Elements of style.

---

I’ve spent a few days wandering the centro, coming to terms with the fact that - for all its appeal - Madrid tends to show its best face at night. By day there are angry jackhammers snarling on almost every street; clouds of dust float over the plazas. Kay explains that the city’s mayor - especially obsessed with leaving a legacy behind - is working hard to repave and refurbish every last inch of Madrid. Later, I’ll find out that the timing is no coincidence: the EU’s program to help struggling Spain back to its feet is set to expire at the end of the year, and all those funds earmarked for public works need to be spent before the calendar turns to 2007.

The Prado is no exception. The country’s most famous museum is surrounded by scaffolding and heavy tarps; beside it a massive, gaping hole seems to plunge to the center of the earth. Workers are milling in helmets and bright vests. You can tell a lot of people are pissed at all the ruined photo ops. Inside, fortunately, the place is more or less intact. Massive crowds are camped out in front of the Goya’s and El Greco’s; you practically have to lower your shoulder to get anywhere near Velázquez’ Las Meninas. In some of the galleries, easels are set up while aspiring artists dab at their interpretations of the classics. Now and then a sign advertises the spot where some masterpiece - being rigorously restored - normally hangs. A small, disgruntled crowd of old men and women stare at a photocopy of a Rembrandt.

In the cafeteria I meet Robert and Maureen, two tall, ruddy Aussies from the bush - “400k from Sydney,” Robert says with a touch of country pride. They’re in the middle of a whirlwind, 31-day tour of Europe. They’ve seen Italy, Greece, Germany, Holland, Belgium: Maureen makes an exasperated face as she ticks off the names, a flicker of weary pleasure in her eyes. Robert nods with his chin to his chest, fussing with his cap and wind-swept hair.

They tell me about their son - around my age - who’s followed a similarly rambling path through his 20s. In London there were problems with his sponsorship at Lloyd’s; in New York, he had a hard time getting a visa. Robert - quiet at first: a singular Aussie - is starting to warm up. His eyes are animated, and he makes a point of telling me, in elaborate detail, about his son’s unprecedented rise through the ranks at Lloyd’s. He worked in IT; Robert makes the sort of bewildered face my own father might make trying to talk about computers. Maureen smiles, the color high in her cheeks. Even when we move on to other subjects - traveling in Europe, September 11, the vast outback of Australia - I realize we’re still, to some degree or other, talking about their son.

They have two days in Madrid, but they don’t seem to be in much of a hurry. Watching them nurse their beers and pat each other’s hands on the table, I can’t imagine them rushing through the great European capitals in a month. After the continent they head to the UK for another month. Maureen’s eyes turn up toward the sky, as if she’s looking for the strength. They want me to look them up once I make it to Australia, without really offering any clues as to how to do it. Robert pumps my hand warmly as he says goodbye. Over and over, Maureen keeps wishing me the best of luck.


On the steps of the Prado I meet Mariska - a bright, beaming Dutch girl I came across on CouchSurfing. She had a full house for much of the summer and couldn’t offer me a place to crash, but she has a few hours to kill, wandering around the city. She’s brought along a friend - a tall, handsome Dutchman named Dyck - and it doesn’t take much imagination to guess he’s chaperoning for this random Internet acquaintance. It’s not long, though, before he lets down his guard. He has a broad smile and an eager laugh, and soon he’s chattering away, telling me about the time he visited Coney Island.

He treats us to cañas and - content that he’s leaving her in good hands - gives Mariska a peck on each cheek before saying goodbye. We walk along the broad, busy Gran Via, popping into stores so she can return some t-shirts and pick up free tickets to a club. Mariska’s lived in Madrid for six years, leaving her home in Holland to follow a boyfriend from Spain. Now, with that relationship a distant memory, she’s getting ready to put the Madrid chapter of her life behind her. She plans to be in Holland within a couple of weeks, but she’s anxious to go back. After all these years, it hardly feels like home. She’ll be starting from scratch: a new job, a new apartment, a new life. Now and then, she breaks into short, nervous laughter. I tell her that if I ever make it back to New York, she’ll have a couch to crash on anytime she wants it.

She takes me through the hip Chueca barrio; though still a bit rough around the edges, it’s not hard to tell - from the slick clothing boutiques and swank lounges - that rent around here is through the roof. Mariska studies the shop windows. For the last few months she worked with a major Spanish clothing label, and I feel more than a bit shabby with my convertible pants and flip-flops - my backpack with the Nalgene bottle stuffed into the outer pocket. She hardly does my confidence much good. “Chueca is really where all the good shops are,” she says, adding off-handedly: “Not that you’re into fashion.”

After a pause she backtracks: what she means is that a kid living out of his backpack - on €40 a day, no less - probably isn’t too interested in a new pair of high-end jeans. Still, she’s managed to hit a sore point. My self-esteem has been plunging for the past few weeks. These madrileños are a slick species: the immaculate hair, the slim cuts of their skirts, the spiffy shoes, the crisp buttoned shirts. The alpha male of them all - the pijo - must suit up in the morning like a knight preparing for the battlefield. On my first night, Kay described him to me with a sort of bemused fascination. Always in neatly pressed slacks and shiny loafers. Around his shoulders a sweater spryly tied, the eyeglasses crafted with all the care of a Fabergé egg.

It’s hard to quantify just how scrubby I feel by comparison. I’ve been rotating through the same three pairs of pants, one of which - thanks to a laundry mishap - has blue streaks around the crotch and knees. My special-occasion linen pants aren’t worth the effort of ironing. My snazzy, faux-vintage t-shirts are really getting on my nerves.

Still, the travelers I meet and the CouchSurfers I crash with are all sympathetic: after all, they’ve been there before. Mariska does mean well, and she offers her place once she’s settled in Holland. It’s still hard to shake my doubts when I catch a sight of that haggard reflection in a shop window. That night I pop into a cerviceria for a quick caña, embarrassed to realize I’m short when the bill comes - a bad sign when that bill is just €2. I ask the bartender for directions to the nearest bank, and not a cloud of doubt troubles his brow as he sketches them out on his palm. But in spite of his best efforts, he can’t hide the shock when I come back, grinning bashfully with a €20 note in my hand. He shoots a look at the other bartender that might roughly translate as, “You were right, and the first round’s on me tonight.” When he hands me my change he says, “MUCHAS gracias,” with special emphasis. It’s the first time I can remember being thanked for not skipping out on a bill.

---