BACK ON THE AIR

Dead Women Don’t Wear Socks

What you don’t have, you don’t need it now
-U2

Hello! Tried to post on Sunday but it was rainy in Madrid so every Internet place was “Occupado” and there were no free computers. But I had a nice dinner at cool wine bar and then saw Atletico Madrid beat Athletic Bilbao 1 – 0 at Calderon Stadium. I love that place! The atmosphere, the crowd, the vibe – it’s all great. I sit there with my Atletico scarf and look like I’m ten times warmer than all the other “Madrilenos” because they can’t handle the cold at all. But truly are they bonkers about football. It was a 9 PM start on a Sunday night, kind of strange by our standards. They don’t sell beer inside (it’s UEFA rule, because of hooliganism) but that doesn’t stop people from partying around the stadium with beer and mixed drinks in plastic cups.

The flat is coming along, even if we never really have hot water for showers or dishes. It’s very run down though, as the last tenant died in October. I don’t know if she actually died in the house, but there’s a good chance that if she did, I’m sleeping in her room and in her bed. We found a date book from 1981, a couple of those laminated pictures with saints, and a few pairs of socks. While I am not proud of it, I will admit to wearing a couple of the black ones when our washer was not working. The gal friends that I actually told where mortified. Hey, life is hard here in Madrid. You do what you have to do. It would be different if I had killed her for them. But no, the autopsy showed natural causes.

We had our flat-warming party on Saturday. It was fun. A few of our friends from school and about six friends of Stuart’s friends (He worked in the south of Spain this summer), all female, who were all smoking hot.

Deirdre said to me, “You must be in your glory, surrounded by all these hot Spanish women.”

“Sure.” I said. “They’re all nice looking.”
“Nice?” said Deidre. “They’re fucking gorgeous.”
“I stand corrected.”

So our party winded down at about 2 AM, and then we went out to a disco. Psychotic, isn’t it. Oh well, when in Spain….

So then I woke up at 2 PM, cleaned the flat with Stuart and Kristen, and then went downtown to Madrid’s center to check out the hostel my sister will be staying in come March. Her and Jan are coming for a week in March, which will be great.

One thing I have really learned in the last month is that Americans live in absolute splendor with the best appliances, amount of living space and technology. I have to turn up this little heater to do the dishes. And dishwashers are a distant memory. While some flats have them, ours does not.

But I have a big room and we have a big common living space. And an awesome deck. The deck looks down onto bustling Calle (Street) Bravo Murillo, as does my room. The kitchen and Stuart and Kristen’s rooms look out at the mountains where there is actually snow. Unfortunately there’s a big ugly crane out there too - always the yin and the yang.

I miss hockey. The only ice they have here is in drinks.
And I miss constant access to the Internet. What a valuable tool that is.

I walked in the big park towards the south of the city on Saturday evening. It had beautifully manicured hedges and all. Then I heard drums. I followed the noise for a while and came to some kind of outdoor monument- think the Jefferson Memorial shape with no roof, and not made of marble. This is where the drums were coming from. They were smoking lots of different stuff and drinking beer, about a hundred of them. There were fires lit everywhere, and this long cosmic arc of drums. There was only a little talking going on. It was so primal. I half expected to see monkeys hammering rocks with bones. Then of course, the monkey throws the bone into the air…. I didn’t stay long, but it was a very bizarre thing to see. It was so tribal, in the middle of this park. This was the hoedown of the people. The Madrillenos are different from any other people I have met. It’s still hard for me to get my arms around what makes them tick. So far, I would say eating, dancing and staying out all night. I guess it’s all a question of priorities.

Martes (Tuesday)

Things are starting to somewhat normalize. We cook at home, we eat, we go to work, etc. The weather has been nice – like DC in early Spring. Kind if rainy too, which is a sign of winter here. All in all it’s very temperate. It was about 16 Celsius today.

Work is fine. Tomorrow night I’ll be teaching again to a pair of sisters. Haven’t met them yet as it’s through an agency, so we’ll see how that goes. Training at my main place, ELC is fine. Mostly just doing lesson plans and all, but I believe I’ll like it. My boss, Alex, is actually the owner of the company. He’s about the same age as me from Edinburgh. He came over 20 years ago to teach English and never left — Spanish wife, kids, the whole sha-bang. Anyway, he seems to do well and has asked my assistance with marketing, so we’ll see if this gig grows into something even bigger. Seems like they’ll be more hours down the line for me as well. So I’m pleased with that.

