You are currently browsing the daily archive for May 27th, 2008.
The final chapter. If we could make the type yellow and read at an angle so that it appeared to vanish into deep space, we would. But we can’t, so use your imagination…
Despite all the train shenanigans, we arrived in Madrid the next morning, pulled ourselves together and got everyone back to the hotels before Al and I headed off to class. That’s right: despite getting only 4 hours of sleep and having to endure a head-splitting exchange of ignorance, we still had the fortitude to get our money’s worth from the escuela. I hate us sometimes.
After class, we met up with everyone and did a survey of the west end of town, intending to go to the royal palace, but because there was yet another city-wide fiesta of some sort, it was closed. No biggie, as we were able to stroll around the gardens and hit Plaza de España, home of the Cervantes monument, complete with the big bronze statues of Donnie Q and Sancho. Obligatory photos taken and posted.
At the end of the day, we returned to check on Poor Friend Jenny—who, though markedly improved, wasn’t up for going out. Additionally, by this time we also figured out that aforementioned city-wide fiesta was still the Festival of San Isidro, and there was going to be a big fireworks display in the park that night. Seizing this opportunity, we hit up the market and grabbed a bunch of Mediterranean picnic supplies (olives, wine, bread, cheese and a variety of cookies and chips—come on, we’ve been here for a while, but we’re still Americans), snagged a blanket and set off to have an awesome sunset picnic with fireworks set to classical music on a quaint little knoll in the middle of the park. It was on the order of the 4th of July fireworks on the Mall we did every year as a kid. Good times.
The next day, Al had a test in class, so we couldn’t skip (well, I could have, but got guilt tripped into going). Afterwards, we met up with everybody at the Reina Sofia Museum, the modern art gallery which, in concert with the Prado and Thyssen Bournemiza, forms the trifecta of Madrileño museums. After “appreciating the sh!t out of some art” as Pete put it, we then waited around for Dear and Beloved Friend Adi, whose watch was still on Portuguese time, making her a full hour late for our predetermined rendezvous. Like I said, this trip had a very distinct theme. From Reina Sofia, we went up north to tour the Bernabéu Stadium, the aforementioned Ohio State practice field, er, I mean, home of Real Madrid, the team that invented God. By now starving, we set off on our regular Friday night circuit, including the tapas bar where you get a full plate of food with every tiny beer you order, a slightly classier wine bar, and finally the old timers restaurant / bar where we know two of the bartenders, and they take really good care of us every time we visit. Due to a miscommunication at the tapas bar, we ended up with 12 cañas of beer at once, rather than the six we needed, resulting in a smorgasbord of food and cerveza, but since O and Paddy were there, it ended up not being a problem at all. It was a divide and conquer scheme: Paddy on beer, O on food, Poor Friend Jenny on plates. Go team.
Saturday, we rose early to get everybody to the school bus that was taking us to El Escorial, where we had gone earlier, but the guys wanted to see as well. During roll call, my former teacher (the Brack Peet one) was having a little trouble pronouncing the American names and called out “Pee-ter? Pay-ter? Wheesh wun ees correcto?”
“Pay-ter”.
Of course.
Well, it was either that or, “Me llamo Mike.”
The trip was great, and though the subject matter was a tad heavy (despite the alliteration, Franco is not fun), it seemed like everyone enjoyed themselves, so we’ll consider the day a success. Upon returning, we all passed out in Paddy and Dear and Beloved Friend Adi’s hotel room (except for Al and O, who went running), and Pete, who sat quietly in a corner and drank for two hours while the rest of us slept. Let’s hear it for dedication, people! After everyone rose / got back / puked and rallied, we went out for dinner at another, slightly more upscale tapas place, then did some bar hopping, ending up at an Irish bar.
Of course.
Sunday morning was the beginning of the Exodus, as Paddy, Peter and Poor Friend Jenny left early. Dear and Beloved Friend Adi’s flight wasn’t till later, so we hung out for a bit, grabbed some lunch and then escorted her up to the airport terminal, mostly to help her carry the awkwardly large and ghetto-fabulous plastic bag full of paintings she had acquired in Lisbon. The jerry-rigging was phenomenal.
