Muerte en la Tarde

"A steady diet of bier, crackers, and salami may suffice for a short while, but it is inevitable that the boy's stomach will ache for something more....or maybe it's his mind that aches as it gnaws at thoughts of running bulls. Maybe it is his mind that plays tricks on his stomach? His stomach is full, but it craves for something more, something real...something bloody. Ah yes, it is indeed his mind. Ernest had told him about the bulls, before - the thought has devoured him ever since."

As I gasped for breath in my sweat soaked room, I reached for the water bottle that lay on the floor beside my tiny bed. It was 1:30 pm and I had just woken up. I could hear the stale, sickly coughs from my next door neighbor, and wondered if this was reality. It was. My walls are paper thin, and everyone hears every little sound, so I yelled at the top of my lungs.

"What day do the bulls run?"

In between queezes, he answered, "Sunday."

"What day is it?"

"Sunday."

Perfecto.

In Spain, bullfights are called Las Corridas de los toros - which literally translates to the run of the bulls. It is not considered a fight, but more a performance, or an artistic expression in which bull and man go to battle. Toreros enter the ring to risk their lives, and give the people what they want - they are modern day gladiators. They are at the mercy of the crowd. There is no winner in a bullfight - there is only honor. A torero's honor is the only thing at stake in the ring. Well, actually his life is on the line, but to a bullfighter his honor and life are one in the same.

A short anecdote.

Juan Belmonte is widely considered throughout the world to have been the greatest bullfighter to ever walk this planet. It is ironic that I say "walk" because Belmonte was born with a condition in which he could not walk correctly - his feet were not put together properly. His condition did many things. For one, it made him slower, so he had to be beyond precise. Two, it made him bitter, so he was madly driven to be the best. Three, it made him bold, so he stood his ground as bulls charged towards him - he anchored himself in the ground like no other fighter did. And lastly, it made him proud, so he stood tall with his knees straight and chest out. Belmonte was a rare specimen of man. A rare kind of person that only comes around every century or so - he revolutionized the art of bullfighting. He refined what it meant to have style in the ring.

Belmonte enjoyed an extroardinary career filled with triumph and downfall. He was violently gored well over six times throughout his career. He retired, and then returned to the ring. He realized, as all masters do, that he could not live without doing what he loved; and it was wasteful and selfish not to do it while he was still physically able. I'm sure you can think of a few other masters who have come to the same conclusion.

As I have said bullfighters are proud people, and Belmonte was especially proud. And as he was proud, he was equally stubborn. Once retiring from the ring for good, he continued to savor the things that he loved in life - bullfighting, alcohol, cigars, & women. He proudly made his way over the hill into old age - all the while his condition worsened. Until finally, doctors told him that he would never be able walk again. They told him that he could no longer ride his horses, drink alcohol, smoke cigars, or have sex - they told him that he would die a painful death if he continued to live in the manner that he was living.

Belmonte would not live then, nor would he leave this world on doctors' terms - he would leave on his own terms. He promptly bought a case of his favorite whiskey, a box of his favorite cigars, and rode his favorite horse to Casa de Campo where he picked up three of his favorite hookers - Mujeres de las noches. He enjoyed his favorite things one last time, and shot himself in the head with his favorite pistol. Belmonte was a bullfighter. Just as the bulls in the ring stubbornly charge with no regard for their life - so, too, did Belmonte. Juan Belmonte was a troubled genius, who was starkly dark, and unquestionably skilled. He was a bullfighter.

The bullfight was at six thirty pm, and it was necessary that I was prompt and on time, because if you arrive after the first bull is released you have to wait till it is dead before you can enter the ring. I arrived just before 6:30 pm, bought a cheap ticket from a scalper in front of the stadium, and snuck in just before they released the beast.

