la noche blanco

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One of the most stressful periods I never wish to discuss again (after writing about it here, blogs are free therapy) is flat hunting in Madrid. Work was due to start in October and, even though I had arrived two weeks early, I was, by the end of September, seriously lacking fingernails. Every deal that seemed likely fell through at the last minute and I was seriously considering living with a fifty year old transvestite who offered me a room in Lavapies, the emigrant blue collar neighbourhood of the city. The most attractive quality about the room itself was its lack of natural light. Without a window, I could barely (thankfully) make out the other features: a double bed on three legs, a permanently noisy washing machine (even when switched off) and a resident pet dog named cookie, who thought the bed was his shedding area. Other rooms offered included a room adjacent to brothel, compete with live-in professional drummer, and another who wanted close to 500 euros a month because it actually had a window by which I could see every deplorable feature.
It was in such low spirits that the most memorable evening during my early days here occurred. La Noche Blanco, a major cultural festival held worldwide found its way to the city. Thousands of people descended on Sol and Gran Via creating a great carnival like atmosphere. There was bands, face painters, street performers, light shows and the omnipresent illegal imigrants selling cheap Prada ripoffs. Sitting in Sol near the famous Tio Pepe sherry sign, I dissolved into laughter with the Spanish women next to me. At the opposite kiosko (newspaper stall) four illegal hawkers were cautiously circling the stall. On the other side of the circular shop uniformed policemen tiptoed determinedly after them. It was like some episode of road runner; with the Charlie Chaplin lookalike mime artist nearby, real life intermingled with theatre and fabrication became fact. The quirkyness of the city was beginning to assert itself.
Found a flat in the end, just before resorting to a cardboard box and prostitution. As with every thing in Madrid, it was a last minute thing.

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