My latest travel narrative
I didn´t do so hot on the first travel narrative gradewise, but I still like it. Thanks to everyone that put up something nice about it.
Here´s my latest, I guess I´ll see if I did any better. I think I went for a little different style. So here it is...
Thinking to Myself
I wake up late on a Saturday to a sudden RAP! RAP! RAP! On my bedroom door; it is my second weekend in Madrid and I am enjoying my bed entirely too much. My room mate, Austin, is still passed out in his bed, which is adjacent to mine. Just like every night, half of his blankets have found their way to the floor. Angel, our host Señor, walks briskly into the room with a burst of energy announcing that the paella is ready. Just having woken up, my stomach is in no mood for a meal of this caliber. Lazily, I take my time in brushing my teeth and washing my face, watching the bubbles disappear soundlessly down the drain. I think to myself, last night was great, and I could care less if the paella is cold when I sit down at the table. I continued to take my time, but eventually decided it was time to grub.
Walking from room to room in the hallway of our tiny Spanish apartment, I encounter a series of light switches that must be turned on and off in order to save on electricity costs. Upon returning home, I imagine my parents will appreciate the frugality that I have learned here. There is not an ounce of natural light that is able to pierce this dark, maze-like corridor; until I am able to find a light switch, I pretend I am a bat sending out sonar sounds, attempting to locate them. I have already knocked more than my fair share of figurines and pictures over, and I have barely just settled in.
I enter the kitchen and exchange Spanish greetings with Rosa, our host Señora. With an encompassing and inviting smile she speaks a million words a minute. I finally understand her when she says, “¡Pasa, pasa!” while motioning to the table. I quickly figured out that’s my cue to enter. As always, the home cooked Spanish meal looks and smells phenomenal. Rich, moist, deep yellow rice sits in front of me gently allowing its steam to fill the air. Mixed with the rice is a colorful array of vegetables, succulent chicken, which is still on the bone, tender ham, spareribs, and my favorite, chorizo. She knows this and puts chorizo in half the meals. Yea, I’ll probably get sick of it one of these days, but for now I’ll enjoy my fill. I can feel my hunger begin to rise as I devour this meal with my eyes. Voraciously, I attack with my weapons of choice: a fork and a knife set precisely to the left and to the right of my plate. I can always count on finding the spoon to my right. Over the course of almuerzo we speak solely in Spanish and discuss the events which have occurred between our meals together. I enjoy the family oriented setting in which we live; it reminds me of home when I was young. My father would ask questions and intently listening to my responses. The atmosphere is similar here and provides a level of comfort despite the language and cultural barriers. There is a basketball game on TV and our conversation quickly moves there. If I understand correctly, Angel explains how he used to teach some of the players in University. Soon, Almuerzo ends with a salud! and a chupito of hierba liquor on ice.
Walking back through the dark labyrinth that leads to me room, I think to myself, God damn I gotta let this food settle. At this point I desperately need to lie down, so I switch on the TV and catch the end of Abre Los Ojos, the Spanish original that Vanilla Sky (that weird movie with Tom Cruise) was based on. Surprisingly, I enjoyed the original more. And, watching Penelope Cruz is always a plus. I think to myself, she was born in Madrid. What are my chances of finding her and sweeping her off her feet while I am here? Probably slim to none, but hey, a guy can hope.
The movie ends, my stomach is about as settled as it’s gonna get, and I am motivated to get the hell out of my small room. There is an entire city out my window to explore. On this particular day, I decided to go solo, just to see what happens. I can make my own agenda at my own pace. It feels like less responsibility. I start thinking, I haven’t seen Plaza Mayor yet, so that’s where I head to. On my way to the Metro I ask an old man, “¿Sabe donde esta la Plaza Mayor?” He hasn’t the slightest clue, but points me in the direction of the Metro. Poor old man, at least he tried to help…I guess. I decide to wing it. Someone once told me it might be near Banco de España.
Switching colored Metro lines and traversing across Madrid, I think to myself, this is odd. Where are all of the street musicians that flood the Metros and their stations? Maybe they take the weekends off? I wait and ride the train in silence; I am in no rush and go as I please.
