Madrid by Night

Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber!
~Lord Byron, Childe Harold

Though I cannot comment on the exact events in Lord Byron's life that informed this quotation, I can add that me might have made it sooner had he visited Madrid. Here in the capital of Spain, daytime is an appetizer that comes even before tapas. One does the obligatory work, errands, and odds and ends with the busyness that becomes someone waiting for a clock somewhere to strike some hour. At exactly 7:30 each day, a loud peel of bells can be heard nearby my house, a sort of pre-emptive warning to the people of Madrid that their time has almost come.The dinner ritual in Madrid is more perfunctory than the seriously huge lunch that most in the city take. It's eaten in anticipation of more snacking down the road, and usually takes place after 9:00.

It's at this point that people start to seep out into the narrow allies, cobbled streets, and wide-open squares. Puerta del Sol, the most popular meeting place in the whole city, is soon alive with throngs of Madrilenos of all ages, backgrounds, and intentions. Bars fill up with local patrons and tourists alike; the former know the drill, ordering without fuss their cana (small glass) of beer, which comes out promptly with a plate of olives, some potato chips, or a bocadillo (small sandwich), while the latter are for the most part left trying to figure out the difference between a tapa and a racion, all the while unsure how to go about tastefully asking if said tapa comes with their drink of choice. Jarras (pitchers) of sangria are typically overpriced, and Americanos like me quickly figure out that the must more economical and tasty option is tinto de verano, a mix of red wine and lemon Fanta. Bars in Madrid are not long haul engagements as they are in the United States; it's a bite and a glass here, and then down the street to look for more curiosities, cheaper beer, or a television that's showing the game. This past Saturday was "El Clasico", the famous head to head match up between FC Barcelona and Real Madrid, the two most popular football clubs in the country. On every single street radiating out from Sol, there were a cluster of people every 30 feet or so, stopped in their tracks and looking into a bar window, most cursing as Messi made quick work of the Real Madrid defense, but some celebrating raucously with each incredible save that the Barca goaltender made. This wasn't the Cubs versus the White Sox, or Stanford versus Berkeley. This was serious stuff, bringing two of the most lively cities in the world to a standstill for two hours of highs, lows, and of course, another drink.

By this point, it's midnight, and the city is still rife with the first wave of people, the "early evening crowd". They catch up with friends on the street, enjoying the outdoor ambiance at an hour, that, in the United States, all of them would be sleeping soundly. As this group, which includes families with small children and older people, trickles off to head home, the second wave takes their place. 20-somethings, backpackers, jazz musicians, street cleaners, and party promoters fill Puerta del Sol, Gran Via, and Plaza Mayor. Having finished enjoying the most important national sport, futbol, many young Madrilenos take to enjoying another popular one: botellon, or public drinking. Teenagers and university kids congregate at the famous fountains in Puerta del Sol, and at benches, statues, and steps across the city, passing around bottles of Coca Cola that offer more than just a sugary kick, and making quick work of wine that makes Franzia look swanky. Some Spanish cities, such as Granada, have taken umbrage with this traditional practice. Their solution? Obviously, build a giant stadium where all the teenagers can drink in one place. No, really.

Anyways, it never causes much trouble at all, and it's definitely far less obnoxious than the red-cup gamut that the United States claims as its own. However, there are still slews of Americanos here that want to get their party on, post-botellon, which they partook in out of cultural purposes. Not to worry: walk 10 feet down any street near Puerta del Sol and you'll be accosted by someone trying to get you to go to their discoteca, offering "deals" for drinks that anyone who's not a card carrying member of the trust fund brigade would be crazy to take. Did I say anyone? Sorry, I just meant guys. Girls don't pay anything. You can go in and check out the club scene, which I did at Joy, a renowned multi-story theatre that moonlights as a cool place to party the night through. Upon entering, there's a really neat redux of Velazquez' "Las Meninas" (which also happens to be less than a mile away) that features the young lady in question decked out a la Coca Cola Fashion Ltd. This, along with an oddly colorized picture of Humphery Bogart with buttons declaring his presidential aspirations, feel right at home in this quasi-American, quasi-international joint. However, these images are fakes, fronting facets that have little to do with how they really are. So too with many of the patrons of the establishment. Everyone has to be a little bit of someone else to stand out above a crowd of people who are all trying to appear novel, carefree, and desirable. Introductions are made in 10 different languages, 10 euros cocktails slide across the bartop, and lights strobe on and off. The night goes on.

Back home, we are in a very different part of our country's life compared to that of Europe. We thrive on a sense of frontier new-ness, of that itching sensation to keep pushing boundaries of all kinds. We're still a hormone riddled teenager, all flash and big ideas and energy, trying to figure out what we really want to be when we grow up. Europe had it's time there too (caution: gross historical simplification ahead). It was born out of darkness, found it's grandpa's old photo albums, went to Renaissance University, and decided that it wanted to head out to the ends of the earth in search of glory, gold, and converts. Despite hitting the jackpot on this career path, and having a long and lucrative time on the job, it eventually found it's teenage colonies excessively difficult to control. After a midlife crisis (or two...), it settled down again to enjoy good food, wine, and books, while still remaining active in the community. Because of our relative new-ness and Europe's relative old-ness, there are some things that can only happen in the States, and some only in Europe. For instance, one night I decided to take a walk around downtown Madrid. I hit all the well-trafficked areas to take in the sights and sounds and smells, gave directions to a few lost-looking English speaking tourists (a personal hobby), and decided to head West from the city center. I had remembered seeing a park there during our tour earlier that day, and I decided to go looking for a good swing to enjoy. The wind was whipping through the narrow stone streets and past the many closed banks and other businesses. In the span of just a block, I found myself alone in silence, a first for this city. I continued until I reached a clearing, and the Royal Palace exploded into view, regally lit against the azure sky. Just like that. Street. Palace. Europe, no? I made my way over to the playground that's nestled into a hillside directly across the street from the palace, choosing a swing that looked comfortable enough. As I did, I became aware of the soft strains of accordion music wafting over from a street corner a couple of blocks away. In front of me rose stoic, leafless trees, bathed in the orange glow of halogen light. A single gust of wind crossed the playground, and the other swings creaked gently in time with the accordion music.