After an eventful day one, I expressed to my friend my desire for some stress relief on day two of the trip. When my travel partner suggested hitting the Museo de Entologia, I reluctantly agreed.
After spending 20 minutes in line trying to figure out which wing of the museum we wanted to see, and then deciding which ticket that was on the all Spanish menu, we were in. This is probably a good time to explain to everyone that my travel partner is fluent in Spanish. And so, every chance I get to make fun of her for being confused by the language, my mono-lingual ass takes full advantage – as if I should be talking (these are the things I do).
Anyway, 7 minutes into our tour of the museum I was bored to tears. I, for the life of me, will never understand why people pay money to walk around all afternoon wasting their time looking at-and attempting to discuss-a bunch of nonsensical paintings that all look alike. Oh, another 440-year old piece where a bunch of people in robes stare at a baby (which is right next to a guy who is bleeding for some reason) while two birds (indicated by painted black Vs) look on from a distance, AMAZING!
Realizing that this trip is not all about me, I pretend to enjoy myself for the sake of the young lady I am with. As we all do at museums, galleries, operas and other places of immense boredom, I went through that “I am going to try to act and talk as if I really give a shit about all of this so she will think I am at least somewhat sophisticated and capable of caring about something other than SportsCenter and Laffy Taffy, but really all I want to do is spoon my eyes out” inner dialog. After the 372nd identical painting, I cave and explain that I am so bored my toe nails hurts. Luckily, my friend shares many of my same sentiments, so I don’t end up looking like a completely uneducated, uncultured, classless moron. Always a sport, my friend agrees to dip out and find something more interesting to do.
We left the museum, but not before posing like tourists in front of the building for pictures. Hers was probably for lasting memories of her trip to Madrid. Mine was to commemorate the all-time lowest point in my life.
After walking North a few blocks from the Museum of Religious Paintings That All Look Alike and Mean Nothing to Me, we happened upon a small private garden. From the outside, it looked very lush and beautiful. On the inside, all of the seasonal plants and flowers were dead. This “garden” walk ended up being 19 minutes and 3 euros I will never get back.
If you’re scoring at home, I’m 0-2 with two walks so far on this day.
In typical female, Type-A fashion, my friend whips out her traveler’s map of crap she wants to see while in Madrid. As my luck would have it, she finds that we are close to another museum on her wish list. Pissed that I already blew my veto card at 10:45 a.m. at the first museum, I have no choice but to either agree to roll with (and seem excited to do so), or run the risk of really coming off as the most annoying/incompatible travel companion in history…15 hours into the trip. Always conscious of the psychological undercurrent in every conversation, I make up some story about how this next modern art museum “really sounds like it’s more my speed.” Secretly, I am mentally preparing for two hours of abstract paintings, stupid shit made out of glass, and oddly-shaped red chairs. And not just that, but having to generate pompous, fake intellectual things to say about each of them. For a moment, I wonder to myself if my dental insurance will work in Spain-as I might instead choose to go in for a cleaning and just meet my friend after. But, as I just mentioned, I forecasted the social damage of choosing a dental visit in a foreign country over strolling through a Spanish modern art museum with a beautiful and interesting woman might cause and instead chose the oddly-shaped red chair tour.
Once inside the Reina Sofia Museum, I was pleasantly surprised. It was a gorgeous building with somewhat reasonably interesting art inside. Aside from the socially-outraged slideshows + light installations, I had myself a good time. If you are ever in Madrid and someone in your party absolutely has to visit an art museum, do all you can to steer everyone to this one. Just trust me.
At 12:30 p.m. we exit the museum and start looking for food. Naturally, our first lunch in Spain finds us at…an Italian restaurant. It’s empty, so we walk inside to see if they are even open. Inside, we are greeted by two people who look surprised to see us. My friend handles asking them if they are open for business and, after hearing they are, we (she) request a table on the sidewalk with a view of the square outside the museum. Two Coke classics and one amazing pizza margherita later, we noticed the lunch crowd had finally arrived. I guess the reason the restaurant staff was so surprised to see us was because we were an hour or so early for Madrid lunch time. This is nothing new for me. Honestly, if I had to choose one word to sum up everything in my life, it would be “premature.” No question.
