The Cigarette Lady

Still hanging around the Plaza Mayor Carolyn and I decided to grab some postcards to send home. We entered one of the many shops and bought a couple of postcards of downtown Madrid. I asked the gentleman what the things were called that were required to send them and he told me "sellos." Armed with this new vocabulary word I sought out a tabbacheria (small tobacco shops I frequented in Italy that sold stamps) in hopes that they sold stamps like the ones in Italy. Carolyn and I entered and met the cutest little lady. She had to have been about 80 years old and as soon as I asked her about the economy here in Spain she began using mouthfuls of words I'd never heard before. In cases like these I simply smile, listen intently and nod my head. She sold us our stamps and then chatted despite clients coming in every four minutes to buy Lucky Strike and Marlboro Red.

Alejandro from Transylvania, Romania

Carolyn and I spent the morning walking the streets of Madrid. After a small breakfast of tea and a chocolate croissant that came warm out of the oven we headed out to scour the city. We wandered along the cobblestone streets until we came to Plaza Mayor. Since our schedules are still off we were wide awake at 7 a.m. and found that many of Madrid's residents were still fast asleep. I met Alejandro in the plaza. He was awake while his neighbors around him slept soundly on cardboard. He is from Transylvania, Romania and came here to Madrid looking for work. In his country he worked as a veterinarian but ended up trying to improve his life by coming to Spain. The job he intended on getting here fell through and now he begs until he can return to Romania. The police arrived and began waking up the sleepy street people while I spoke with Alejandro.

American Space and Travel Face

There are a couple of definitions I need to actually define for those of you who don't travel. The first is "American Space" (not to be confused with our current space program).

American Space: This is the space most Americans give each other when standing in line or waiting in a public place. In France (I haven't seen this happen in other countries just yet) if you leave any space at all between you and a service counter or another person in line ahead of you,  an unassuming European will slide in front of you. The only reason I can fathom that they have this different perception of depth is because many European countries are so small and people must take advantage of space here. Much like parking on the streets of Italy, Europeans fill every nook and cranny with themselves. So make sure you don’t leave any nooks, or they will be filled by Euros.


Travel Face: I'm really hoping that this phenomenon isn't "Aaron-centric." When I board ANY plane for a flight that lasts longer than four or five hours I get extremely greasy and dirty feeling. Even if I walked straight from a shower comprised of dial soap and steel wool and boarded a plane I would still exit feeling dirty and greasy. My hair feels greasy. My skin on my face feels greasy. And I just feel like I haven't showered in days. This might be due to the fact that my body is producing extra oils because it's in a state of stress. Sitting for that length of time usually leaves me squirming in my seat and utilizing every inch of my back side from just above the knees to just below my shoulder blades. I've even been known to use the sides of my buttocks so as to avoid putting pressure on a patch of skin that's already received a good sitting.  

Air France or Air Farce

While I crave the excitement of travel, I have never found airports to be particularly pleasing.  Sure, I like to boast that I know my way around various International airports like Charles DeGaulle or Malpensa in Milan but the truth is I hate them. I hate the people you talk to behind the counter. I hate the people that sell you food at extortion-like prices and I hate the fact that you’re at their mercy until you get on your flight. I hate packing heavy luggage toward the B gate when your flight leaves from the A gate. I hate worrying about a 25 lb. weight limit on my carry-on when the damned airlines never weigh it. And mostly I hate when you and your traveling companion book seats together but wind up getting seats separated by 10 rows of French. A people which make you feel like you’ve asked them to borrow the very Palace of Versailles when you simply ask them to exchange seats. No offense intended to Air France and the seat-gripping Frenchies, but when people book together, let them sit together. The flight is more than half a day from the United States west coast. It took a polite young American guy to switch seats with me so that I could sit by Carolyn. I was just completely distracted by the guy behind me who has put his knee in my back every 10 minutes since I sat here. Good time for a paragraph break and to describe why I have a hard time with the French.

This transatlantic flight is the worst flight I’ve ever done. No, I’ve never done Australia or New Zealand (countries whose flight times give new appreciation for how big the world really is)  and would probably wimp out entirely considering that my back cramps, knee hurts and certain parts of me beg for preparation H after I’ve landed. I’ve never given birth and I hear from females I know that it’s excruciating pain for a lengthy amount of time – usually hours. I also learned that there is a biological phenomenon that helps women forget the pain they endured during pregnancy. This mental block is to ensure that the traumatizing experience doesn’t hinder them from giving birth again. Transatlantic air travel is very similar to birth. It is agonizingly painful, the food isn’t very good and you finish off the experience with hemorrhoids. As the months after the trip pass, you begin to forget how awful sitting on your butt was. In fact, after about a year, you’ve forgotten all about the pain you experienced last time. The memory doesn’t return until you stare down at your tickets as you begin to board and notice that you’ve been put on opposite sides of the plane.

After experiencing delays at Charles de Gaulle in Paris, we finally boarded our airplane to Madrid running about 3 hours late. This put us in Madrid so late that the hostel gave our rooms to someone else (we were scheduled to arrive at 6). Because of the overbooking, they gave us rooms with a private bathroom at no extra cost. I'm so exhausted from packing my two backpacks around the airports and Madrid metro that I feel like I'm on the Gravitron at the fair and I can't bring my head off the wall. Buenas Noches.

A sandwich called a "bocadillo." This consisted of a sharp cheese much like parmesan and prosciutto on a baguette. 

Dessert in Madrid and made in house by the cook at Museo di Jamon. They call this "pudding" but it's similar to flan except more substantial. The black syrup is honey that has been boiled until it turns dark and becomes bitter. This offsets the sweet of the pudding. Garnished on top are bits of foamy cream.