Note #1

I took the subway, and a couple connections, from the airport to the center of Madrid. 

I got out of the underground and quickly found my hostel. 

I was still tired and hungry from travelling when I walked the street.  Blocks passed but I took no note of my surroundings.  A daze was walking through Madrid.  Then I had a thought that made me pause and note my surroundings: “Doesn’t this feel like south America?”  I scanned my memories for what felt so familiar about that place.  

The Reina Sofia Museum was close by.  Groups had gathered in front of the museum.  An iron gate barred the tall entrance.  A couple stood at the entrance reading a notice.  I joined them.  I looked at the museum schedule and asked: “what time is it?”  “The museum is closed today.”  The wife of the couple told me.  She pointed at the fine print on the posting.  As I walked the streets the thought surfaced that my surroundings felt like Buenos Aires, but with cleaner streets and more tourists. 

It is a mistake for the new world to model itself too closely on the old world.  The parts of BA that look like Madrid were never going to be as grand as Madrid.  If a city in the Americas doesn’t take the opportunity for self-definition all its achievements will hint at anticlimax. 

            I walked into the Prado museum and saw thousands of paintings and sculptures.  Each piece would have been the highlight of lesser galleries.

In my hostel a group gathered for the final match of the Spanish soccer season.  It was a match between Atletico Madrid and Barcelona.  They invited me to sit on one of the common room couches with them and share a few beers.  The game started shortly after. 

Madrid needed to tie the game to win the championship.  Barcelona, the more famous team, put the pressure on early in the first half.  Madrid was lucky if they fought out of their side of the field.  Two Madrid players were injured early in the game.  One of the injured cried as he watched from the sidelines.  Both teams were playing hard, but Barcelona scored the first goal before the first half was over.

I remember thinking it an exciting game.  This boded well; after all, I would be spending the length of the world cup in Europe. 

The second half was much more hotly contested.  Most of the playing was at the center of the field but gradually the pressure was on Barcelona’s defense.  Madrid scored, giving them the advantage they needed to win.  I cheered for Madrid.  I realized that I had also cheered when Barcelona scored.  That was the goal that won Madrid the game.  

            An English gentleman suggested seeing if there were any parties in the street.  We left the hostel but there were no revelers.  We walked for blocks and there was not even a jersey to be seen.  We finally got to the bar neighborhood and found the party.  The fans were chanting: “campiones, campiones,” Spanish for champions.  Our group chanted with them: “champinones, champinones” Spanish for a type of mushrooms. 

We made our way down to a main road where there was a roundabout with a statue of Neptune.  The police closed off the street to traffic and we passed their blockade where they checked to make sure we didn’t have alcohol.  At first there were only a couple hundred uniformed people chanting in the empty street. 

When we returned that night it had become a carnival.  It took up whole blocks.  Men with plastic bags filled with beer cans for sale roamed the crowd before the police line.  Food carts were set up.  There were drummers, and firecrackers, and flares.  The celebrating went on for hours.   

            At one thirty in the morning, amid shouts, the music and chanting stopped.  The fans scattered around me.  I saw a police line advancing with batons on the fans that stood their ground.  Bottles fell on the police.  The police promptly rushed the people in the street and I ran and the people ran behind me.  Eventually I stopped.  I saw food stands rushing to pack up.  There were youths knocking over garbage cans in the street, and kicking bags of garbage as if they were soccer balls.  For a moment everyone had stopped running.  I heard a commotion behind me, and when I looked there were near a thousand people rushing towards me.  I paused just long enough to warn the people I was walking with that they should run.  Later I heard reports that there had been tear gas and flash grenades used, though I doubted those claims.  Police convoys patrolled the streets for hours. 

            From there I joined the pilgrimage trail of Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain.  After a couple days, and having walked 50km, I had injured my foot.  It became a whole leg injury after I continued to walk on it.  I spoiled the ending of the pilgrimage and took a bus to Santiago de Compostela.  It’s very likely I will try the pilgrimage from the beginning in September.

           

            Tomorrow I leave for Porto, Portugal.  I’m very excited about that.