San Fermin: Madrid

My Spanish isn’t as good as I thought it was. Otherwise I wouldn’t be trapped in this sub basement of connecting tunnels wondering when I will ever see the sun again. The couple gawking at me walking past for the third time know it. Despite my brown hair, I am carrying too much baggage to be a local.

Finally, I give up trying to decipher this hidden language of Aramaic and crayon and head towards the information booth. It’s Sunday. I whisper a silent prayer to whatever Basque god is watching over these catacombs and pull on the door.

Stepping in I am witness to a guy younger than I wearing a starched white shirt, sharply contrasting the dingy walls of the torture chamber outside, coupled with a tie that cost more than his haircut.

“Hablas ingles, amigo?”

“That depends on what you are asking.”

And the world gets a little smaller.

My newfound guide, Pietro, not only speaks better English than I do, but has lived in Arizona about 15 minutes from the marble monstrosity I currently call home.

He knows where I am going, just as he knows where I have been. Crusaders reviewing the final words of some forgotten saint, we pour over the maps that will lead me to my goal. Atocha.

Even after leaving his room, I find myself staring blankly at a machine that refuses to accept my ticket. Pietro saves me with laughter and guidance.

One more turnstile.

Two more trains.

The Estacion de Atocha is south of the heart of Madrid. Every kind of wheeled and railed conveyance known to Spain acts as spoke to this hub. Including the Renfe. The Train. I’ve never ridden one.

I’ve been on subways. I’ve been on the ‘L’ in Chicago. I’ve ridden ‘MARTA’ in Atlanta; just about every mass transit device on rails in the continental US that wasn’t a “train.” This will be a first.

Atocha Renfe. People are in queue all over the place. I know from Pietro that there are two Renfe. One that goes to the surrounding cities, and one that goes to the rest of Spain and the adjacent countries. After numerous attempts at conversing with the locals in Spanish met with only blank looks and empty shrugs, I resort to walking around until I can find something resembling another information booth.

Information comes in spades. I’m in the wrong damn room. Good that the correct room is just to the right of me.

The color coded number punching device at the far side of the room is the calliope playing the musical order of our purchasing tickets. I purchase mine, sliding it into the airline ticket pouch in my Ogio Metroid backpack. The hombre behind the counter raises his hand, waving the finger from side to side, then slowly reaches out and removes it from the backpack sleeve, placing it back into my hand. Too easy for someone to steal, I suppose. Stupid American.

The end of the ticket counter has an area to sit down out of the walkway and go through my papers. The couple across from me is dressed like Americans. That is to say, sporty, and with matching colors. Pert breasts on the girl and the conspicuous lack of a mullet on the guy.

They’re traveling across Europe for the summer; together. The strain shows on their faces. She smiles warmly to me and actively engages me in chatter. He seems glad that her attention is somewhere else for a moment. Paris, their next destination after Spain, will eventually give way to Italy. She winks goodbye as they head out the door.

Italy. Not so long ago, I thought I would be living there by now. Pipe Dream.

A brunette takes their place adjacent to me on the floor, unslinging a backpack as tall as she is and drops onto the floor, shaking breasts as ample as purple mountains majesty. Ripe with promise.

Rubbing her arms with both hands for a moment, she frees one hand to pull a book out of the backpack. The other hand continues to try restoring feeling to the extremities left unused too long.

“Hey!” Exercising my newfound belief that anyone with a backpack is my friend,

“Hullo there.” the British accent rolling off like alcoholic silk. Eyes that opened in honesty, absorbing me.

“UK, then? I’m from America.”

The smile that follows makes me realize that was one of those moments where you want to say something interesting or funny. That was neither.

“Yes. So, I gathered from the ‘hey’.”

Oops.

“Where are you off to then?”

“Toledo”

Isn’t that in Canada? Or Ohio?

“I think I have a place to stay there.” she continued. “I just talked to some guy… he only spoke Spanish and I kept getting cut off, but…”

“Sounds, uh, fun. I’m catching the train to Pamplona. I rented a flat there for the week. I’m going to run the bulls.”

