I am feeling slightly old and weary today after turning 27 years old yesterday. My birthday passed without fanfare or fuss – it was a normal day at work for me, although I did treat myself to a nicer lunch than I would ordinarily buy, and for dinner I allowed myself to guzzle larger quantities of icecream and Chardonnay than I would ordinarily allow myself. It was also, the first time in my flat where I didn’t wash the dishes after cooking dinner, leaving them piled high in the sink, looking forlorn and unloved. It was also the first time that I had had a birthday in which I celebrated by myself, although it was no big deal. Frances did cook me a roast chicken over the weekend for my birthday dinner, and bought me a small plant for the flat which was very cute. And I managed to speak to my family and friends over the phone last night, and received all your lovely emails.
In the lead up to my birthday, I took some time off to go to Madrid for some time off and to sort out my visa to stay in the UK. Arriving in Madrid I was slightly nervous – I was ultra paranoid from reading about pickpockets and bag snatchers and bag slashers, and I was a little bit rusty on solo travel. But travelling into the centre of Madrid on the speedy metro, I felt this amazing rush of excitement. I usually only get this feeling when I first arrive in a new city – a whole city to be explored with its possibilities open to me, and it never fails to remind me why I pick myself from my bed and hurl myself into the unknown.
That first afternoon, I decided to take the hostel tour to meet new people and to gain my footing in a new city. It was nice being lazy for a couple of hours to have someone show us around, without the need for me to be the unwitting participant in Madrid’s “spot the incompetent tourist” charade. In between my bewilderment wondering whether Spaniards ever did any work through their hours-long siestas, I appreciated the gravitas of history that surely gave the Madrilenos their confidence. From the influences of the Moorish people, the Austrians and then the Muslims, Jews and Christians, you knew that the weight of these influences was enough to give the city its much deserved gravitas. While not having much of Barcelona’s gaudy excesses (pun intended), I came to see Madrid as a bastion of neo-classical architecture and preservation on another tour of Madrid outdoor art and architecture.
That night I had dinner with 2 people from the tour – a South Korean girl and a Brazilian guy who had never seen snow in his life. Both were very nice and sweet, although I clearly needed practice in speaking pidgin English. Out went my syntax and any form of eloquent expression until I returned to my hostel room to meet my new roommates. Shawn, an Aussie from Canberra was affable and we had a good chat. Shawn warned me that the South Korean guy in our room was “up for a chat” but didn’t elaborate, until it dawned upon me that a conversation of any complexity was going to involve elaborate hand signals and
v-e-r-y s-l-o-w s-p-e-a-k-i-n-g. It was all good natured of course, and both guys raved about how good Seville was.
The next morning, I went with Shaun to the train station to purchase our tickets – Shaun was off to Cordoba and I was going to take a day-trip to Toledo the next day. We waited for an hour to get my tickets, and was accosted by a little old lady shouting at me to donate money to her cause. A few people started to laugh and I had to pretend to laugh at myself, but inwardly seethed listening to a Spanish rant about elderly women or whatever the cause was. Having got our tickets, Shawn and I decided to head to the Sofia modern art museum. Along the way, I got both of us horribly lost, only to be saved by a very bizarre American man who gave us booklets on the Bible and thanked us Australians for saving American in the World Wars.
The modern art gallery was primarily famous for Picasso’s “Guernica” cubism painting. I myself wasn’t sure to look out for, but it was nice to walk around the gallery to talk about the collection to a guy who was neither here nor there about art. We passed a painting where people crowded around and appreciated it for a while, and then kept going. I realised that while I liked flying solo at art galleries, there was something very cathartic in being able to share your opinion on a particular piece. While our eloquence extended sometimes no more than “that’s shit”, or “that’s crap”, or “how bizarre”, I had a lot of fun. We ended up liking different works, and then found the “Guernica” – the painting which we had admired before, but not realised that it was in fact, the famous piece. We stood there for a while to get our money’s worth and wandered around looking at some other famous painters like Salvador Dali.
I bade farewell to Shawn and went back to the hostel for a rest. I met a new roommate, “Jeff from Salt Lake City, Utah” and unfortunately, he misheard my name and called me “Tiff” for the rest of the week. Jeff turned out to be a college jock Mormon who was quite possibly one of the most coolest and nicest ultra-religious people I have ever met. He liked sports, girls and God and we had a great chat. I was going to have an early night to get up for Toledo the next day, so Jeff leant me his PSP to watch movies while he went out. I couldn’t believe how trusting he was, and told him that he was lucky I was an honest bloke. I don’t know what it is, but he is the second person in a month to say that I had a “trustworthy face”. I’m sure I would have been damned to hell and whatever Prophet the Mormons believed in had I run away with his PSP.
I then lucked out with roommates. Three very large American guys came in with enormous suitcases. They took forever in getting ready to go out, and then left me in peace to go to sleep. That night, I counted 5 reasons, why I would never ever stay in a hostel again.
1. Jeff and friends came back at 2am. Jeff, being a Mormon, didn’t drink, but his friend clearly had. It was very funny though – Jeff came in quietly, but his friend walked into the side of the door. Amidst the wailing, Jeff was shushing away his friend, telling him that I had woken up his roommate. His friend came up to me and drunkenly said “I’m so sorry Tiff”, and then walked into the door again. Mayhem ensued.
