My Brain in Spain, 6

Fun With Trains and Beer

I’m starting to write this at the Puerta de Atocha station in Madrid on the morning of the 29th.

It isn’t quite 10:30. Joanna should be in Lisbon now waiting for her plane to Newark Liberty. 

So I’m sitting at a table near the palms trees in the arboretum on a foggy, cold morning in the capital of Spain, enjoying my first beer of the morning, and waiting for my train to Barcelona. 

But let me bring you up to date.

We took another great walk through Valencia the night before we left and another yesterday morning.

All the walks are great there. Night before last, we were on the Plaça de Ajuntament, which is more or less the Catalan name for City Hall Square. The demonstration from the other day was out with horns, whistles, and yellow coats.

 

This time we wound up back at the Central Market. We didn’t see anybody kill an eel, but it was exciting nonetheless. We bought a local orange with the stem and leaves still on it.

The market is full of very earthy things: ranks of hams, bright piles of vegetables everywhere, white corn with kernels bigger than navy beans, unmolested eels, cooked and live shellfish, skinned rabbits with their eyes still in, mesh bags of snails. One had gotten out of the bag and was trying to escape, but unfortunate for his chances, he was moving at a snail’s pace.

The train ride between Madrid and Valencia is OK. It hits 300 kilometers an hour and travels through rolling country with hills in the distance. Then the hills get closer. There are orchards, vineyards, and plowed fields. The biggest town we saw on the way rests in a small valley and up a hillside, in the distance looking very Renaissance-like. 

There are orchards, and vineyards, and hills.

We came into Atocha a little before dark, took a cab to the hotel, and stayed there because there is not a lot to do outside the hotel, which is in a residential neighborhood near the airport. 

We were checking menus at the bars off the lobby, and the bartender at one place came out and tried to persuade us to come in for a drink and some ham and cheese. His prices seemed a little high, so we said, maybe, but we’re just looking right now. 

It wasn’t eight in the evening yet, so most of the places were still closed. So we did go back there for a glass of red.

He didn’t pour from a bottle. Instead he sold me a split, the equivalent of about 8 ounces. It was a Rioja Crianza and, like all the Riojas, very good.

He served it with a plate of the best olives I have tasted and a dish of potato chips, which are very popular wherever we have gone in Spain.

We had one of his tapas plates, pollo Provencale. It consisted of eight chicken wings, a small plate of cracklins, and a basket of bread. His prices weren’t high for tapas. He was serving meals.

After that and another bottle of red, we moved on to the Mediterranean restaurant, which had opened in the meantime. We had cod in a honey ali-oli sauce. (Don’t know what that is. I add this detail only so I’ll remember to look it up when I have an Internet connection.) 

[Editor’s note: Harry learned later that it is a sauce of garlic and olive oil. He should have guessed as much, but we surmise that he had been drinking too much wine to be that lucid.]

Fish and honey sounded too weird to pass up. The sweet was a little strange, but it worked.

Four o’clock came early this morning. But we got out to the airport on the 5:30 hotel shuttle. 

When we were sitting in the lobby waiting for the ride to show up, we heard the distant thump of dance music, muffled a bit but distinct, like the sound track of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," a few minutes after five in the morning.

I followed the vibration, down a hall and then down a flight of stairs, to another area with doors. I opened the one labeled "Ghost," because it was the one pulsating. Inside I glimpsed a startled doorman and several people—could be dozens—up and bouncing at 5 in the morning.  Amazing what a few uppers can do for you. 

This was probably my most energetic experience of Spanish time. The the circadian rhythms run different over here.

Joanna checked in with the airline without incident. I tried to take a photo of her heading toward security, but was stopped by a guard. He told me to go around the corner to take a photo. 

Here is a photo of Joanna being deported from Spain.

When it came time to head for the railroad station, I was tired of being soaked by Madrid cab rates. It was 30 euro, including tip, from the rail station to the airport hotel. A 10-minute ride from the air terminal back to the hotel was 15 euros, or about 20 bucks, because there’s an 8.50 euro airport surcharge. 

To hell with that. I decided to take the Metro. I have a reserved seat on a 12:30 train, so I allowed three hours for lots of stops, getting lost, and choosing wrong trains and platforms. As it turned out, the trip took less than an hour, including the walk from the hotel to the subway station.

It was so easy that the only excitement was carrying 30 pounds of luggage up two flight of steps to change lines at Gran Via station, and a moment of uncertainty. I followed the signs to the No. 1 line toward Valdecarros, which would take me to the Atocha Renfe, the stop at the rail station.

I stepped onto a train with confidence feeling after all very worldly. I looked at the station list posted on the carriage wall—just like the ones on the New York Subway that list the stations in order. I wanted to see how many stops until the railroad station.

The list was for the No. 5 train, and Atocha Renfe wasn’t on it. OK, here we go, and on only about four hours’ sleep.

So I pick a random passenger and ask, “Esta tren stop at Atocha Renfe?” Which got me a nice blank stare. Three other people simultaneously said yes and pointed to another station list over the door behind me. Don’t know why there are two lists in the same car. Maybe the train doubles as a No. 1 and a No. 5, and is set up for both.

When I got to Atocha station, I was early. The only way I could get onto an earlier train for Barcelona was if I upgraded to first class. No, not to pick up an hour or two. That gave me three hours to kill.

So I watched the turtles for a time. A rather small one was chasing another for a while by trying to bite its hind feet. Then (I think the same one) it used it forelegs to drum on the nose of a guy who was about twice as big. I expected the big guy to chew the little one’s arms off, but no, he said fuck it and left.

Then it was time to sit down and try to be creative. I found La Barrila, which may mean the Barrel, but I’m not sure because the translating dictionary on my Kindle doesn’t have an entry for that exact word. 

I have discovered that pidgin Spanish, though woefully short of conversational, is helpful. I have a hard time catching the language spoken, but can read a bit. When I think no one’s looking, I check words on my Kindle.

For instance, I have no exact idea of what “realicen” means in the sentence “Se ruega por favor realicen sus pedidos en la barra.” It wasn’t in my vocabulario or the Kindle’s.

But Kindle told me “pedido” means “order.” So I guess the table is self service.

So I knew how to get beer. It is a Pilsener, I believe, and is called Cruzcampo. So far, so good, and nobody can ask for better than that.

Peace and good times to all.

Harry