I'm writing this in a slightly more comfortable position than I did my last blog post. I am lying in bed in Barcelona, a private curtain pulled across my bed, having just eaten a proper meal (burger and chips... don't judge me). This is perhaps a good thing. A bit of distance and comfort might be needed if I am to be completely fair on Madrid. Because, although there were certain aspects of Madrid that I really, truly liked, I think it would be fair to say that the overall experience was not a positive one.
I guess we should start at the beginning...
Day One
When we last left our intrepid explorer (me), he was being kept awake by the presence of a rock on the tracks blocking the way to Madrid from Lisbon. At 12:30am we were trundled out of the carriage (we had to wake up the Korean guy - felt really sorry for him and his wife as this was supposed to be their honeymoon) and onto a bus. There were, however, two buses. People started to climb onto one of them, then one of the conductors started to direct people to the other one. There was some confused milling. Two of the conductors started a hushed conversation, pointing back and forth between the buses.
It was around this point that I remembered the train was, in fact, due to split, with one half going to Madrid while the other took off to the north of Spain. I looked at the two buses. I looked at the confused people around me. Then I shrugged, deciding I was way too tired for this s***, and if I ended up in the north of Spain because I'd gotten on the wrong bus so be it. I was a little relieved that the Korean couple were on the same bus as me, but a little put out that the Portuguese guys were not.
Expecting a fifteen minute trip to the next station, I stayed awake, not wanting to doze off and potentially have something nicked (or be left on the bus - the conductors didn't seem to care whether everyone made it or not). Well... at 2:30am we finally reached the train. I lay down to sleep until 8:20am. Madrid time. 7:20am Lisbon time. Five hours on a night train (night train sleep is not like real sleep, trust me on that one). I awoke to see us pulling up to the train station. Then, bleary-eyed, I grabbed all my stuff and trundled onto the platform.
It's probably worth mentioning at this point there are two primary stations in Madrid - Atocha and Chamartin. Atocha is in the city centre in a beautifully designed, huge building with trees growing inside it, large, clearly marked platforms and nice cafes and places to sit. Chamartin is on the northern outskirts of the city, is big, dirty, boring, full of beggars and confusing. Guess which I stopped at? (Hint: I was having a really bad day).
Once again, the hostel would only allow me to check in from 2pm, so I had some time to kill. Around six hours in fact. My plan was to drop my bags off in the lockers at the station and wander into the city before returning to the station and catching the metro into the city. At this point I had neglected to look at anything resembling a map of Madrid. I simply followed the clump of people out of the station and went on my way. The people headed north, I followed.
Now, you may remember that I said Chamartin was on the northern outskirts of the city. So it probably comes as no surprise that, on my way north, I was struck by how dull Madrid seemed. There were some big industrial buildings, an enormous, ugly highway, an outdoor basketball pitch that had seen far better days and one of the ugliest little parks I had ever seen. Having just left Lisbon I sat in the park, munching my breakfast (the bread and cheese I had bought for dinner the previous night, which had not improved with age) and wished I had never left Portugal.
After a while I turned around a little and headed towards an area that looked slightly less boring. It was still pretty boring though - basically an enormous road. After the charming narrow streets of Lisbon, I was a bit put out at this. I walked past the football stadium and onto one of the biggest roads I have ever seen. Around this time I thought to myself: "Meh, I'd rather sit around in the train station doing nothing." So I did.
The only mildly interesting thing that happened while I was waiting was a man came up to the seats to ask for money. I got up and went for a walk before he reached me. I didn't feel like having that kind of conversation in a language I literally knew two words of. By 1:30pm I was about ready to move on to the hostel, so up I got to get my bags and get a move on.
Now it was time to tackle the metro. I was up for this - the metro in Lisbon had been easy, I knew which line I had to catch and would remember the station when I saw it. I hopped down into the underground station and was immediately approached by a man speaking Spanish.
"Err... Sorry. No Espagnol."
"English?"
"I guess so, yeah."
He then proceeded with his sob story about how his friend, who was missing an arm, needed just one more euro to get the ticket he needed. I didn't see anyone in the vicinity missing any limbs. I told the guy I only had enough money for my ticket (P.S. This was a lie. I was carrying a huge amount of money with me in a secret wallet).