What else would you give a shit about, my dear reader? There’s an accordion player out under our balcony everyday. Old little guy, with his hat and all. His constant playing drives Stuart, my flatmate, batshit for some reason. He’s a farm boy. I guess he’s used to animal sounds.

I continue to go out on the deck a few times a day and watch the hustle and bustle. Very interesting stuff; to be a big lazy spider in a blue web, high above, and take it all in. The cars, the chirping traffic signals, the random voices, the ringing of cell phones and the unceasing accordion add to the din.


DON’T STAND SO CLOSE TO ME

Miercoles

Young teacher,
the subject
of school girl fantasy
-The Police

I can’t post on the blog for some weird reason. My computer at work hates blogspot. Oh well. I’ll be preserving the record here in Word until I can get to the Internet café. We’re having a hard time finding out how to get WiFi in the flat. Everything here, business wise, is so half-assed. I think anyone reading this blog could become the country’s top Exec inside of two years.

More windy spring weather. More jamon (ham). More cured cheese. It’s all good. I taught my first class with a new company- 4 hours a week to two college age Spanish sisters. Ay Carumba! I walked in flustered, having searched for the place for 20 minutes (Spanish planning leaves a lot to be desired).

This smoking gal opens the door (like 21). I introduce myself and she says she’s Maria. She then walks me into her room and closes the door! Wow! Total culture shock!

“You are hot?” she says in Spanish.

I was relieved when she closed the window. Although, it turned out to be bad because it was 90 degrees in there. I wear t-shirts when Spaniards wear sweaters. So here I am, sweating like Michael Moore, trying to teach her. The dizzy broad who runs the English agency had the two of them at the wrong levels, and the books I brought were way too advanced for her. So I just danced my way through it for an hour and a half. When we were done, the lesson had gone well but I was soaked like a sponge. I was putting my jacket on and said. “You did very well, Maria. I’ll see you tomorrow at 18:00.

“You want to meet my sister who you have Friday? Hey Ana!”

“Buenos dias. Hello” She says. Also smoking hot with a beautiful smile. Also blonde, maybe 23.

“Hola,” I manage to squeak out.

“En Viernes.”

“Si,” I say, swallowing my tongue. “On Friday.”

#


Miercoles evening

Irish Accent: “Who was that on the phone, your one on one (lesson),” said Stuart.

“Yeah,” I said. “Isabelle.”

California surfer girl accent: “The hottie from the autobus?” says Kristen.

“Yes.”

“Good work, man,” says Stuart. “They’re good money, dem one on one yolks. When are you seeing her.”

“On Friday.”

“On Friday?” he asks. Classes are rarely on Friday, and if so, early in the morning. “What time?”

“Seven,” I say.

“In da morning?”

“No, night.”

“That’s a date,” says Kristen with a laugh.

“Aw, that’s a date, for fuck’s sake,” says Stuart. “How much she pay’n ya?”

“20 Euros.”

“20 Euro to go out on a date? Not bad man, not bad. That’s top dollar.”

#

And so the world keeps on spinning. Turning. Possibly wavering, in its orbit. The sun rises, the sun sets. Settling into business as usual, life as normal. I’m just an irregular guy trying to make his way in the big Spanish city. It’s high time for things to normalize. Maybe.





EL DUDE, THE PIMP

Part One: Last Martes (Tuesday)

We all went out after Deidre and Sydney came to check out the house. Kristen saw this place with just a yellow and black sign outside that said The Jazz Bar. “Sweet!” we’ll see some jazz, we thought.

The door was locked and we had to be buzzed in (I’m used to being buzzed on the way out). Anyway, we get in and there’s no jazz. Just a few folks sitting around the C shaped bar. But they do have an ancient foozeball table that has one side in white for Real Madrid and one side in white and red stripes for Atletico Madrid. Stuart and I played a few games (I kicked his ass). Then we played plastic darts and I kicked everyone’s ass at that. Then these three guys walked in the bar and things got weird.

They all started coming up to Sydney and saying “La Rubia (the blonde). They were like jackals. They’re all gawking and acting like stupid school boys. Kristen left because she had a tough day and was schnockered (a girl should never drink an entire bottle of wine). Then this one tall stupid guy comes up to me and starts trying to be my buddy. “I love Americans. I love Americans.” Then he asks if I think Sydney will go home with three of them, like she’s my ho. I tell them definitively ‘no.” They’ve now all surrounded here.

