Familiar Things

“Experiences are only as good as their catalogue and analysis.”  - Mars Chapman

I’ve had a lot of experiences.  I’m rotten at sharing them.  

For example, the other day I went to Retiro to soak up the Spanish sun and awoke to find a group of guys kicking the soccer ball around in a circle.  This would be no big deal, of course, and hardly worth sharing... except that not one of them had any pants on!  That’s right, they were playing soccer bare-chested and in their underwear - a wide array of underwear, might I add.  And they were having the time of their lives, delighted with their present circumstances and location. This is Spain.

Every week, I meet some new, interesting person.  There’s an African guy a few feet up the hill from my apartment who stands outside the Dia grocery store everyday holding newspapers and opening doors for old women.  The other day, I finally stopped to ask what he’s about.  As it turns out, he’s from Nigeria, and he’s working here to earn money.  He can’t return because of pending paperwork, but he says he doesn’t really want to anyway.  “Africa is rich,” he said.  “But the people are poor.  We don’t have even basic infrastructure - water, electricity, hospitals.  You learn that money isn’t important.  You can live without money, but you cannot get ahead without infrastructure.”  There’s an Iraqi man at church here, Mustafa, who has some incredible perspectives on The State of Things.  My German roommate, Florian, is a wealth of information and precision.  People are fascinating, and most of them are really, really terrific at sharing their experiences.  It’s easy to find them here.

So a lot of things have been charming.  A lot of things, though, have been grueling.  Hunting for an apartment was awful.  I saw some strange apartments, and some even stranger people.  Deal after deal fell through right before the closing date.  Living with a family an hour away from everything, this was a frustrating investment of time, as you can imagine.

Becoming familiar with the Spanish education system has been equally taxing, especially as an assistant coming from a full-blown teaching position.  As it turns out, a Fulbright ETA grant is, paradoxically, a sort of demotion.  While it translates to a low level of responsibility, it also means less power, control, and efficacy.  Hammering out an actual job description and personal mission for myself (because it was never given to me) relieved but did not console me.  I love my co-workers and I feel I can learn a lot from them.  There are just days that it seems a little futile.  (Please note - that’s an American measuring self-worth in productivity, right there.  Run and hide.)

Moreover, leaving a perfect life at home with truly wonderful friends, family, co-workers, a beautiful relationship, and a job I truly loved has been borderline tragedy.  If you feel you have not heard from me often enough, this is why, for I refuse to write when I am grumpy, irritated, angry, cynical, or just plain homesick.  It’s much more efficient to put on a brave face and rent a stupid car in Italy and have an adventure of sorts.  There are 15 days until I come home; I know this without having counted.


And yet, faced with the prospect of leaving, I'm realizing that over six months I have, in fact, carved out quite a life for myself.  I have friends from all walks of life and a multitude of countries (though admittedly, it's often difficult to escape the American expat community), and we meet up for tapas and savor the Spanish evening at a sidewalk cafe eating olives and patatas bravas with Tinto de Verano.  I only just located Golden Crisps at the Hiper [mercado] down the street, thanks to a friend's recommendation.  The annual Bollywood Festival last weekend breathed out colorful dances and delicious food.  Who knows what this weekend holds!  


The prospect of packing all of that up into two suitcases and leaving with little more than a truncated 'sta-lo is daunting and, if I'm honest with myself, borderline tragic.  To use the words of Prince Caspian, I've spent a lot of time missing what was taken from me.. but... luckily, I definitely haven't squandered what was given: experiences, experiences, experiences.  Memories, friends, food... that is my catalogue - the very beginning of it.  I am so thankful, and so, so blessed.  

Friday Escapes: El Escorial

Monasterio de San Lorenzo de El Escorial
(picture borrowed from Wikipedia)

As I've said before, I have a tough life - work 16 hours a week, take Fridays off... difficult, isn't it?  Nevertheless, an obvious (but unexpected) side effect is the boredom that comes from so much disposable time.  Because I haven't picked up any private pupils or hobbies yet, days stretch out before me like a giant boa constrictor.  Don't get me wrong, I find great stuff to occupy my time, but it's not as easy to do here as at home. Thankfully, though, this week has been busier than normal between an excruciating long meeting and Pub Quiz on Monday, Fusión on Tuesday, and something else on Wednesday - can't remember.  Thursday evening I stayed home.

Therefore, when 11:00 on Thursday night rolled around, I was mildly alarmed at having yet another whole day to occupy.  Going into the Center (a favorite pastime of mine) to wander around, sight-see, and shop was out of the question as I'd gone the past two weeks and was sick of it.  (Besides, carrying around a camera attracts unwanted attention - mostly from older men who just happen to be hanging around where they can offer to take your picture for you, and then start up an uncomfortable, unending conversation.)  Art museums were also a possibility, but I just wasn't feeling it.