Arriving at Banco de España, I am enthralled to get out of the Metro and into the warm Spanish sun. I think of another oddity. It’s really just the same sun everywhere you go. It’s weird that you hear people calling it the Spanish, the Arctic, or the California sun. It’s always that same one. I try not to dwell on it. Plus, I don’t see any sign of Plaza Mayor, so I walk straight. After making my way through a small park and passing countless people, I find innumerable buildings that flood my visual senses, an obelisk and eternal flame dedicated to all those whom have died for Spain, the Prado Museum, and finally a real treasure that would soon become a weekend tradition during my stay in Madrid.
Parque Buen Retiro lies ahead just in the distance and I am struck with awe at its beauty. I am about to enter into a large garden with extremely well pruned trees and bushes. I start thinking to myself, damn I worked landscaping all summer and I can’t prune a bush like that for the life of me. Now, these bushes were pruned to perfection. They arced, swirled, shaped and formed perfect spheres, bends and circles. I was utterly amazed at these Spanish landscaping skills. Something immediately pushes this little jealousy out of my mind. From the distance, I hear the faint THUD BUMP BUMP THUD of drums. I feel like a shark smelling blood a hundred miles away in the ocean, and am instantly drawn to the tribal music.
I walk for a while, pass through a wooded area and emerge in front of a lake dotted with little row boats, number 23, 16, 45, 8, and so on. I think to myself, how do I get one of those boats? Maybe I can invite Penelope Cruz when I finally find her. That could be perfect.
I can sense the drums getting closer, so I walk along the edge of the lake. Little kids are joking with their parents, a bagpipe player blows up his bag and begins a tune, dogs run and bark, and a costumed Whinney the Pooh scares a man half to death.
Finally, I find the source of drums. I enter into a large plaza surrounded by columns and a wall bench. The bench is lined with free spirited people banging, thudding, and pounding away on their congos, djimbes, and wooden boxes. I think to myself, have I really just found this? It reminds me of the music festivals I have been to back home. I enjoy the communal feeling of sharing drums and I watch everyone pass around their beers, Coca Colas and cigarettes. I watch a woman dressed in snakeskin whistle, stomp her feet and clap her hands. Immediately overjoyed with the scene, I drop to a sitting position to take it all in. Not more than a minute later, I see familiar faces across the crowd. I stand and throw an excited hand into the air, hoping to catch their attention. They see me, and I navigate through crowd. How random, I think to myself, that I can travel solo, but still find my friends in out of the ordinary places. I do enjoy this sheer unpredictability.
We talk and decide that the drums have a magnetic quality, causing all of us to gravitate towards this central, cultural experience. We all share the same affinity for live music, and this scene overwhelmingly satisfies that craving.
I have my friends, but I want more. I want to be a part of the culture. I think to myself, how can I join in? Perfect! Two guys kicking around a hackey sack. I stroll over and casually ask if they mind an extra player. They oblige, and I am stoked because three is an optimal hack circle number. One man has some perfected skills, but the other is clearly just learning. The first man kicks the hack from the ground with his short legs and bounces it on his foot, being careful to keep it low. He sends it on a wide arc to the taller man, who clumsily kicks it far off into the distance. I think, way to go buddy. One day you´ll get it. He retrieves the hack and passes it my way. I hit it with talent, stall it on my left foot and pass it with precision. The man with short legs is happy to have me there, so we play for over an hour.
Tired from the game and that hot ´´Spanish´´ Sun, which is now beginning to set, I sit with my friends and a bottle of wine near the lake. We talk and watch a group of young Spaniards. I think to myself, what would it be like to grow up in this city? Continuing with my thoughts, I realize the extent of my satisfaction at this point. If I were a glass, I would be half full. I want to bottle up this feeling, cork it, and save it for a day when I may be feeling blue. I smile. This was just another perfect day in Madrid where I am left with my thoughts, memories and that warm feeling.
Here´s my latest, I guess I´ll see if I did any better. I think I went for a little different style. So here it is...