I thought that would be it and approached the automatic ticket machine. And stared at it blankly. It didn't have an English option. I had just figured out which one meant "Adult ticket" when the man approached me again.
"Here, I show you how to work that."
There was quite simply no way that I was going to be getting my wallet out in front of this guy. I was already highly strung from being a little scared of the Madrid metro anyway (I had received a few warnings from other travellers).
The guy asked me what station I was getting off at. I said I didn't remember. This was actually true - I had planned to just get off when I recognised the station. He wasn't going to let me out that easily. He asked me which station again. Aggravated, I said I didn't know and left, going to find a map in order to work out which stop it was. When I returned he was still there. I just kept walking. Luckily, on the very next floor down, there were a bunch more ticket machines, so I managed to get my ticket and get out of there.
I spent the entire metro trip squished into a corner, suspicious that every little Grandma on that shuttle was a potential pickpocket and fully aware that I both looked like a tourist and felt like dropping dead. It didn't help that the metro suddenly got really, really full at the very next station. Only in my carriage though - I looked further down and it was practically empty. This didn't exactly help my mindset.
The hostel was very close to the metro station, apparently, but I wasn't entirely sure which direction. The instructions stated it was on the corner of the Plaza de Espana and Gran Via, between Starbucks and some cheap Spanish restaurant. Coming out of the metro station, I saw a nice, large plaza and went "Aha! Plaza De Espana." I then walked all the way around the plaza looking for a Starbucks before finding it right at the entrance to the metro where I had started.
Like with People Hostel, you had to call up to the top in order to get in. I was ready for this this time, and didn't wait around on the street like in Lisbon.
By the time I got checked in and everything it was about 3pm. In my room I was surrounded by sleeping girls, who I assumed were Spanish girls having a siesta. Well... turns out I was wrong. I went to the kitchen to do all the emailing etc etc, and decided I would have a reasonably early night in order to make up for all the sleep I had missed.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Yeah. Right.
It was a good idea to set myself up in the kitchen. It was a small hostel, and the only place to really socialise was in the kitchen. The first person to appear was one of the sleeping forms I had seen previously. It was a British girl who told me that the group was from all over Europe, but had met while studying in southern Spain. They were going out that night, and she had just come out to ask me whether I knew whether the "no drinking" rule in the hostel was enforced. I didn't know. She and her friends decided to risk it and started pre-drinking. The rule wasn't enforced.
In quick succession I then met a Japanese and Korean guy, a Polish girl volunteering in Spain, two Serbian women named Tamara and Neda, and an Argentinian guy called Adriano. The Korean guy had a bit of a sad story, having just come from Barcelona where his passport was stolen. In fact, the only reason he was in Madrid was in order to get a replacement passport, as there is no Korean embassy in Barcelona. He seemed very embarrassed about being robbed, and I felt sorry for him.
I had been invited out with the girls, but I told them that I was going to have a quiet night in, having not really slept on the train the previous night. Adriano ended up going with them instead. They started getting ready and pre-drinking at 10pm. They did not leave until 1:30am (if you read my previous blog entry, you know this already). In that time there was no sleep for me. The Polish girl tried to sleep (I could see her seething under the covers, but too polite to say anything).
At this point I should also mention that the hostel contained only two bathrooms, each with one toilet and one shower. These bathrooms also contained the only mirrors in the place. The poor Finnish girl (one of the large group) had a weaker bladder than even I did, and was constantly needing the loo. But when everyone was getting ready to go out, there was waiting times of up to an hour just for a quick piss.
Anyway, once they had left I relievedly switched the light off and got ready for a much-needed rest. It would take a natural disaster of titanic scale to shake me from my slumber. Or a group of students returning from their night out at 6am and deciding to continue their night with some extended drinking for another hour in the room.
Day Two
That morning I felt like s***. Having not properly slept for the last two evenings, I knew I would need to take it easy. By this time I had actually had a look at a map of Madrid and realised that everything worth seeing was in the area that I hadn't been to the day before, so a wander was in order. I noticed that the Reina Sofia museum would be free from 2:30pm that afternoon and decided to visit it without really knowing what it was (other than the fact it was a famous art gallery).