Aha!  Day trips!  Google day trips!  Hmmm... Segovia - been there, done that.  Toledo, been there, done that, taken the tour.  Avila... yes, but later on.  Barcelona, not enough time - had to be back in Madrid at 9 for a party.

And then, inspiration!  El Escorial, the King's monastery and retreat. I'd been when I was 11 with my grandparents and it seemed pretty cool back then. Besides, it was only an hour's train ride away, and having just mastered the train system (learn by failure...), I was eager to test my skills.

So, I looked up train times and off I went!  Yes, my friends, that was the extent of my planning.  I did manage to grab an umbrella in case of rain, though the skies in Madrid were pretty clear.

It was a bit of a surprise, then, when I arrived and found several inches of snow on the ground!  Oops!  Didn't see that one coming!  Snow definitely changes plans to wander around town trying to find this place, or whatever other picturesque opportunity there might be.  Oh yes, did I mention I didn't have a map of any sort?  El Escorial, it seems, isn't hip enough for Lonely Planet.

As there was a cafe right outside the train station, it seemed like a good place to warm up with coffee and ask directions.  There were a few people at the bar, most notably two older men enjoying an animated conversation.  I sipped my coffee solemnly and ate my tortilla española, trying to process my predicament.  Not that I was worried at all, just inconvenienced, and I hate inconvenience more than anything else so... paltry.

Anyway, there was a pause in the men's conversation, but when I asked them how to get to the monastery, they commenced on a new debate as to whether I should walk or not, and even the barista joined in.  On the one hand, it was a pretty walk, but qué no!  It was snowing!  Yes, but still, I was young, so I wouldn't mind the snow as much... but the bus would take her there just as well... At length, they decided that I would surely fall and break a leg in the snow, and that it was better to wait for the bus.  Even better, they said, wait ten minutes, and if it doesn't come, walk on up.

It was decided then.  One of the gentlemen went out for a smoke while I waited inside, and they began the usual interrogation.  Where was I from? How did I speak such good Spanish?  What was I doing here and for how long?  Etc.  By this time, the other fellow had come back in and was preparing to leave.  What!  his friend cried. Why don't you just take her with you!

Oh... oh, lovely.  And I thought I had a predicament earlier!!  This time, the matter was decided amongst the three in a matter of seconds,  but seeing my hesitation, they laughed.  Look, said the first.  She's worried!  The barista laughed.  Don't worry, she said.  Te confianza.  Y si no, si no regresas, llamamos el Guardia Civil.  I'll vouch for him. And if you don't return, we'll call out the Civil Guard.

It was at this point I felt myself to be having an out-of-body experience, looking down on the scene and laughing, wondering the mothers of the world would say about talking to strangers and accepting car rides from strange men, but realizing that it would make quite a story later on... assuming I came back alive!  If I hadn't just learned the phrase "te confianza" two days earlier, I might have refused.  But... it was snowing, after all... so of course I agreed.

It was a quick ride up - literally straight up a hill about a mile. I was glad I wasn't walking.  We chatted amiably, but I didn't catch much of what he said, feeling it was more important to focus on worst-case-scenario survival instead... the snow would cushion my fall, if necessary.  But at the top, he showed me where to go, extended his hand and asked my name.  Ah, my name is difficult for you English-speakers, he said.  You don't understand it.  I braced myself for a multi-syllabic torrent.  Oh?  What is it?  I asked.  Jesus, he said.  Of course it is, I thought.  The cherry on top, right?  I'm not sure irony is the right word, but I enjoyed the moment quite a bit.

As for El Monasterio de El Escorial, it was not as cool as I remembered (perhaps I was thinking of The Valley of the Fallen, where Franco is buried, which is closed for renovations) but still worthwhile.  Built to rival the Vatican, it boasts a prestigious art collection and a library that really did rival Rome in its earlier days and survived two fires.

It struck me, though, how cold the past must have been.  There is simply no good way to heat up 75 acres of stone, no matter how important you are.  No amount of fresco, artisan marble, and priceless artwork can make up for constantly stiff joints and clammy fingers.

Additionally, the monastery is also a basilica, hosting over 66 tombs of past royals.  Now, call me crazy, but if I'm going to retreat from the affairs of the State for a while, I'd rather not be reminded of my own eventual demise.  It's just not something I tend to include in my itineraries.  On the other hand, maybe it provides a good outlet on reflection and humility.  Still, many of the caskets were for children - mostly from the distant past, but that would be difficult, I think.  Not a recommendation for Camp David, that's for sure.

Anyway, that was the adventure.  Other than soggy socks and frozen pant legs, the rest of the day passed without incident, and I got back into Madrid just in time to leave again.