After lunch, we decided to fully-immerse ourselves in Spanish culture and walk back to the hotelly to enjoy a siesta. It’s funny, I grew up hearing about siestas, but I just never connected the dots that Madrid was the place where they did that before I landed in town. It wasn’t until after we left lunch and started walking around and noticed all of the businesses closed that we realized everyone was at home napping and cooling out. At this point, we have the predictable “Why The Shit Doesn’t America Do The ‘Siesta’ Thing?” These are the things I enjoy about traveling. You can read and get beat over the head by teachers with stories about other cultures, but it’s not until you walk through the streets of the capital city of another country, only to find that everyone went home to take a three-hour nap, that you realize there are other philosophies on life out there that have, and continue to, prove successful. Look, I realize that nationally we are never going to adopt siestas. That’s why, mentally, I spent every afternoon in Madrid. I now make sure to take three hours in the middle of my work day each day to remove my shoes, place my feet on my desk, check Facebook, YouTube funny videos, text my friends, knock back some food and watch movies on HBO.
[SIDEBAR: I try to keep my mouth shut when I’m in other countries, especially if that country speaks and entirely different language. But, for some reason, throughout this trip I was overcome with the urge to explain to everyone on the streets of Madrid just how gay soccer is (not “homosexual gay,” but “Maroon 5 gay”). Coming off a World Cup win, I am sure no one was keen to listen, so I withheld all 7,993 urges to do this.]
After a nice siesta, we shower up for dinner.
Because the Hispanic woman I am traveling with is, by any estimation, one of the top-10 most attractive people in the world, I have to dress extra fresh to be able to stand next to her when we go places (especially at night). If my textile game isn’t tight, I get an influx of “How did he pull THAT off?,” “What is she thinking?,” and “He must have an amazing personality” looks from passersby. Thus, I go green Zara (Spanish company) chinos, green top-siders, blue shirt and striped J. Crew tie for dinner.
It didn’t matter.
She ended up wearing a black dress with heels and her hair all pretty, so I got “the looks” anyway.
The good news was, we had dinner outside in one of the gorgeous plazas Madrid is famous for. For those unfamiliar with the city, they have numerous open areas in each neighborhood where you will find tables surrounded by restaurants and bars where the people come out and bring you whatever you want while you soak up the night air. We sat outside at a table with a gorgeous view of an expensive hotel. We also had a view of the table next to us where an apparently divorced couple was attempting to have dinner with their son. The ex-husband showed up late, the wife kept bitching, and the bratty child was yelling non-stop. It’s at this point that I break into my “Children should not be allowed in public until they are 12. And even then, if they begin to misbehave in any way, strangers should be allowed to smack/choke them” speech. Shortly after, I revealed to my friend that I fantasize about ways to slip Benadryl to all noisy children.
On to the food…
This dinner was mostly focused on one thing: Paella. Apparently, it is the dish Spain is famous for. And, since it is rice-based, I was on board. 42 minutes after ordering, the Paella finally arrives. If you are ordering paella at a restaurant, they generally tell you ahead of time that it is going to basically take forever for it to come out because it takes a really long time to make. Make a note of that.
After dinner, we walk the plaza and do some people watching. I see so many men in Capri pants that I decide I need a few drinks to help me forget it, so we slide to cozy bar down the alley from the plaza. One step into that smoke-filled spot has me longing for the fresh air and men in capris back at the plaza. But, we ordered a drink anyway. After ordering, we notice that the party across from us has a stroller…with a baby in it…in a bar…that’s full of cigarette smoke…at midnight.
We stare, we judge, we get bored.
Our drinks arrive.
We close out.
Okay, we ordered a second round and then closed out. I was on VACATION.
Walking home, we see a bar popping off across the skrizzy from our hotelly, so we bust up in the plizzy plizzy to show them how L.A. gets down. At the bar, we are watching a fat, old, bald, white guy try to game this older, scantily-clad Spanish lady. Predictably, the “Is she a prostitute, or are they on some sort of awkward date?” conversation follows. We end up deciding that is must be a date because, if she were a prostitute, she would have come over to me at some point, removed my glasses and attempted to extort me.
By now, it is 2:15 a.m. and I’m Hazeyville.
We dip (estamos muy consados).
This was Day 2.
You’re welcome,
-The Todd