Thinking to Myself
I wake up late on a Saturday to a sudden RAP! RAP! RAP! On my bedroom door; it is my second weekend in Madrid and I am enjoying my bed entirely too much. My room mate, Austin, is still passed out in his bed, which is adjacent to mine. Just like every night, half of his blankets have found their way to the floor. Angel, our host Señor, walks briskly into the room with a burst of energy announcing that the paella is ready. Just having woken up, my stomach is in no mood for a meal of this caliber. Lazily, I take my time in brushing my teeth and washing my face, watching the bubbles disappear soundlessly down the drain. I think to myself, last night was great, and I could care less if the paella is cold when I sit down at the table. I continued to take my time, but eventually decided it was time to grub.
Walking from room to room in the hallway of our tiny Spanish apartment, I encounter a series of light switches that must be turned on and off in order to save on electricity costs. Upon returning home, I imagine my parents will appreciate the frugality that I have learned here. There is not an ounce of natural light that is able to pierce this dark, maze-like corridor; until I am able to find a light switch, I pretend I am a bat sending out sonar sounds, attempting to locate them. I have already knocked more than my fair share of figurines and pictures over, and I have barely just settled in.
I enter the kitchen and exchange Spanish greetings with Rosa, our host Señora. With an encompassing and inviting smile she speaks a million words a minute. I finally understand her when she says, “¡Pasa, pasa!” while motioning to the table. I quickly figured out that’s my cue to enter. As always, the home cooked Spanish meal looks and smells phenomenal. Rich, moist, deep yellow rice sits in front of me gently allowing its steam to fill the air. Mixed with the rice is a colorful array of vegetables, succulent chicken, which is still on the bone, tender ham, spareribs, and my favorite, chorizo. She knows this and puts chorizo in half the meals. Yea, I’ll probably get sick of it one of these days, but for now I’ll enjoy my fill. I can feel my hunger begin to rise as I devour this meal with my eyes. Voraciously, I attack with my weapons of choice: a fork and a knife set precisely to the left and to the right of my plate. I can always count on finding the spoon to my right. Over the course of almuerzo we speak solely in Spanish and discuss the events which have occurred between our meals together. I enjoy the family oriented setting in which we live; it reminds me of home when I was young. My father would ask questions and intently listening to my responses. The atmosphere is similar here and provides a level of comfort despite the language and cultural barriers. There is a basketball game on TV and our conversation quickly moves there. If I understand correctly, Angel explains how he used to teach some of the players in University. Soon, Almuerzo ends with a salud! and a chupito of hierba liquor on ice.
Walking back through the dark labyrinth that leads to me room, I think to myself, God damn I gotta let this food settle. At this point I desperately need to lie down, so I switch on the TV and catch the end of Abre Los Ojos, the Spanish original that Vanilla Sky (that weird movie with Tom Cruise) was based on. Surprisingly, I enjoyed the original more. And, watching Penelope Cruz is always a plus. I think to myself, she was born in Madrid. What are my chances of finding her and sweeping her off her feet while I am here? Probably slim to none, but hey, a guy can hope.
The movie ends, my stomach is about as settled as it’s gonna get, and I am motivated to get the hell out of my small room. There is an entire city out my window to explore. On this particular day, I decided to go solo, just to see what happens. I can make my own agenda at my own pace. It feels like less responsibility. I start thinking, I haven’t seen Plaza Mayor yet, so that’s where I head to. On my way to the Metro I ask an old man, “¿Sabe donde esta la Plaza Mayor?” He hasn’t the slightest clue, but points me in the direction of the Metro. Poor old man, at least he tried to help…I guess. I decide to wing it. Someone once told me it might be near Banco de España.
Switching colored Metro lines and traversing across Madrid, I think to myself, this is odd. Where are all of the street musicians that flood the Metros and their stations? Maybe they take the weekends off? I wait and ride the train in silence; I am in no rush and go as I please.
Arriving at Banco de España, I am enthralled to get out of the Metro and into the warm Spanish sun. I think of another oddity. It’s really just the same sun everywhere you go. It’s weird that you hear people calling it the Spanish, the Arctic, or the California sun. It’s always that same one. I try not to dwell on it. Plus, I don’t see any sign of Plaza Mayor, so I walk straight. After making my way through a small park and passing countless people, I find innumerable buildings that flood my visual senses, an obelisk and eternal flame dedicated to all those whom have died for Spain, the Prado Museum, and finally a real treasure that would soon become a weekend tradition during my stay in Madrid.
