Madrid: Arrival

After flying eighteen hours I land in a foreign country. The language is different, the customs are different, the city I speed towards in the shuttle from the airport is so ancient that the cemetery you pass resembles a neighborhood with apartment style living and rates it's own street signs. Every foot of free space has been filled with graves and many of the dead lie in cupboard-like spaces in buildings 30 feet high. The route to my apartment in the city takes me past hundred year old buildings, down central avenues, and finally to a tiny cobbled street where I ring the buzzer of the unassuming door under the number 2, introduce myself to the apartment manager Hector, and cram myself and my malletas (luggage) into the smallest elevator in the world rather than brave the steep spiral staircase to the second floor, aka the third story.

While I only have energy to take in the labyrinth-like apartment (in which I am still getting lost), attempt to remember the names of my flatmates (who hail from France, Germany, Venezuela, Argentina, Poland, China, and others), stumble to the supermarket in the department store I can see from the balconies off the dining room, make dinner, and fall into bed, when I wake up in the morning I decide that I must start getting to know the city where I will be spending the next three and a half months. I want to know these streets like the back of my hand. The best way to do this? Get lost.

I tuck a guidebook, my Madrid moleskin (an invaluable little handbook with maps, a street index, a metro map, and all sorts of room for notes), and my wallet into my bag and start out. My first destination: the Plaza Mayor. I walked to this magnificent cobbled central square every day of m visit to Madrid three years ago. Seeing as I live not two blocks from the hotel I stayed in then, finding the Plaza should be a breeze. Except it is not. I walk up and down narrow streets, looking for landmarks I remember, a restaurant, a chocolateria, and find myself in a totally unexpected square presided over by a stone palace. Very cute, but not the Plaza Mayor. Pleasantly bemused, I take note of the name (in tile on the wall of a building) and search for it in my moleskin. Bingo! I strayed too far west. I study the map and then put it back in my purse. The last thing I want to seem like is a tourist. I find the Plaza Mayor soon after, entering it from a different side than I had originally planned.

My wanderings continue in this manner. I explore the streets around the Plaza and find the restaurant and chocolateria, they have not disappeared to my relief. I pass Botin's, the oldest restaurant in the world, and the group of tourists outside. Having first gone about ten minutes in the wrong direction, I follow el Calle Cuchillero, the street of the barbers, to one of the fresh markets of Madrid. It is under construction, getting a brand new, glass and metal building. Undeterred I set out to find the other market listed in my handbook. After walking down a long, winding, street, lined with taverns, where I have to step over puddles of urine on the cobbles, I come upon a plaza with the monolithic market building.

A giant of concrete, the market has two level of stands set out in concrete blocks with metal shutters. Only half are open. They are divided by what kind of food they sell: fruits and vegetables, meat, seafood, poultry and eggs, cheese and charcuterie (cured meats), yogurt and packaged food, and one with pastries. The clients are mainly older Spanish men in button up shirts and older women in nice blouses and skirts. I wander for a while, trying to work up the courage to buy something. Also, to get a feel for the goods and the vendors. I choose a small produce stand operated by a small middle aged woman and patronized by women of a similar or greater age. I wait until the vendor is free and then catch her eye. We greet each other. Then, unsure of how to begin I point at the figs and ask "Como se dice eso?" How do you say that? One of my favorite Spanish phrases. I have struck the right note. The vendor smiles and comes around the stand. She tells me the names of the fruits. Exhilarated by her kindness I buy a quarter kilo each of the figs and the grapes. She gives me a fig to taste. I also buy two kinds of peaches and a cucumber. She puts my purchases in cones of heavy, soft paper and places them in a plastic beg. She forgets to charge me for the cucumber, so she tucks in to my bag and says "Yo te regalo." I will make it a gift to you.

I buy cheese and eggs as well, and then manage to make it home without looking at a map. In my room, with a window onto an air shaft above a restaurant, I spread my purchases out onto the bed and take a picture of them. I am proud of what I have bought, proud of the fact that I had the courage to buy it. Although I venture out again to find the Plaza del Sol and to buy groceries (and spend about 40 minutes in confusion and frustration before realizing that shampoo and soap are not sold in the supermarket, but two floors up in the department store in their "pharmacia") this moment remains my crowning achievement. For lunch I feast on bread and cheese, figs and grapes, and a frescia, one of the kinds of peaches.