“Okay” I say. “That’s it.” I push them all away into a neutral corner and pay for our drinks.

“Papa Jay!” yells Stuart. That’s their name for when I take control. I took Sydney by the hand, pushed my way through the jackals, and walked her home.

Yet another story about how ignorant the Madrillenos can be thick as a brick.

Part Two

It’s easy to love folly…in a child
-Merlin to Arthur
Excalibur

Exactly one week later, Deidre and I go out for a drink. We couldn’t find an Internet place that I’ve been to twice before. Damn! The streets all look a like here. I even knew the street name and couldn’t find it.

So we went to a cervezaria for a beer. Some bars only sell eight ounce beers in bottles, which is weird. I want to say “Throw that thing back until it grows some.” Anyway, good thing it was a small beer as the place had no ventilation and I thought I was about to drop dead from all the smoke! So we left.

“Want to hit The Jazz Bar for one more?” she said. “You can sell Sydney off without her being there!”

“Sure,” I said.

We didn’t need to be buzzed in again this time and I waved to the bartender, a gal with long black hair. We both ordered a Mahou (pronounced Mao, like in The Deer Hunter), a local beer brewed in Madrid. We yapped for a while about our news jobs and such.

It was mostly older men and they were wasted. They were leaning against the bar in with their eyes shut and looked like they were on smack. Drinking, smoking like fiends and singing White Snake’s “Here I Go Again,” in Spanish. It was a scene, but the bar had good ventilation and we could breathe.

Then this little guy with long, straggly, feathered, gray hair starts shooting darts behind us, by himself. The strange thing is that he’s cursing and punching the wall. “He’s losing and owes himself money.” Deidre laughed.

Soon it was 12:30 and we paid the bill and made to leave. Deidre had noticed one of the guys across the bar as one of the dopes who tried to “rent” Sydney. This guy comes over towards us. Great, we think.

“Hello, Hello my friend,” and he shakes my hand. He then takes Deidre’s hand and goes to kiss it, but he’s drunk and it takes five days before his lips can touch her hand, and just before they do, she pulls her hand away.

“I thought he was going to lick my hand!” she says with a giggle. I’m trying to get past this asshole and head home, but he’s inbetween the bar and the fooseball game. He ‘sbabbling something and extends his right hand towards me. I’m ignoring the old sod. So suddenly the bastard slaps me in the face with the back of his hand like he’s some Girl Scout. Needless to say, I am furious. Deidre throws herself in between us (she’s 5’8 just like me). I leave my feet and and thrust out both arms and hit him in the breastbone with open palms. He went staggering back. At this point, I’m on auto pilot. I’ve just been back hand slapped across the face by some drunk Spanish pussy. Given it wasn’t hard at all, but it’s the principal. I pulled back my right arm and tried to think about what the Seester, who spent a decade in the Navy, taught me about hand combat.

Open palms. Thrust through the target: which in this case is the fucker’s nose. Christ I hope he’s not HIV positive, cause there’s going to be a lake of blood when his nose breaks. Thrust the chards up into the brain. No! That will kill him. Just strike through, not up. There’s three guys over there,,., only one big enough to cause trouble if they come to the aid of this douche when I drop him.

Q:“What was the last thing to go through the fly’s mind when he hit the windshield?”
A: “His Asshole.”
Say goodbye to your nariz asshole!

This all took less than a second to go through my mind. My arm was all the way back now and ready to go forward.

“NO!!!! Jay Don’t” Deidre screamed, and jumped in front of me. I had
just told her the entire story about Darth and how I would never hit a woman, and could prove it. She put me to the test. Fuck! I really wanted to drop this bitch. I’m no street brawler, as you all know, but when some gutless Spanish slug slaps you, it means it’s time to throw down.

He must have realized Deidre had saved his bacon, and he starts saying “It’s a tradition! It’s just a tradition!” I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. The barmaid was yelling in Spanish. I knew she spoke a touch of English.

“Tell him that it’s tradition that now I kick his ass!”

The big lug of a guy pulled the asshole away and we left. “For fuck sakes,” said Deidre. “Soon we won’t be able to go to a single bar around here. You okay?”

I told her I was fine.

So, we won’t be going back there. I still don’t know what the fuck he was talking about when he said “It’s tradition.” Did it having something to do with Deidre pulling her hand away when he tried to kiss it?” I mean, he was looking at it like it was a jamon sandwich. I have no idea.

I don’t know why Spanish people hate me so much. Most folks in the states like me. Except for one.