My hostel didn't offer breakfast, so I decided that on my way around I would have my first proper Spanish experience (you could count staying up all night as a Spanish experience, but if that's the case, screw culture) by purchasing Chocolate con Churros somewhere on my way around the city.
My route took me down the Gran Via, where I got distracted by a shopping street (though I only realised it was a shopping street once I was on it - from a distance it looked historic). I ended up in Puerta del Sol, a large plaza where Mickey Mouse was waving to people. That weirded me out a little. I couldn't quite figure out what the significance of this plaza was other than it had a giant metal pyramid thing (which was hideous) and some shops. Walking onto the street I heard some chanting and, walking a tiny bit further, found a reasonably vibrant group of individuals having a fine old time picketing a bank. Police watched them from every corner.
As I continued, my path took me towards the Prado Museum, another art gallery. I had considered going inside, but then I didn't because there's only so much art you can handle with the kind of brain malfunctioning I was experiencing at that point.
The whole Chocolate con Churros thing had kind of gone by the wayside at this point. I had only gotten out of bed at 10am, leaving the hostel at 11. Once I was on the streets, whenever I saw a cafe advertising Churros I would say to myself, "Oh, that place is probably really touristy, especially as it's near [insert relevant attraction]. There'll be another more authentic place around the corner."
Of course there never was, because the places I was snubbing were perfectly fine - I simply didn't feel up to the stressful and strenuous experience of ordering a snack.
Well, once I reached the Prado Museum I was surprised to hear more chanting. The museum is on a massive, straight, long road, making it very easy to see all the way to the end. And at the end I saw a mass of police officers and people approaching. The group appeared to have grown a bit from when it was in Puerta del Sol, though as it turned out it was a different group protesting against human rights abuses or something. They were led and followed by rows of police vans and bikes.
They kind of disappeared off on the horizon and I disappeared in the opposite direction. It had come to my attention that I needed somewhere relaxing to be for a while, and that there was a park nearby (the Parque del Retiro) that I felt was ripe for exploring. First I had to find it. Now, if you look at a map you will see that the Parque del Retiro is a really, really big place, so one would think it would be fairly easy to find. And it is, as long as you aren't walking in the wrong direction. As things got slightly less park-like and slightly more motorway-like, I decided to turn around. It wasn't long before I bumped into an entrance almost by accident.
I would love to say that reaching the park was a turning point in my impressions of Madrid, but really it was more of a slight wiggle. The park is beautiful and huge. There are long lines of trees, ponds, statues, fountains, wildlife and a lake that you can go boating on. All packed into a space the size of a small city. After seeing the exterior of the Prado Museum and the Parque del Retiro, I was starting to see what others saw in Madrid. Unfortunately it was not enough to win me over.
I happened across Tamara and Neda almost as soon as I left the park. I had been craving company, so I joined them for a bit. Entering a cafe, we each ordered a coffee. They came out accompanied by a piece of cake. A little wary, but also quite hungry, I decided to eat the cake, knowing I would regret it when I saw the bill. But, when the bill came, the cake was not included on it. To be completely honest, I still haven't quite worked out whether getting free food when you order a drink is a cultural thing in Spain - it was certainly the basis of Tapas, though that has become an expensive meal in its own right. Whatever, free food.
Reina Sofia was next. It didn't take too long to find it. As it was to be free, I hadn't brought any change with me - all I had was a 20 euro note. The museum required all backpacks to be put in a locker room after being x-rayed. None of the museum's staff spoke English, so I kind of bumbled my way through the locker rooms, struggling to lock the door until a staff member pointed out that the locker required a 1 euro deposit. No problem - I looked around for the change machine. It only changed 2 euro coins, making it almost completely pointless.
I went to the front desk and showed them the 20 euro bill, miming chopping it up. "No." Oh.
In the end I had to go outside to Starbucks and buy a sandwich (I was pretty hungry, but also looking for the cheapest thing there). Even then I had to ask them specifically for a 1 euro coin when they gave me the change.
Tamara and Neda had gone on inside, and I was very much aware that I was keeping them waiting. I raced through, put my bag in a locker and went into the museum.
