Despite The News And Our AirBnB It's Still A Beautiful World
Art and travel from su corresponsal en Madrid
When I was much younger and traveling (many times alone) and I was shivering from the cold or a fever, I would console myself by saying, you may be shivering, but you’re shivering in (and here I would fill in the country where I happened to be.)
At least, I’d tell myself, I wasn’t back in Pleasant Ridge, Ohio.
We’ve been in Madrid for a week. It’s cold, rainy, and I have a head cold and my feet are constantly wet and cold. The AirBnB is…challenging.
Hey, but at least I’m not in…
At first glance the apartment looks very clean and modern. I really wasn’t being nosy, I was merely trying to find directions on how to use the thermostat (more on that later) when I found some papers that showed we’re staying in an apartment owned by a woman who works for an NGO in Africa. This is her home, and it still astonishes me that someone would open up their home to travelers.
On that score, AirBnB is still very much a good idea.
I imagine she thought to make a little side cash and contracted with a property management firm to handle affairs when she’s away. And this is where you can get into trouble now that a lot of AirBnBs are run by a bunch of corporate monkeys.
I messaged our host, asking him how to work the oven, and he informed me right off that the icons on the controls were “standard international symbols”, getting right to the heart of the matter that I’m a dumb American. Instead of trying to crack the code of whatever it was the standard international symbols were trying to tell me, I instead made chicken picatta on the stovetop with turkey breast fillets since the tienda was out of chicken breasts.
I also needed another tutorial on the thermostat, this little digital gizmo that looks like a travel alarm clock. He began that reply with, For the thermostat I think we explained you upon arrival…
Yes, you did explain. You explained all of this and so much more when we were exhausted and jet lagged after landing in the country at 8:30 a.m. after traveling since 9:30 a.m. EST the previous day with no sleep on the plane and little sleep the night before that. And yes while you said we could check in early at 13:00, you were late (hey, we understand: It’s Spain where people are a little lax with time and it is a city with traffic), but yeah, you’re right, you already explained all this. You did your job.
I understand there’s a bit of culture clash here, a disconnect with the language. But I’d like to also add there was something in your face when you saw a sixty-something with a grey beard show up, not with rolling suitcases, but hefting a backpack. Don’t lie: I saw the look on your face. I’ve seen it many times before from people your age.
Don’t worry, I wasn’t insulted.
Because I know our corporate dweeb is probably under pressure at work and to pay rent and buy food so he needs to do some CYA, but this is what you get now that AirBnBs are all pretty much owned and run by corporations, and no longer by individuals.
Is it me, or does it seem like a lot of the trouble in the world is rooted in corporations and capitalism and the grab for money?
And to top it off, I think I’ve slept more comfortably on the floor of a lean-to in a sleeping bag in the backcountry listening to mice trying to gnaw their way into my food bag than I have in this bed.
I’ve learned through experience to improvise and adjust and sometimes just put up with inconveniences, big and small, always with a smile and a real effort to use the native language.
Unless of course I’m writing about it, then look out: You’re in my crosshairs now, buster.
I tuck all this away in my memory to remember what it feels like, to feel the one time I experienced being a foreigner dissed by a local just because I don’t happen to be proficient with a certain aspect of their culture.
And I think: What if this was my life every day?
See what traveling does to you? I don’t know, call me a dumb American, but I think it makes you kinder. More empathic. More worldly.
The first time I was in this city I was eighteen years old. I was traveling alone and met an American in Marseille who was hungry and I bought him dinner. In return, he invited me to stay with his mother and brother here in Madrid. I stayed for a week, and one night we took his mother to the Plaza Major, where I remember, head held high, she floated regally through the crowds, like royalty. I’ll never forget that.
Back then, surrounding the perimeter of the Plaza were tapas bars patronized by locals. Today in those little alcoves where once you could buy a glass of wine and suck shrimp out of its shell, the shells littering the floors everywhere, it’s all geared toward the touristas, selling cheap souvenirs and serving up things like overpriced drinks and overcooked paella.
“Artists” who will make your portrait set up their easels inside the Plaza. Some wear berets.
Also, that summer Nixon resigned from the White House, so I was watching the United States implode through the reporting in the International Herald Tribune, which was the only way to do it then, along with Time and Newsweek. Believe or not I think I still have those papers and magazines stashed in a box at the top of a closet.
Hmmm…those might make some interesting art. What else am I going to do with them?
As much as I want to forget U.S. politics and current events, just turn my back on it all like the Lost Generation, I can’t. I don’t understand how they did it, but then again, they just came off WWI, and I don’t know what that was like.
Yet.
And, given the turn to the right in the United States, I was a little concerned how, as Americans, Sue and I would be approached. So far, the few people we’ve talked with have been curious, as have always been our experience in another country.
So we wander the streets and alleyways. Embrace the Spanish life. Tranquillo. Factor siesta time in our daily schedules.
Like most European cities, people are out at night during the week, not just weekends. Not a single television screen blaring in the restaurants or cafes. Just conversation and laughter or a quiet moment to watch the world go by.
We found a cafe for a glass of wine. Sitting on the sidewalk. Of course Spanish was being spoken around us everywhere. A conversation in a Scandinavian language was taking place next to us, and later a group of young women took another nearby table, speaking French.
It’s the world Sue and I know. And the world we love for all its diversity.
Our attempts at Spanish are never met harshly or rudely. They just try to understand what the heck it is we’re trying to say. And I think our attempts are appreciated. Especially when joined with a smile or a little laugh.
When Sue asked the clerk at the railway station if she spoke English and she replied no and I said, perfecto, she laughed.
The streets are so beautiful at night. Narrow mazes with the most unexpected surprises around turns.
And this: A sculpture dedicated to those who were shipped off to concentration camps after the Spanish Civil War.
Lo siento, is that a Nazi salute I’m seeing? Or do I just see them everywhere now? It must be my eyes playing tricks on me. Now I see Nazis under every bush. That can’t be.
But why must I be so serious? I shouldn’t dwell on the bad things in the world. The world is so beautiful, no? And people are so good.
Verdad. The world is beautiful, and people can be good…if they choose to be.
Tomorrow we’re going to Toledo. To see the El Grecos.
Hasta luego.
Su corresponsal de viaje, Juan.