With morning and afternoon classes taking up nearly all of our days, it’s been a rather uneventful first week here in Madrid. To give y’all a brief summary (since I have received complaints about my loquaciousness): We have class from 9:00-2:10, then from 4:00-6:00 most days, and sometimes we have visitas to places like el barrio and more mercados. Saturday, we took a class day trip to Toledo, and Sunday I went to church again (I understood un poco más!) and to the Reina Sofia. Yesterday and today, was mostly just more class, with the exception of what Fourth of July festivities we could muster in a country that doesn’t care all that much. We represented America well. And now, I present the unabridged version.
Tired as I am of sightseeing, Toledo was easily one of the most interesting cities that we have taken a class trip to. Naturally, we had to listen about all of the Arabic influence and stuff all over again, but besides that, it was a very different place. The nearby hills were covered in brush, with various sprawling homes breaking up the sandy colored rocks and muddy river that flowed below. The low buildings that lined the streets seemed far less tightly packed than normal, and somehow less imposing. I think I am slightly biased towards Toledo, also, because for the first time since being here, we got to visit a museum that was actually interesting. After stealthily departing from the group after yet another cathedral, we paid a visit to el museo de los instrumentos de tortura. It was fascinating to see what kind of devices they came up with back in the days of the Spanish Inquisition, and rather ironic to go from the grand cathedral to this somewhat abysmal little tribute.
The Reina Sofia is a famous art museum located in the heart of Madrid, and that was about all I knew about it. Nevertheless, I got dragged along by my eccentric art-loving roommate. I felt increasingly uncultured as I wandered through the floor of Picasso, completely unable to appreciate the weird toothed horses and angry-looking abstract women. But as we started ascending through the museum (via glass elevator) things got much more entertaining. The other floors had old, captivating photographs that told novels about life in the old days, along with old movies, and various sculpture things that looked like something we would have to draft in AutoCAD class. These alternative forms of art did well to break up the spew of strange forms and colors that someone for some reason decided were worth something. And, of course, the best part of the museum was the Wheel of Pleasure, which after our adventure the previous day sounded like some sort of facetious name for a torture device. The Wheel of Pleasure was a large circle of twelve or so bowls, each filled with water colored one of the four primary colors and accompanied by a small eye dropper. We stared at it for a while, unsure of what to do, until a lady bustled by us, knelt beside a bowl, dropped a few drops on the back of her hand, and tasted it. Naturally, we all drank Wheel of Pleasure juice for the next ten minutes. The water was flavored different flavors, of which I couldn’t identify accurately. A museum employee told us something along the lines of, “They are not what they seem, eh?” in Spanish. Modern art may not be my thing, but I certainly enjoyed that particular medium.
When the Fourth of July finally rolled around, we all started to realize how homesick we were. While we stared wistfully at pictures filled with red, white, and blue and watched as everyone back home updated their plans for the evening, matters just got worse. Most of us here in Spain finally resolved to go out, find American food, and “act like the loud Americans we are”. Of course, we ended up at the Hard Rock, dropping 15 € for a hamburger without a second thought. It was potentially the best Hickory barbecue bacon cheeseburger that I have ever partaken in, and I devoured the entire thing. Every passerby who walked in was greeted by, “American?!”, and if the answer was an affirmative, hoots and hollers ensued, as we tried to spread our American spirit to all corners of the globe. It’s so strange how much absence makes the heart grow fonder: this Fourth of July was probably the most patriotic I have ever felt, despite the fact that we are in a foreign land where no one cares a bit about the birth of our nation. And of course, we’ve all started to make our lists of what we’re going to do as soon as our prospective planes land. But we still have quite a few weeks until then. In the meantime, I will be preparing to go witness the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona and explore Barcelona. İViva San Fermín! İGora San Fermín!
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