The Reina Sofia is basically an art gallery of works from the 20th century, the national museum of Spain for that purpose in fact. I wasn't really in the mood for art, I hadn't paid for the audio guide ("I don't need anyone telling me what to think about ART") and in the end I enjoyed the experience a lot less than I might have had I been in the correct frame of mind. There's only so much vague nodding you can do toward a painting before you realise you're just nodding off. They were screening Los Olvidados in full, but I'd seen it already and it didn't have subtitles.
I returned to the hostel at a time I would call early (probably around 4:30pm). The partying group were all asleep. I got to chatting with some of the other guests, meeting a pair of German girls who had won their weekend in Madrid (one of whom may be a future contact in Munich), a Mexican guy, two Indian students who had just finished an exchange in Switzerland, and Eris, a Brazilian girl who turned out to be a model, was awesomely crazy and couldn't speak very much English (though could speak more English than I could Spanish). Our conversations generally devolved into me waving my arms around while she had either the Mexican guy or Adriano translate. It actually worked quite well.
The previous night I had kinda sorta promised the party group that I would go out with them that night, and I was starting to regret that promise. Adriano said he was planning to go out with them, but only to the bar. I agreed that I could probably manage that - head to a bar and leave before the nightclub. Well... we soon discovered that they had no intention of going to a bar anyway. It was nightclub or nothing. I chose nothing, and in the end the rest of us (ie. those not in the party group) went out to a couple of bars for a quick drink. Eris knew the area a little so took us through the gay district (not sure entirely why - her explanation was that she likes gay people) and we ended up at a seedy, not-gay bar where I had an orange juice. Somehow we didn't end up returning to the hostel until 3am, and when we got there who should have returned but the party group. They stayed up a while, tossing up whether or not they would be going out again, but then they didn't, so I managed to get a little rest in from 4am.
Day Three
This was Sunday morning, and I had suggested the previous evening that I would like to go with the German girls and Adriano to the weekly flea market with them. Apparently they took one look at me sleeping and decided I REALLY needed it, so by the time I got up they were all gone. Fair enough I guess - by this stage I was feeling really quite sick, with a throat bug slowly moving its way up into my sinuses.
Instead I went to book my train ticket to Barcelona. I had intended to take another night train for this leg of the journey, but by this point that was really the very last thing I wanted to do. So I booked a high speed AVE train for 12:30pm the next day, getting me to Barcelona at 15:30. I had timed it to give me plenty of time to both get out of bed AND to not get into Barcelona too early (necessitating the kind of aimless wandering that had marked the first day of my stay in Madrid) and not too late (because I wanted to get out of Madrid as soon as reasonable).
This train would leave from Atoche station, so this is where I had to book my ticket. The station is actually very pretty, as I mentioned before. It's also very clearly signed, so I had no trouble finding where to book my ticket.
I approached the guy at the desk and after the opening formalities in Spanish ("Hola!") I asked the essential question: "Inglé?" He shrugged his shoulder and waved his hand in a resigned fashion. "A bit."
He then proceeded to speak perfect English and I soon had my reservation organised (10 euro, down from 120. That's not a typo, trains are more expensive than planes). My next task of the day was to do some washing, as I was soon to run out of certain essential garments (socks and underwear). Well... I bought some washing liquid, found a self-service laundry, and then looked at the prices. 5 Euro to wash a load, and another 5 to dry it. Screw that, I muttered under my breath, I can do it for FREE.
So I did, though I had to resign myself to the fact that my jeans would remain dirty for a while longer as I had no time to let the dry. I returned to the hostel and locked myself in one of the bathrooms. I then got to work, arranging my clothes ready to wash in the sink. I then came across my first hurdle: no plug. I solved this by stuffing a plastic bag over the top of the drain, blocking the flow of water and allowing me to fill the sink. I dumped my undies and socks into the water and washing liquid concoction and sat down for twenty minutes to wait.
I had a feeling I wasn't supposed to be using the sink in this way, so I was a little nervous someone might come bashing down the door needing the loo and discover me, pants in hand, trying to flush the evidence. But the hostel didn't really care that one of their toilets had been hijacked for my nefarious purposes - I guess they're used to the bathrooms being occupied constantly. Once all the gunk had oozed out of my undergarments (the water turned brown) I squeezed the water out of each one and prepped myself for a subtle dash to my room, where I spread the pants over the bed to dry. With some daylight still remaining, I went to the national palace. It was big and impressive. I didn't bother going inside though - there's only so much opulence one can handle.