Las Ventas is the name of the bullring. You can feel the anticipation in the air. The aficionados are eager to see the performance. Aficionados look at a bullfight in a much difference lens than a casual spectator. They want to know how the bulls are. Are they angry? Are they ready to charge? A bull that doesn't charge does not allow the torero the chance to display his skills. Do the toreros enter the terrain of the bull, or do they merely over-exaggerate their movements to imitate danger?

When a torero enters the terrain of the bull he makes his body vulnerable, he risks his life - this is how a bullfighter gains respect. The bull grazes Belmonte as it makes its pass. The horns miss his thigh by less than an inch...would these Sunday fighters be able to live up to Belmonte's standards?

It was an impossible task. The ghost of Belmonte laughed in the crowd as he drank his whiskey and smoked his cigar. There were three fighters - one from Portugal, one from Spain, and one from Ecuador. The first two were nothing special. Boos poured down from the crowd as the Portuguese torero failed to cleanly kill his bull. It took him well over 8 stabs to lay that noble bull to rest. When a fight is sloppy and careless like that I, undoubtedly, root for the bull.

The torero from Ecuador was the only fighter who won the crowd's favor. His first bull was average, and he killed it rather cleanly. His second bull was mean, and clever. The bull fought vigorously to no avail - the red cape of the torero, called a muleta, constantly alluded him. Until finally, the bull found an opening.

As the Ecuadorian fighter stood facing the bleeding bull, he held his muleta out in front as a mask, and slowly lowered his sword, pointing it directly at the bull - this signals that the torero will attempt to go for the kill. A small twitch of his cape, and the bull charges. The fighter stands his ground. He tries to thrust his sword in between the shoulder blades, piercing the bull's heart. The bull is clever, and violently uses his horns as a boxer would, he has a right and a left. The torero is arrogant and stands his ground for a second too long - the bull catches him with a right...I thought I was witnessing the death of a torero. I thought the bull had gored him right under his ribs. He was stuck on the horns. The bull took him to the ground and gave one last go at it, before he was swarmed by bandilleros with bright pink capes. They lured the bull away from the bruised torero. The torero stands, and walks with his head down to retrieve his sword and muleta. He is not physically hurt, but he is angry with himself. As he gains his composure, he walks to the middle of the ring, each step methodically placed. He stands tall, his posture overbearing as he stares at the bull - now it is a fight. The crowd cheers and whistles out of respect for both the bull and the torero. They know that it is a battle royale - both fighters wounded and tired.

The torero dances around the bull until he feels it is time to go for the kill, once again. The torero lines up his sword and is ready to end it - this battle is too good to end. The crowd cheers, whistles, and roars to let the torero know it is not time to end this fight just yet. They are not ready. The torero re-sheathes his sword, and the dance continues. The torero leads the bull through a couple more passes - his lines are tight and continuous. He is a skilled fighter, but can he use his sword?

The crowd fuels the torero as gasoline does to fire. The cheers give him strength and make him more daring. He opens up his body to the bull, and takes great risks. The sun has almost set, and the lights have been turned on. This fight has gone on long enough. As the torero stands, once again, facing the bull with his sword drawn a subtle whisper moves through the crowd, "Puede usar su espada?" "Can he use his sword?"

The bull charges with greater fervor than before, and the torero charges back. He avoids the boxer's horns this time, and makes a clean stab through the bull's heart. The bull stands wavering. The torero looks on. The bull knows it has been defeated, but it refuses to give up. It stumbles and falls down, dead. The crowd erupts. White handkerchiefs appear and the crowd waves them in the air. The torero blows kisses into the sea of white. The handkerchiefs represent the crowd's respect and love for the torero's performance - they signify that he should be awarded the ear of his bull, a great honor in bullfighting.

When the crowd erupted after that final kill I got goose bumps, and I could not stop smiling. It was a gruesome, bloody sight but I could feel the respect that these people had for both the bull and the torero. To them, it is an honorable death for the bull to die in the ring - that is why they get so upset when a sloppy and careless fighter deprives a good bull of a clean death. If you are skilled at dodging and making the bull dance you will be liked, but if you are skilled with your sword you will be loved. You will be immortal.

