country. Seriously, thanks to Socialism, food and public transportation are amazingly cheep, and it was my fiendish plan to take full advantage of the lower prices during my visit. The only thing I liked less about Spain than London was that there was a lot more cat calling there. The cat calls didn’t bother me much because I couldn’t understand what anyone was saying, but Hannah has become truly adept at fending them off. She gets a lot of flack because she’s petite and blond, which apparently marks her as an American despite her conformist foot wear.
After a brief trip back to Courtney’s apartment we headed out to a bar where we met with Hannah’s friends, and then later that night, after saying goodbye to Courtney who was headed to Valencia the next day, we headed out to a club that featured live flamenco music. I have to say, I much prefer the Spanish method of going out to the British one. In Spain there’s a lot less emphasis on the rapid consumption of alcohol and much more on the socialization aspect. Things are also allowed to take a longer time in Spain. In London most pubs still close at 11, and in Madrid that’s when certain places open. I tried hard to converse with the locals, but only had limited success because only a few of the people I met spoke English. I was pleased, though, that several Spanish people thought I was British—my time in London must be wearing off on me! Actually, I know my time in London was wearing off on me because by about three thirty I was ready to call it a night, but Hannah, who was on Madrid time, was still going strong. Still, she grudgingly acquiesced to my request and we took a taxi home.
I stole this from Courtney's facebook, but it's the best picture of the three of us from Madrid.
