The Magnificent Madrid Metro

A quick something about the Madrid metro: it is phenomenal. Simple, user friendly, plain to see maps in every station, around every corner, easily guiding you to your transfer. Logical straight forward representations of each line are cleanly presented inside each car. One does not need to speak the language to navigate the Madrid metro but only recognize station names. Comprehension is not necessary. I've had much less stress working the Madrid metro than NYC's, funny because I speak English. Recalling my early struggles with the T in Boston I'm thankful for the Madrid metro.

Ahh the T. Unpredictable arrivals with only departing crowds, waiting crowds, or no crowds to inform you of a train's time of arrival or departure (I'm looking at you green line). Dingy stations, crowded tiny cars, oh the nostalgia of the sardine tin conditions. Come to Madrid where every arrival is only a few minutes away, telling you on a ticker, which will then flash--get this--the arrival of the following train. I did not know such technology existed. Where every car is clean and spacious. And stations rock this sort of artwork:

My station, Paco de Lucia

Hey Boston, take some friggin' notes. 

Una Entrada de Diario: Un Amigo

After the sharpening mornings, where my jet lag was polished away, I began to venture out and quickly found my mind shocked out if its American suburban slumber; not an unexpected one, not a lightening strike, but a slow, daily unfamiliarity. The soft tissue of the in-between, indeed became moments themselves, moments imperceptible at home, but sharp memories here: the woman lighting her cigarette in my peripheral, the ordering of a drink, being asked for directions in Spanish. Snapped from twenty-three years of unwitting practice in English and American culture, here, my mind has become sort of heightened, peeled to basic advertisements, casual metro conversations, and simple events. However, I remain apart, like oil on water, because I'm so attuned to these normally frictionless moments. This was no more apparent than on my trip to Farraday Café. 

"...see a stone is Spain and think of it as, in some essential sense stonier..." Ben Lerner, Leaving the Atocha Station. 

I sat down and after reciting Puedo tomar una cerveza, the waiter asked me, to what I deduced as, What kind? Faced with improvisation, I was lost. My face went blank and, unable to communicate my desire, I fumbled through incoherent phrases and words. Reduced to miming, I pointed at a small sticker on the the chair opposite me, advertising a beer. Estrella, I said, butchering the double L. He said something that came down to We don't have Estrella. I was sweating now, painfully aware of my inability in basic communication. Moad (pronounced Moahdd) as I learned his name to be, rescued me, and in his blur of Spanish I caught Amstel. Sisisisi, I spit out. He smiled said Vale (Ok, or some equivalent) and brought me an Amstel. Blood still thumping with the adrenaline of a basic conversational exchange, I downed the Amstel. Moad came over and asked in a noticeable but smooth accent, Where are you from? Soy de Boston, I replied. And we patched a conversation together with pieces of English and Spanish, resulting in that solid European handshake thing. La cuenta, I said, asking for the bill. He brought it and told me to comeback again and again. I said Sisisi and walked away with a stupid grin only a friend can provide.