MAD:

[adjective] wildly excited or confused; frantic
[abbrev. / accron] Barajas Airport, Madrid, Spain.

Madrid was a little crazy. The airport abbreviation made a bit too much sense, for my liking - our stay there, while good in a general sense, was an overwhelming and exhausting whirlwind. To put it into perspective, though, anything would have been tough to come back to after the perfect relaxation that was San Sebastian. Grey, smoggy Madrid, under overcast skies with streets as steely as the clouds and a metro system that rattled and stank of urine and grease, full of people busy and driven and rushing... well, suffice it to say, it was a hard transition. It was made more difficult by the way it began, of course: a long, tiring bus ride, followed by a slightly stressful metro trip - thank goodness Anne knew how to manage the metro - and a short trek to our hostel. Up to that point, everywhere we had stayed had felt comfortable, friendly, and full of other 20-something college age travelers like us. Hostel Numancia, however, which we had booked only because it was the only hostel we could find for less than 20 Euro a night per person on a Saturday night, was rather different. Five silent floors up in a rickety glass elevator brought us to the hostel, where the condescending, slightly arrogant desk worker with too much gel in his hair asked us if we hadn't received his email. "Cancelled - reservation. Email say, cancelled - you reservation," he said, and at our horrified looks he gave an exasperated little huff then asked us to sit where we were while he helped the large, chattering group of Spaniards who had arrived. At this point it was nearly 6:30 on a Saturday evening, and we traded not-quite-panicked glances when we realized that we really would not be able to find anywhere else to stay, and began discussing in undertones what we could bribe the greasy-haired, pasty-faced fellow with to get him to let us sleep on the couches upon which we were anxiously perched, despite their clearly insufficient length and slightly threadbare quality.  After what I swear was 25 minutes, at least 20 of which were purely social chit chat with the cheerful 30-something Spaniards, he turned to us and told us that they would figure something out. ...You couldn't have told us that earlier?! Oh my. Eventually, we ended up in a room with a double bed at the end of a long, dark hallway, and while we were extraordinarily thankful for a bed at all, and the privacy was nice, we also felt very isolated and not quite creeped out, but heading in that sort of direction.

After a little nap we headed out in search of food, still debating whether or not we wanted to go out drinking and/or dancing. After our long day, and the exceedingly long night before (see previous post for the ridiculous details), however, we decided we should just enjoy our dinner, then get some sleep. We wandered about in the crowded nocturnal streets, feeling that somehow this was not quite real; a new city at night time can be a strange feeling. It was made still more odd when we began to notice people in zombie make-up peppering the throng through which we were walking, then more of them, then still more. At first it was just some black make-up, then a bit of fake blood, but soon we were encountering protruding bones, guts spilling and white contacts turning brown eyes ghostly. Pirate zombies seemed particularly popular, and there were several military zombies, some scrub-clad nurse zombies, and what appeared to be construction-worker zombies complete with punctured hard-hats and gore-crusted orange vests. It was so incredibly surreal. I think it would have been quite funny had we not been exhausted, a bit put out over the hostel, and rather bewildered. My Spanish is not quite good enough for me to be able to enquire in a casual way what was going on - no matter how I phrased it in my head, it always sounded stilted and strange - Why are you dead? Why do you have blood on your face? What is [gestures wildly] this??? By the time a couple of undead fellows with particularly convincing make up approached us and began growling in my ear, (growling!) we had had quite enough of that, thank you, and began walking swiftly in the direction of (what we hoped was) the living. A burger and some very vinegar-y salad later, we were feeling slightly better, and headed back into the quiet building and up the creaking elevator and down the pitch-black hallway to our room. (I later discovered that it was Marcha Zombi Madrid night, whatever that means. An annual zombie convention?)

The next day went better, thank goodness. We checked out of Hostel Numancia, not at all sorry to leave,  and checked ourselves into the next hostel, which was bigger, busier, and full of friendly kids our age; we loved it, and not only because the previous one had been so unpleasant. Cat's Hostel is in what used to be a 16th century palace, and looked rather like a mosque - Moorish influences, I suppose. There was a central open space, roofed in a stained glass dome, and tiled exquisitely in deep maroons, rich blues and softly gleaming golds. The two mexican girls and Irish lad in our dorm-style room were quite pleasant, and we left the hostel for the day in vastly better spirits than we had been in the day before. We went first to Lidl - beloved, cheap Lidl - and got ourselves very fresh baguette - still hot - and other provisions for the day before wandering off. We walked through plazas and squares, markets and allies, and were surprised and a little disappointed to discover that things really do close on Sundays in Spain - whether from vestiges of a religious structure that no longer really exists in most other parts of the world, or simply because having a day off is civilized. Probably a good thing for me, financially - there were far too many pairs of lovely shoes tempting me, and if more places had been open I would not have been able to resist. We ended up sitting at a cafe for a while in the late afternoon, chatting and watching the pigeons and the people, and generally catching our breath. That city moves so quickly! I realized I am not used to places that are so big, and really, have spent no time in them - the twin cities are rather small, and I have not been to New York, London, or even Chicago. San Francisco is the biggest city I am familiar with, and even San Francisco is not really large, just condensed. Edinburgh is lovely city, but also manageable, comfortable. Perhaps if I spent months in Madrid it would feel manageable to me as well, but as it was, it was a bit overwhelming. After catching our breath, we crossed the street and ambled over to the Prado Museum, in plenty of time, we thought, to make the 5:00 pm free entrance time slot (it was then 4:30). Of course, we should have realized that when the biggest museum in Spain offers free entrance hours, it causes quite a stir. We waited in the longest line I can ever remember seeing for at least 40 minutes, in the rain (because that is the way these things go, of course) but then, rather miraculously, we got in. The museum was wonderful, and huge - full of dark old paintings from hundreds of years ago; de Goya, Velasquez, el Greco, and more. It was worth the wait, and worth the dash (through tidal-waves of spray from passing vehicles) back to our hostel that evening.

The next morning, far too early, we got up and Anne (the angel) offered to accompany me to the airport, braving the ever-aromatic subway in a frantic rush as, underestimating the time it would take to get across the city, I spent the whole way panicking slightly. A rushed hug, a fumbled subway ticket and far too many snail-speed escalators later, I found myself dashing up and down corridors, translating directional signs in my head and praying that I was not going the wrong way. I was not, and Ryanair allowed my bag on as a carry-on (I had serious doubts that they would, despite it having worked on the flight TO Spain) and then I was on the plane, high above the city, exhaling.

That was when it hit me: I was going to PARIS.