After dropping Adi off, O (whose flight wasn’t till the next day), Al and I stopped by the stadium to see if there were any tickets left (there were) and then to procure the necessary fan regalia (at obscenely over-inflated prices). Upon arriving home, we got a text message from Adi saying they had canceled her flight and she couldn’t get out till the next day and she was coming back to the apartment. This ended up being awesome, because it extended the fun yet another night. Granted, that night meant that there were 4 people sleeping in a room barely big enough for 2, taking us to truly tenement levels, but oh so cozy!
At any rate, they left the next morning as we went to class, and we cried all they way to, thru, and home from class. It was truly a once-in-a-lifetime gathering, and, as Pete put it in a follow up email: “[it] Confirm[ed] that we are indeed all best friends by spending 10 days with each other with almost zero sniping (I got cranky about tardiness on Friday…my bad).” We’ve come a long way from the Outer Banks beach week beach house…
And so concludes the Iberian Invasion by Tall, White Americans. We hope you enjoyed this adventure; we sure enjoyed embellishing otherwise boring events. Tune in next time as our heroes set off on new and exciting exploits, taking on towns such as Sevilla, Barcelona, Granada and Córdoba!
Editor’s Note: Though neither government has issued any official statements on the matter, we’re fairly certain that none of us will ever be allowed back on an overnight train from Lisbon to Madrid, nor anywhere near Santiago Bernabéu Stadium (that last one isn’t really that big of a deal).
-bdmc
The continuing saga of the train ride to Lisbon and the shenanigans that ensued.
So let’s recap: we’ve taken Lisbon for all she had to offer, are completely satisfied with our experience and are now at the station waiting for our train while figuring out how to get our various doctor friends to throw their soon-to-be-abundant cash into the kitty to pay for an apartment block that, given their ridiculously busy schedules, they’ll never be able to visit but we’ll appreciate in their stead, and that Peter can decorate with Stars and Stripes tile patterns. Cause that’s his idea of “blending in”. Oh yeah, and Poor Friend Jenny is on the floor of the dirty-ass train station bathroom making long distance calls on the porcelain receiver.
Trainside, we’re greeted by the same lovely Portuguese hottie that checked us in back in Madrid. Because of our unexpectedly good behavior on the train over, she remembered us, saying “Ahh! The family is back! Have a good trip?” complete with big smiles. We were SO in. We got Poor Friend Jenny tucked in and then, as before, headed to the bar car. Cause, really…what else do you do on an 8-hour train ride?
In the bar car, seats are randomly occupied, so some of our group congregates at one end, while Paddy, Big O and I take three contiguous stools between a tall, very cute brunette (so I’m told by the predators in our group; I only have eyes for Al…pause for collective groan) and a very-low-talking-but-seemingly-American-
but-we’re-not-sure-because-we-can’t-hear-what-they’re-saying-and-we’ve-figured-
out-that-German-tourists-tend-to-look-American-and-we-don’t-want-to-be-wrong couple. As the single gents are marveling in their good fortune, Brunette starts chatting O up about what we’re doing here, where we’re from, etc. O replies with our circumstances, adding that they’re all here visiting Al and I, and we’re here learning to speak Spanish. Brunette is intrigued, asking me “Do you speak Spanish?” I shrug and reply “un poco”, which prompted O to ask what I really DID say when people asked me if I spoke Spanish, which is a logical and appropriate question. This drove Brunette to question O, “Why would anyone ask him if he spoke Spanish?”
I swear to Real Madrid / God that the train actually lurched to a stop for a minute at that one.
O recovered first, sputtering, “but you…you just…just…didn’t you just…?” “Yeah, like, but why would anyone ask him if he spoke Spanish?” countered Brunette. A sly one, this fox. I immediately excused myself, drifting over to a recently vacated stool next to Al and the rest of the gang.
And none too soon. The conversation continued to degrade, her vacuous, Valley Girl voice filling the cabin with “uh hUHs”, “likes” and “oh my GODs”. Our end of the bar could barely hold it together. Shortly thereafter O popped up from his wingman post with “Weeeellll, I’m going to go check on Poor Friend Jenny” which really only involved him getting up, turning around, opening the door of the bar car, pausing, coming back in and sitting down at the other end of the bar with the rest of us, which meant that Paddy was now left alone with this intriguing 5′11″ stack of…interest…
Judging from his continuing line of questions and replies to her fractured logic, combined with his distinct lack of a “somebody freakin’ rescue me please” look (which could have been the result of the steady stream of beers he was quaffing for survival), we figured he was doing fine and returned to faking like we were minding our own business. All the while, however, we kept an ear open to hear such gems as:
Brunette: “You want some chocolate? It’s from Belgium. It’s got lots of antioxidants.”