Somehow on my way to the palace, I stumbled across an egyptian temple that had been donated by the Egyptian government. Walking around it, slightly confused, it wasn't long before I heard mysterious latin music coming up from a park nearby. There, in the middle of the park, a band was playing and people were holding hands in a circle dancing. Being almost comatose, I concluded that this must be some kind of bizarre hallucination, though as it turned out it wasn't.
Some more vague wandering took me through what must have been the wealthy residential districts (though I only say that because the streets there were cleaner and lacking in homeless people). There seemed to be some nice restaurants and a lively atmosphere, which was unusual at around 5pm in Spain.
I returned to my hostel with a plan: Tamara and Neda had recommended a bar called El Tigre, and I decided that I was not going to waste my last night in Madrid. Adriano, Eris, the Indian duo and a guy who I think was Peruvian but who had been studying in Sweden went with me to El Tigre. It took a little while to find it, mainly because it was a small, poky bar in the back alleys (where all great bars are) and I had actually gotten the street wrong. Fortunately it was only one street from where I thought it was, and was popular enough that people in the street could point it out to us.
We got there and it was packed with young locals. We got taken to the back where we were stood at the long bar that goes all the way around the walls of the bar. There are no seats in El Tigre. You can only buy beverages. But that is not to say we went without dinner! The way it works is, the bartender comes up and asks what drinks you want. Everyone in your group orders and the bartender goes away and brings the drinks to your bench. He then returns again, this time with plates of food depending on the size of your group and what variety of drinks you ordered. They bring a lot of food. We had chicken paella, chunky ham slices (proper ham) on baguette, cheese balls, roasted potatoes with paprika sauce, an egg and potato omelette thing, and stacks of other things on bread, with cheese or whatever. It's basically luck of the draw what you get, but we managed to get a good range of food with each round of drinks. I had a sangria and a mojito. Let's just say there was more than enough alcohol in each (both were served in a pint glass).
We stumbled back to the hostel pretty early, and I got into bed. The party group had checked out that morning, so I looked forward to a decent night's sleep starting at 11pm. Unfortunately, it was about this time that my nose really started to run, so I actually spent the night snuffling and sniffing.
Adriano was a really good bloke, though. He knew I was dead tired, so packed his bag out in the kitchen so as not to disturb me.
Day Four
I was to finally escape Madrid. I stole someone's cereal and milk (I'm pretty sure the owner had already left anyway), checked out and walked to Atoche. The station has two floors from which you enter the trains, and I was on the upper one. It was a very similar experience to catching the plane - desks were placed at the entrance to each platform, you gave them your ticket, they let you onto the platform and you went searching for your seat.
My seat was the first seat. As in, the very first seat. The left hand seat in the very frontiest of front rows in the front carriage. That suited me fine, putting me in an advantageous position for looking out the window and giving me some leg room. I should mention that I had paid for the very cheapest class, so was kind of surprised to have such a nice seat. I guess when it costs 120 euros for second class, second class needs to be pretty decent.
They screened Ice Age 4. It was in Spanish. With Catalan subtitles. The benefit was I could make up my own dialogue, so the overall experience may have been an improvement. I had intended to write up some more of my PhD application, but instead I fell asleep. Probably for the best, as I would need my wits about me for the trip to the hostel in Barcelona...
...but that's for another time, as this blog is now
TO BE CONTINUED.
Afterword
Madrid was, in the end, kind of two cities. One was up late at night (or early in the morning, depending on your point of view) dancing the night away, while the other was in the Parque del Retiro, rowing leisurely around the lake or teaching their child to ride a bike. One was seen in the enormous sex shops that adorned the streets, while the other was seen in the incredible cathedrals, palaces, monuments and temples that divided them. One was populated by limbless beggars strewn pathetically across the footpath while the other was populated with Gucci-wearing fashionistas.
I can't tell you which city I preferred, because this isn't a tale of two cities. It's one city. Madrid isn't Madrid without one of those halves, but what you end up with is the feeling of a city that tries too hard to be big and important, forgetting about personality and familiarity. Perhaps I should give it another chance in the future, but for now there are plenty of other far more interesting places vying for my attention.
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