Simple statements. Three Short sentences, bereft of nuance, but these syllables are the sum total of the next week of my life.

“But hey, I’m sure Toledo will be great!”

A few more minutes of banter, and I’m not aware of any more words coming out of my mouth. There is a war going on.

More meaningful to she and I than Iraq, Afghanistan, or any revolution elsewhere it in the world. It is held in two magical chocolate orbs and a puzzle boundary between two full lips.

Watching it play out, I have no stock in the battle. I support no side and I have no idea whta the conflicted prize is.

But I am drawn in nonetheless. My breathing stops. The decisive blow is struck. It is beautiful. And it won’t last.

“Could I come with you?” comes out in a rush that pushes her torso forward. “Do you think… I mean can I crash yours?”

“What about Toledo?”

Doh.

“I’ve always wanted to see the Running of the Bulls. Plus I’m not sure if I actually have a place to stay in Toledo.”

“Cool. I’m sharing the place with a girl from Australia, but you I’m pretty sure we have a couch or a spare bedroom or something. We’ll work it out.”

I excuse myself to go and find a payphone armed only with strange currency of unknown denominations and some hasty verbal directions from the the British girl who I haven’t even put a name to. In the general area as described, i find a bank of monstrosities that could be described as HAL from from 2010: A Space Odyssey. SMS, fax, and email enabled phones written entirely in Spanish with more instructions than my motorcycle handbook.

This is going to be difficult.

After about 20 minutes of trying to figure out where to put the money, what buttons to push, what country code to use, and what in the hell the operator is saying to me, I surrender. Returning to the ticket counter area, I find my newly acquired sidekick standing at the desk thumbing through her wallet, monstrous pack at her feet. She turns her head to the side scanning the door I just entered as if not really expecting to see anything. The pleasant surprise warming her face when she catches an eyeful of me is rewarding to say the least.

Not wanting to explain my defeat at the hands of the pay phone, I just give her a thumbs up.

Turning back to the man behind the counter, she draws a breath that lifts that impossible landscape of breasts aloft, settling them back into the reality of her shirt she says, “Pamplona” with purpose.

He responds to her that there are only first class seats available on the train, which seems to upset her. She lowers her eyes a moment, biting her lip with teeth that are too pretty to be British, and says “What have you got?”

“Um… Go Fish?” I have no idea. The ticket vendor looks at me as I produce my ticket and points to my seat. “Primera Clase,” he says.

Producing the money for the vendor, my newly obtained Brit confides in me, “I’ve never ridden first class before.”

“It’s great! You get all the free drinks you want!” Well, I guess that cat’s out of the bag.

“Brilliant.” Excellent. A fellow drunk.

We have tickets. We have companionship. We have two hours till our train leaves. We HAVE to get rid of these bags and get some food.

Two completely disinterested ladies with bulletproof vests and tired smiles direct us to x-ray machines and the first bus station lockers I have ever seen. With bags securely stashed and holes in our bellies, we head for the nearest exit.

Spanish food, I was warned, is nothing like Mexican food.

Two blocks northwest of the Atocha up Paseo del Prado is a misleadingly named cafe called, “Luigi’s.” This place has nothing Italian about it, aside from the Mafia Valentine’s Day-esque basement where they sequester the restrooms. They only sell bread, fish on bread, ham on bread, and bread. This is where I discover the disappointment that is tapas; Spain’s national food.

Picture a wafer thin slice of any meat strapped to stale bread by some form of magic or super glue. Throw in a Coca-Cola Light (not Diet Coke) and you now have my first meal in Europe. Less than climactic, but paying for lunch allows me to wave my Monopoly money around and pretend I know what the hell I am doing.

On the walk back to Atocha, I am met with the first of several horrible truths. Bodegas don’t sell Red Bull. No one does. Coca-Cola Light it is, then.

Off to the train. I wonder what seat I have. I wonder what seat this girl has. I wonder what the hell this girl‘s name is.