Paddy: “Oh yeah? Now what exactly are antioxidants?” (this was not at all a patronizing question; the girl had just said she was in med school, and Paddy figured she could shed some light on the topic)
B: “I uh…I’m not…I don’t know what antioxidants do. I think…I think they’re in chocolate and red wine has a lot, too. I should know this. If I had my computer…. Oh, I shouldn’t say things I don’t know the answers to…”
How very true.
Though the beer is nearly coming out our noses, Al and Dear and Beloved Friend Adi, remained ever vigilant, keeping a steady eye out for signals and debating as to whether or not Paddy needed rescued:
“Should we save him?”
“I dunno, he seems like he WANTS to be there; I haven’t seen any signs or indications…”
“Like what? Him trying to throw himself out the window?”
It was at this point that Big O decided that the only way to extricate one’s self from such a situation was to light one’s self on fire, and since Paddy wasn’t doing that, we figured we should use his pocket video camera to document the carnage. Super-spy Al obtained some Oscar-worthy footage by filming the reflection in the window, complete with sound. It’s stellar. It’s like watching a plumber at work on his knees under your kitchen sink. You know you shouldn’t look, but you can’t turn away.
The conversation continued for a while longer, until a comment about bad beer prompted Paddy to comment, “see, now that’s why people don’t like Americans” (I think the context was something about the big American beers not having any flavor or something like that; either way, that’s not the important part, what follows is). All the sudden out of nowhere, formerly Quiet Talking Couple at the other end of the bar erupted into “What’d you say ’bout ‘Mericans?” in a Southern accent as thick as deep-fried breaded bacon rind dipped in a mayonnaise and butter reduction. This got Paddy dragged into a debate about the merits of American beer; how the US is better than, well, everyone; how Formerly Quiet Guy’s wife can’t eat any of the food in Spain and they just wished there were a freakin’ Applebees somewhere; and other assorted tourist faux pas. Exactly which ones, I’m not really sure, as we weren’t paying full attention due to the fact that we were frantically searching for the emergency exits while trying to quiet Pete who was lobbing conversational Molotov cocktails like, “No, no, no…we like Americans. Hell, WE’RE Americans! We just don’t like Southerners!”. Luckily, Paddy was able to use his charms to placate the dude, just before we were about to pull the “In Case of Emergency Only” lever.
It was about this time (1:30a, maybe) that a rather large gentleman rolled into the bar. It was clear from his rotundity that he was American, and Formerly Quiet Southern Guy—who’s still occasionally trying to restart the battle with Paddy—catches on that he’s American too and tries to get him on his conservative Amero-centric bandwagon. Surprisingly, Gordito was a bleeder from Oregon and the two of them begin going back and forth about politics and Europe versus America and all other sorts of topics that you don’t talk about at the dinner table with family, let alone in the bar car of an overnight train with strangers. This now means that Paddy is caught in betwixt all this madness, with Brunette prattling on about how she “can’t eat poppy seed muffins because the little black things get stuck in her teeth” in one ear and a Bush / Obama / Hillary battle raging in the other. The rest of us, still sputtering over previous comments and trying not to laugh outright over current ones, saw the fuse to the powder keg burning low, and excused ourselves, leaving Paddy, Brunette and the trio of pundits to solve all the world’s problems.
Though we normally subscribe to the Navy SEAL credo of “Leave No Man Behind”, in this case, we couldn’t help ourselves as self preservation took precedence.
About an hour later, Al was in the hallway, coming back from the bathroom and saw Paddy wandering around in a dazed stupor, looking for his cabin….
Will Paddy find his cabin and recover from his intellectual beat down? Will Poor Friend Jenny ever get out of the bathroom? Will our heroes do anything else in Madrid besides get drunk together (again)? Find out with the next and final installment of this thrilling saga!
-bdmc
