First Days in Spain - Madrid

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I’ve been in Spain one day and I have serendipitously witnessed virtually every generalization I have ever heard or read about Spaniards. I strolled the streets of Madrid on a scorching, sunny day, slowed by equal parts wonder and jet lag. I saw the mangy, free roaming dogs who stay within arms length of their masters at all times, never giving any bother to passer bys. I was caught behind the group of four elderly Spanish men, happily sauntering along the sidewalk, paying no attention to the pedestrian jam building up behind them. I dodged the traffic of speedy little cars and scooters (who I can only guess are playing a city-wide game of “Who Can Drive Fastest and Closest to Things Without Hitting Them”). I witnessed the high-class attire the locals insist on wearing for any and all occasion. And I heard the guitarist peddler on the street playing his rendition of a Johnny Cash hit, in a parody-like southern accent.

Having said that, I love this city. I love these people and I love this country. There is something spectacular about the Spanish people’s mindset that allows them to strategically slow down their lives. Each of them enjoys their days concretely, inch by inch, while the rest of us seem to daydream down the empty passages that connect the main events of our lives. We all to often waste time waiting for the work day to pass, or for the weekend to come, or that vacation we have been anticipating for nearly a year. Meanwhile the Spaniards seem to take full advantage of every morning, afternoon, and evening. Rain or shine they spend an amazing amount of time walking the streets, strolling the parks or keeping up with a plentiful social like in cafes or on street corners.

Spaniards also have an enviable ability to avoid dwelling on minor annoyances that most native English speakers are accustomed to loathing. For instance, (not to say that Spaniards aren’t polite), while I was standing in a crowded plaza, a woman bumped me with her purse as she walked by and made not even an apologetic glance toward me. I was annoyed at first, but quickly concluded that, sans my societal standards, there was absolutely no reason for her to act apologetic. The bump didn’t hurt. It didn’t scare or surprise me. Why should she care? She didn’t. And I was envious.

I write this as I look out the window of my eighth floor hostel at a starry sky over Madrid. The city stretches to the base of the rolling hills on the horizon. The rooftops are brazened with intricate sculptures and statues. The red clay tiled roofs slant in every direction. The air smells different here. Not bad. Not good. Just different. I am incomprehensibly far from home, but something about this place is so wondrous and beckoning, it is hard to imagine being anywhere else.

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Photos

Protests
There seems to be a different protest every day in Madrid. Always there are police standing guard outside important government buildings.