Musings From Madrid
Theo rarely over indexes on communicative logistics, so when he went into the apartment complex leaving the rest of us alone, linguistically challenged, and fresh off a red-eye in the Uber, his promise to be back in “un minuto” was thin appeasement to our growingly exasperated driver. The minutos quickly added up as he scrambled around the building looking for the utility man (of course on his day off). We should have been royally fucked if not for a janitor with a laissez-faire key policy. People say our heroic efforts with “lo siento. Nuestra amigo es un idiota” in the car made all the difference.
Starving, we were directed to the “best croquettes in Madrid,” a handsome looking restaurant around the corner with an assemblage of pearl-wearing young women in no rush to go anywhere at 3pm. We asked the waiter for recommendations - of the five presented, none were the croquettes (he must have been trying to gate-keep). We came dangerously close to triggering a swift return to Francoism by trying to order a coffee before the meal. I’ve never seen a man more disappointed (besides my father).
Morning was for culture; we enjoyed a Prado full of horny, arguably political Titians and the intensely dark, brutal, brilliant Goya. Afternoon dictated by vermouth — a fickle mistress and one for which our enjoyment earned chastisement by a middle aged bar-goer: In his professional opinion, it’s a drink exclusively for the morning hours.
By 2pm you should be onto some harder stuff. A number of Argentinians ex-pats were delightful companions and loving a stable(ish) currency. Theo was quick to point out fellow country-men & women on the street, but in Madrid it was largely unnecessary. They’re as obvious as a libertarian in Rwanda — tightly quaffed Tik Tok haircuts and streetwear stick out amidst the sea of God-fearing Catholic Spaniards dressed for the country club.
The plaza really hits in the exploding moment. A 9 pm cigarette with the sun still up, and a square lively with friends and family while a group of children shriek after a football bouncing across the dusty tundra. Young and old, they’ve hacked life as long as you’re ok with your GDP going to shit.
The highly walkable city (fuck you Le Corbusier!) gives you a deep appreciation of urban continuity, but does a number on the lumbar. One evening we were forced to crawl like vermin under a long bar that separated a crowded front section from an equally packed back. The crowd spanned 70 years, all engaging in the time honored tradition of salty snack and dark liqueurs. I do not know how the geriatrics managed the required vertical shifting. I almost called it a day under there.
Our final night we decided to treat ourselves to a lovely meal. The gentlemen were buzzing getting ready to enjoy a sophisticated evening with full bellies and good cheer. Fucking starving too having yet to adjust to the European culinary trajectory. As we crowded 4 into the tiny elevator, the conversation turned to Akshay’s childhood parkour camp (how could it not). It sounded pretty hard core, and its important to learn the basics before doing anything stupid. And those Delhi folk are anything but stupid. Argentinians on the other side? Well they make famously quick judgements.
No sooner had we turned onto the main drag than our fun-sized South American started bouncing off ledges leaping upwards of 2 inches off the ground and exclaiming “par-kour” (as is required). He spun across the sidewalk, nearly barreling into an elderly couple with a look of sheer terror on their faces. He identified a petite tree for his denouement and launched towards it: The take off looked great, gravity be-damned, and I’m sure he thought he’d get plenty of purchase off the trunk, but there’s something about that Mediterranean air that leads to slippery bark (its true, look it up!) [editors note: this is not true]. Instead, his foot slid quickly off the edge and a perfectly placed street sign asked for a quick introduction. Instead of the firm grasp and eye-contact we learned in business school, he chose to greet with his scalp.
Initially, it looked like the major injury was ego-related, as the entire crowd stood mouths agape in disbelief at the foreign act of sidewalk terrorism that had just occurred. But two steps it was clear he was Jackson Pollacking the street with an open head-wound. The friendly Gelato-man was kind enough to provide a fistful of napkins, while Theo leaked from the dome. I hope they name a new flavor after him.
We returned home to assess the damage, a half million in education seriously unhelpful making the decision of the requisite medical attention needed. But against all Vegas odds, these 4 red-blooded males decided it was probably best to get the man stitched up. Akshay being the most capable, shepherded our punctured friend to the hospital (recommended by a couple that tried to physically force him into a taxi there in the moments after the accident).
At the hospital, two doctors told Theo to stop being such a crybaby and rub some dirt on it. He was about to leave but the 1 in 10 dentists that does not recommend Colgate toothpaste just HAD to have his word and decided it was probably for the best to close the open wound. Freaking scalpel jockeys man. But in an ultimate plot twist, it was not the single stitch he was expecting. The nurse stepped in with her finger on the trigger of a godforsaken staple gun and poor Theo’s eyes shot out of his skull. He needed un momento to gather his thoughts and offer a single prayer before they turned him into a bionic man with a metal skull.
Luckily, the night was saved by a few metric hectares of fernet, Paolo Londra music videos, and an adventure out.