2. At 3am, one large American came back in. Belch and scratch noises pierced the silence.
3. At 3.30, another large American came back in. More belching and scratching. A shower was started.
4. At 4am, other American came in and fell over the pile of their suitcases in middle of room.
5. At 4.30, Jeff returns to room sans drunk (but very funny) friend. Says hello again and asks me what time I’m getting up. Apparently in 3 hours. Asks me to get him up at same time.
The next day, a very grumpy Taffy went off to Toledo. The new high-speed Renfe trains were great. Fast, comfortable and clean, I was deposited into Toledo in 30 minutes. I took the bus into the centre to get a map, but discovered the tourist centre was closed until 11am. I grumbled to myself something about working hours only being between 11am and 1pm.
Toledo, however, is quite a pretty city. For centuries, Jews, Muslims and Christians managed to live together in harmony without their religious faith colliding. They built spectacular cathedrals, temples and synagogues and a thriving community. While I paid to go into the cathedral and synagogue, it was nice to stroll around the rather hilly town, until it started to rain. At one point I got too miserable and wet, and ducked into a restaurant for lunch where they charged me like red flag to a wounded bull for everything. By then I had had enough, and caught an early bus to the train station for the ride home.
That afternoon, I decided to head over the Prado Museum for some classical art. I suppose as well I should admit that I was bored, and that entry was free. The Prado is apparently one of the largest galleries in Europe, and it was surprisingly good. Large spacious galleries held the crowds at bay, and it was possible to enjoy the galleries without jostling for position. After I had had enough of renaissance art, I headed back to the hostel and the little deli close-by for dinner, ordering an enormous slice of Tiramisu for dessert. Jeff was back in the room, and we had a good chat again. I had some many questions about the Mormons, and it turns out that he was sent to Lima for two years to teach. The good thing was that he didn’t ram down his teachings down my throat, and while I disagreed on a couple of things with him, he wasn’t annoyed when I was surprised that he had never drunk alcohol in his life before. Clearly a man of many talents (God-divined perhaps?), he played lacrosse and wrestled at college and also was learning ballroom dancing and Spanish, in addition to teaching for his Church. While I’m not sure of the whole Mormon thing, this was a guy who you would love to hate.
My last day in Madrid was my slow “I could not be bothered and I am on holiday” day, despite my wish to find chocolate con churros (which I never did find). I wandered the main shopping drag of Gran Via, and strolled around the hip Chueca district before going back to visit the Palace and cathedral. The Palace and Cathedral were built very close to each other to symbolise the close relationship between Church and State, although once inside the Palace, I wondered whether any divine inspiration from the interior design. The interior of the Palace, was frankly, hideous. Excessively opulent, dark and over-the-top, I went through the rooms and sometimes just stood there to gape. One memorable room was made entirely of porcelain – apparently very fine and expensive porcelain, but I could helpn’t wonder whether this porcelain encrusted “Reading Room” was more like one big lavatory where you sat on the throne to read while attending to your business. The highlight was to see a collection of Stradivarius string instruments and priceless Chinese Ming vases, presumably gifts, but probably pinched. The Cathedral on the other hand, was stunning inside. I would have to call it as one of the more beautiful cathedrals that I have seen, although the Cathedral exterior facing the Palace was very demure – so as to not offend the Royals.
Back at the hostel, luck in roommates turned my way. I met Tom from Seattle, aged 29. I asked Tom whether he felt old being 29, but his style of travel was similar to mine – take shorter breaks so as not to get too tired of hostels, and only stay in hostels for the sole reason of meeting new people. A little while later after we decided to grab a drink, Chris from Canada who was British but had just moved to Madrid that day entered stage right. We decided to go out on the town that night, and I waited for Tom to clean up the water fountain he created in the bathroom, and then waited for Chris to preen himself for a night out. Both were good guys, and were keen to together a bunch of people. We were rebuffed by everyone sitting at the PCs staring intently at the internet, although another rather loud Aussie called Kat came with us for a drink.
First stop was KFC (God forbid) but following a wander around Puerta del Sol, we managed to find ourselves with a pint. It was nice to chat, and it turns out that the 4 of us had moved quite long distances away from home. Chris and I talked about the deterioration of the UK, and wondered why the Europeans managed to encourage culture, while the UK managed to promote welfare and a gang culture. We shook our heads sadly.
But of course the party continued on. We trooped aimlessly for a while and ended up in the gay part of the town. The boys wanted to go somewhere else, so we walked back along Gran Via, checking out the architecture lit up at night, Chris telling buskers in Spanish to piss off, and laughing and carrying on until we walked back to the hostel at 3am. As I got into the dorm, Jeff woke up and we all had a chat, except for our 5th roommate who hid under his hoodie and then went for a smoke in the bathroom. We were not impressed, so we kept on talking until the early hours of the morning.
It was then that I realised that this was the exact reason why I stay in hostels. To meet weird and wonderful people – people of different religions, people who like talking the language of American politics, people who find nourishment in travel and art and a beer and chat at the end of a long day.
I bade a sad farewell to my roommate amigos early that morning, bringing to mind a conversation I had with Shawn. Shawn had proposed a question whether it was the hostel that made the trip, or the city that made a trip. While a city can be fascinating and exciting, we both came to the conclusion that our travels were enlivened meeting good people at hostels and exploring the city with new mates. Holding that though, I went to breakfast and stirred up the very angry lady in the kitchen who was banging around breakfast plates and cups with a cheery “hola!”. She grimaced at me, and kept on wanting to break plates without daring to break plates in case she got fired. And then I was off to the Airport for the journey home to London where all I could do was collapse in a heap to listen to Frances’ travels to Egypt and gorge on roast chicken.
Bueno.
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