Parque Buen Retiro lies ahead just in the distance and I am struck with awe at its beauty. I am about to enter into a large garden with extremely well pruned trees and bushes. I start thinking to myself, damn I worked landscaping all summer and I can’t prune a bush like that for the life of me. Now, these bushes were pruned to perfection. They arced, swirled, shaped and formed perfect spheres, bends and circles. I was utterly amazed at these Spanish landscaping skills. Something immediately pushes this little jealousy out of my mind. From the distance, I hear the faint THUD BUMP BUMP THUD of drums. I feel like a shark smelling blood a hundred miles away in the ocean, and am instantly drawn to the tribal music.
I walk for a while, pass through a wooded area and emerge in front of a lake dotted with little row boats, number 23, 16, 45, 8, and so on. I think to myself, how do I get one of those boats? Maybe I can invite Penelope Cruz when I finally find her. That could be perfect.
I can sense the drums getting closer, so I walk along the edge of the lake. Little kids are joking with their parents, a bagpipe player blows up his bag and begins a tune, dogs run and bark, and a costumed Whinney the Pooh scares a man half to death.
Finally, I find the source of drums. I enter into a large plaza surrounded by columns and a wall bench. The bench is lined with free spirited people banging, thudding, and pounding away on their congos, djimbes, and wooden boxes. I think to myself, have I really just found this? It reminds me of the music festivals I have been to back home. I enjoy the communal feeling of sharing drums and I watch everyone pass around their beers, Coca Colas and cigarettes. I watch a woman dressed in snakeskin whistle, stomp her feet and clap her hands. Immediately overjoyed with the scene, I drop to a sitting position to take it all in. Not more than a minute later, I see familiar faces across the crowd. I stand and throw an excited hand into the air, hoping to catch their attention. They see me, and I navigate through crowd. How random, I think to myself, that I can travel solo, but still find my friends in out of the ordinary places. I do enjoy this sheer unpredictability.
We talk and decide that the drums have a magnetic quality, causing all of us to gravitate towards this central, cultural experience. We all share the same affinity for live music, and this scene overwhelmingly satisfies that craving.
I have my friends, but I want more. I want to be a part of the culture. I think to myself, how can I join in? Perfect! Two guys kicking around a hackey sack. I stroll over and casually ask if they mind an extra player. They oblige, and I am stoked because three is an optimal hack circle number. One man has some perfected skills, but the other is clearly just learning. The first man kicks the hack from the ground with his short legs and bounces it on his foot, being careful to keep it low. He sends it on a wide arc to the taller man, who clumsily kicks it far off into the distance. I think, way to go buddy. One day you´ll get it. He retrieves the hack and passes it my way. I hit it with talent, stall it on my left foot and pass it with precision. The man with short legs is happy to have me there, so we play for over an hour.
Tired from the game and that hot ´´Spanish´´ Sun, which is now beginning to set, I sit with my friends and a bottle of wine near the lake. We talk and watch a group of young Spaniards. I think to myself, what would it be like to grow up in this city? Continuing with my thoughts, I realize the extent of my satisfaction at this point. If I were a glass, I would be half full. I want to bottle up this feeling, cork it, and save it for a day when I may be feeling blue. I smile. This was just another perfect day in Madrid where I am left with my thoughts, memories and that warm feeling.
posted by Dave at 8:50 AM
2 Comments:
Hey Dave
Sorry to hear that your other essay did not get the grade it deserved! I thought it was phenominal!
I loved reading this one too. Sounds like you are really taking Spain in through all of your senses! Like you said...bottle it all up and bring it home.
I smiled as I read your comment about our family dinners! It touched my heart!
Love
Mom
Dave,
I liked this piece you wrote. It truly gave me a sense of 'you' just being you in Spain :)
Nice reflections and comparisons to home too.
I hope this one will bring a better grade...if not... oh well, its a nice piece to save and look back on in years to come.
Aunt Lisa
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