Daylight Robbery
Madrid, Spain
We arrive, and although still fairly wrecked, I’m over that URGENCY to sleep and don my ‘responsible’ head. Yes, believe it or not, occasionally I’m required to make like a sensible person and, as is the case in this instance, get sorted, negotiate the metro into the city centre (god I love a metro system!) and find accommodation. I’m then to make contact with one of ‘faceless numbers’ I’ve been given in the hope of receiving some sort of advice, being pointed in the right direction, and generally just to have company with fellow English-speakers.
Given the foot-and-mouth disease concerns, we, the festering people of the UK-region, have to disinfect our footwear on specially placed mats, which resembling ‘any old generic welcome mat’, don’t seem to boast disinfectant qualities, not to mention the fact that countless ex-UK visitors are entering Europe via ferry, bus, train, car, etc… and will enter unscathed, or rather, unbathed! Anyway, I’m then greeted with a very smiley Immigration Officer who, rather than lend me a pen to fill out my disembarkation card, simply says, ‘don’t worry,’ stamps my passport and let’s me through unquestioned. Nice one! I could do with a bit of that lax attitude in the UK/Eire!
Rather than stand around waiting for our baggage to chug around the conveyor belt, I seek information about accommodation and the metro and feel pretty confident in sorting both without too much effort. Cool. The baggage collection isn’t so cool, as I wait and wait and wait, watching everyone spot their luggage and wander off, until the number of bags chugging round and round diminishes to four, three, two, one, none! And still no sign of mine! Nor that of a few fellow passengers’ standing around sharing the same concerned expression. A uniformed woman approaches me and directs me to a counter where I’m to fill out a Baggage Reclaim Form, so nonchalantly and procedure-like as if it’s the nature of air carrier X.
Now my tiredness rears its ugly head.
It’s psychological I know. If I was on my way to the metro, backpack and sensible head on, my tiredness would be displaced by an energy of excitement and curiosity of discovering a new place, a new adventure. I am, however, a bit pissed off, as I have to queue for the longest time with the equally disgruntled baggageless, and consider how much of the day it is taking just to get sorted. Given that I left Dublin SO long ago, I question the point of taking the full day off work, since I’m certainly not utilising its original purpose – a full day in Madrid.
Anyway, what can I do really? Nothing, but be patient, wait, follow the procedures, and see what is to be done about my missing baggage. Picturing myself still sitting at the conveyor belt for the next three hours doesn’t please me, but I discover the good people will actually deliver my pack to my hotel (when I find one), which is a little comforting.
So, without letting it bother me too much, I seek an ATM, withdraw some pesetas, make my way to the metro and, following the directives, head to Puerto del Sol. I’m a little out of ‘tube practice’, but it really is the most user-friendly public transport invention in the world, so I make the line changes successfully and find myself exactly where I’m meant to be. Finding the Tourist Information centre in Plaza Mayor isn’t as easy, although it’s very basic once you’ve found your bearings. After twice running into an English-Kiwi couple, I make it, and get accommodation in a ridiculously nearby, central hostel. It’s very basic, very cheap, but I repeat, very central. I’m chuffed. Baggageless, but chuffed.
After handing over some pesetas to my hostelier, I waste no time in getting out and about in the beautiful sunshine that is drenching Madrid. I’ve ONLY ever wanted to go to Madrid, and I’m not disappointed. Within minutes I feel at home, as I waltz along with a bounce in my stride and a stupid grin on my face. It’s amazing how immediate your first instincts of a place are. You either do or don’t like a place. There’s a specific feeling of comfort or discomfort, pleasure or pain, awkwardness or assuredness. I’m definitely comfortable, pleased and assured about being in Madrid. Bopping along to the sounds of Died Pretty and The Clouds I’m as happy as a pig in shit, easily finding all the places, and record shops my friend described in his wonderfully specific itinerary, winding through the well, windy calles (streets). Madrid is an incredibly accessible, walkable city, that simultaneously manages to contain a ‘big town’ feel whilst still enjoying a very urban, cosmopolitan buzz. I’m so impressed I decide I want to move here!
Feeling confident enough, I dial some ‘faceless’ numbers. Prioritising, I call Baggage Collection, who inform me that my luggage will be delivered at 6pm, then my flatmate’s friend’s boyfriend, ‘Norman’, who’s expecting my call, cracks a joke about my wearing paper underwear until my luggage arrives and makes tentative arrangements to meet up later that night. Finally, I call Luc, who’s clearly not expecting my call (I can almost HEAR his puzzled expression!) as he hadn’t yet received Mark’s (our mutual friend) or my email regarding my, pending, er, very current, arrival! In fact, he so ISN’T expecting my arrival, he’s in Granada visiting his sister, but is nonetheless very chilled and says it’s a shame he’s not in Madrid this weekend. When he says he’ll be back on Monday, and I explain my weekend’s actually a long one, and I’m here till Tuesday, he says, “Oh cool, gimme a call on Monday then and we’ll meet up.” Cool. I’ve already made two potential tour guides/drinking buddies/companions.
So, killing time before my baggage is delivered, I immerse myself in the sunshine and continue my aimless but thoroughly enjoyable wandering, record-shop hopping and camera-less sightseeing. I grab a sambo and a drink, cop a squat and people-watch, and generally orient myself until it’s time to head back to Hostale Rodriguez. I sit in my very basic room, pondering the exciting weekend to follow, but soon realise how very tired I am and how much I’d like a shower and a change of clothes. I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait, and get less and less impressed with the airline and more and more frustrated with the situation. Soon infuriated, partially due to the tiredness, but legitimately I think, due to the circumstances making me lose a day, I attempt to communicate with the female partner of the hostale so I can call to the company again, who inform me that 6pm meant ‘any time from 6pm until 11pm’. Nice.
I think I crash for a little while to avoid getting pissed off with ‘no one in particular.’ There’s a knock on my door around 11pm, and finally a backpack appears before me. Fortunately, it’s even mine! Still, I’m not impressed that my weekender has been truncated to a mere weekend. As I haven’t been able to leave the hostale to phone Norman to explain, and at this stage I’m in no mood to go out, I prefer to get some proper zeds and be fresh for Day 2.
Which, thankfully I do, and which, I am.
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