It is Friday evening, and Mardid is preparing for the weekend. After a 7
hour ride from Barcelona, our bus is pulling into an underground station.
With two other Canadians also fully suited up with big backpacks, we all get
into an elevator meant for two people to descend even further underground to
the Metro station. The elevator makes a courtesy ride up to ground level
first, before taking us to level -3. With negative free space in the
elevator, nobody else got on.
Without a reservation, our choices of hostals were already full. We checked
into a more expensive one, and then proceed to look for a cheaper one to
stay for the next two nights.
At Plaza Mayor, watching a group of school-kids play around, a Chinese
couple approaches us to sell massages by placing their sales sheet in our
hand and giving us a sample shoulder massage. We are then ushered in the
direction of their chairs, and after a few declines, more forcefully brought
to their chairs. We then left to look elsewhere in the Centre for a while.
It is Saturday morning. The dismembered and poor are making their way to
the common streets to beg for money, either with signs or horrid moaning.
At the Parque del Buen Retiro, there are puppet shows being put on for
children, and people renting rowboats to paddle around a large pond in front
of a monument.
Over at the Museo de Jamon, business is brisk, and there is a constant
stream of people coming in for some ham-related eats before heading off.
In a cheap internet cafe, an obnoxious patron is annoying the rest of the
room by listening to loud Arabic music. He is also looking at pornography.
On the sidewalks, people are selling perfumes, (imitation) sunglasses,
scarves, (copied) CDs/DVDs, and whatnot else, with their product on blankets
for display. In the blink of an eye, they pull their rip cords, converting
their spreads into a carry sack. A flurry of fifteen men run across the
street (in front of a bus even), and disappear behind the corner. In the
opposite direction, policemen appear. Down the next street, they have
already set up, and continue this pattern in a startled deer-like fashion.
It is Sunday. We do a little hand-washing of clothes, and set them on the
balcony to dry.
Over at the Sunday El Rastro Market, a handful of streets have converted
into tent-mania. Crowds squeeze through the packed thorough-ways to see all
of the miscellaneous clothing, antiques, accessories, (legitimate) CDs/DVDs,
birds, and etceteras being hawked.
The Police have informed our Hostal manager that clothes are not to be hung
on the balcony. He kindly moves our then dried clothing.
In the background of a siesta nap, a constant yet noninvasive stream of
people walking by can be heard. An old lady sits beside a hand-crank music
box, flooding the street with whimsical music in exchange for a little coin.
She sits and cranks the box for three hours.
—–
afterwards we were still there one more night, but I didnt write that up in
advance. There was a spontaneous Flamenco dance on the street (with the hat
for donations of course), and Monday mornign there was an expensive airport
breakfast. yay.