Salt and vinegar burn the sides of my mouth, the tiny granules sinking deep into the holes I have chewed in my lips and peeling tiny layers of skin off of my tongue. It has been a week or two since my arrival in Madrid and I am starving; the little gas station where we have pulled off to grab some lunch serves some fairly questionable bocadillos. I am still craving the beautiful tomato and mozzarella salad from last night, my single glass of white wine turning yellow in the moonlight, but for now these chips will have to do. I am tired in the best sense of that word. My body has been abused by my time traveling in Spain, spending hours on my feet in cathedrals and castles, in bars across town, and shakily standing in Metros. I have warped myself physically in order to take in all of the sights and sounds and scenery that make up the culture of this ancient city. I am exhausted, but happy.
In Madrid, we do not rest, we do not stop, we do not sleep. Instead, we fill those craved hours of slumber with bottles of red wine and true tourism. I have never once heard the uttering’s, “Hasta manana.” We do everything today. Ironically, the Spanish way of life is leisurely and slow-paced. Each business man, fruit stand owner, and fútbol player takes a half an hour break cada día at 11; the only people still employed during that sacred half-hour coffee break are the baristas who crank out miniature cups of café con leche for weary patrons. The afternoon siesta that takes place at noon is mandatory, especially for those who remained at the bars until their 6:30 a.m. closing time. From what I can tell, they sleep, they party, they sleep again, and they are not worried about tomorrow.
I know that I am an American solely because I need the rest where my European companions do not. If not for that detail, I would be able to give myself completely to the feeling that I belong here. Everything else about their culture and society are things that I have desired my entire life but have never quite known how to ask for. The Spanish people appreciate detail in ways that I have never before imagined possible. They taste their colors instead of seeing them, arranging bright green and red tomatoes on a bed of lettuce, adorning the salad of colores vivos with a regal crown of golden corn kernels and shreds of queso blanco. My señora hands me a plate far too full of this dish, imploring me to eat, and I do. I feel as though I am stuffing one of Kandinsky’s masterpieces onto my tongue, trying to draw meaning and personalities out of each flavor and color.
The architectural achievements of Spanish artists are clearly visible in every city I visit, from the Escher-like streets in Toledo to the Muslim palace, Alhambra, in La Granada. We teeter uphill in the calles angostas, slurping jet-lag reducing gelatos and sipping from our plastic to-go cups of wine. When we reach the seventy-fifth step, stumbling drunkenly out of the tower of whatever castle we have just succeeded vanquishing, our eyes are opened, really opened, to view the endless stretch of patchwork landscape in the paisaje de campo of beautiful Spain. If we chose our religion based on architecture alone, I would convert to Catholicism immediately.
The beauty in Spain is dispersed from the physical and the structural to the emotional and the imaginable. There is a certain kind of magic that takes place on the dirty underground metros unlike anywhere else in the world. Standing shakily on the tiled floor or grasping tightly to the vertical, orange handrails, we learn to fall in love. I am in love with the city, in love with the olfactory senses, and in love with stranger smiling shyly at me in the seat across from me on the subway. The cramped space between strangers leaves little room for timidity. You make a five-minute friendship that remains in your heart for a lifetime. Then, the blue line stops at the yellow, and you tumble out of the metal doors, stepping blinking into the sunlight.
The epicenter of Madrid culminates at the metro stop, Sol. Everyone clambers out here, from the club going adolescents to the dingy protestors living in tents outside of the entrance. The world of Spanish college students looks so vastly different from my American friends. Instead of wearing neon tank tops bestowed upon them by their fraternity brothers, the college graduates in Madrid are garnished in dingy hippie clothes and dreadlocks. Their armpits are sans deodorant, and their teeth do not appear to have greeted the bristles of a toothbrush in weeks. These protestors are fighting for their right to hold down a job, while their American counterparts are still fighting for their right to party. It is a completely different world off the red line.
A short walk from Sol leads you to Retiro Park. The park is next to the Prado museum, but the real artwork is in the nature and beauty within the gates. There are miles and miles of perfectly manicured trees and soft, luscious Spanish grass, and a little lake with a tiny fleet of row boats upon its glassy waters. The sun is reflecting light off of the marble statues and columns surrounding the lake, and the only logical solution is to blow off studying for finals and purchase a large Mahou and another bag of chips.
We take the bus to Santander, a little beach town on the northern border. Tomorrow I’m going to wake up early and do yoga by myself on the beach, surrounded by miles and miles of perfect white sand and fat-bellied tourists. The view from my hotel window looks like the picture of Spanish beaches that I had in my mind before I embarked on my adventure. Everything about Spain seems to be better than whatever my imagination dreamed up, and for the first time in my life, I know what it feels like to be completely free.