Ernest had told me about the bulls before, but now I knew for myself. It is an ancient experience that gets inside of you - it is filled with such detail, and loyalty. One has to know how to watch a bullfight to truly appreciate it. I don't know how to exactly watch one, yet, but I am learning.

Las Ventas, el proximo Domingo a las seis y media.

Earnestly yours,

C.M. Stassel

The Breakthrough

Biers still cost a single euro on the street, the metro is still a time warp, impromptu break-dancing circles still bust out in puerta del Sol, tapas still go well with biers, bullfights are still on Sundays, I still hit my head on the chandelier when I forget that it's there, Pao Gasol is still a god here, I still have the urge to perform on the street for $, my roommate still doesn't like the girls, and the Spanish sun still dries my clothes, but something is different.

I must warn you, the series of events I am about to unfold for you are filled with triumph, but to a large degree they are filled with defeat, and to a larger degree they are filled with bewilderment.

Something is different. A man approaches me on the street, with his fast spanish tongue he asks me a question...did I just understand everything he just asked me? Was I just able to decipher between his lispy Spanish c's and even lispier s's? I think I did. I knew it would eventually happen. I consciously knew that it would, I'd thunk that thought before. However, whenever a preordained thought reaches its potential and comes to life it happens so suddenly. Yesterday was different. Today is new. Today, I can speak Spanish.

It's 2:00 pm on Friday and i'm still in my bed. The shades are drawn and my room is dark. I'd have stayed in bed if I wasn't so hungry. I needed to eat. I met mi amigo, Alex, at the Lavapies metro station and hunted for an eatery. We found a spot with a great Menu del Dia....when in Spain it's wise and economical to order from the menu del dia. The place was called La Buca and for 11 euro I got a plate of spaghetti, patatas and fish, dos cervezas, and a banana strawberry smoothie for dessert.

After a meal like that one is very inclined to sleep - but in Spain you don't sleep, you siesta. I tried to take a siesta but ended up finishing this book by Ernest that i'm reading...The Sun Also Rises. He's got me hooked on bullfighting.

The pregames in Spain take place in the plazas...at 10 or 11 o'clock on a Friday or Saturday you will see groups of Spaniards at the plazas sitting in circles, drinking bier and calimocho...Calimocho: 1/3 Coca Cola, 2/3 wine. I know how it sounds, but it is actually very good. When you see Spaniards cruising around with plastic Coca-Cola bottles more likely than not it's filled with Calimocho. Calimocho has no frame of reference to this story, at all - so I think i'll declare Calimocho my tip of the day....or week.

Alex and I met up with our futbol playing friend, Carlos, and we headed toward the cobble stoned side streets of Lavapies and Embajadores. Spaniards were out in full force (I should think so...i'm in Spain) - more appropriately put, we had escaped tourism, and found a local spot. We went into a bar and promptly met two Spaniards who were really intrigued by America (hell ya!). I spoke to them in Spanish, rather well. They understood everything I said, and I understood most of what they said. Spanish women are very difficult to talk to because they'll turn their backs on you without thinking twice...if you stumble up on a spanish phrase, forget it, she's gone, she's not a babysitter. So I asked our new Spanish friends the best way to start a conversation with a Spanish girl...their advice was to compliment them. On their smile, on their lips, on their eyes, on their beauty - however, NOT on their hair. Don't compliment them on their hair. Or their feet...don't do that either.

"Respeto tu belleza" or "Me gusta tu sonrisa," they told me to say. Translated - I respect your beauty, and I like your smile. Sounds a hell of a lot more romantic in Spanish.

I decided to try my new lines out with some local girls. I saw this one girl, who was incredibly beautiful. I told her she was very beautiful and I liked her smi...tripped up on that word....and she's gone. Not a big deal - this bar is full of girls. I saw another Spanish chica with black wavy hair, friendly eyes, and a beautiful smile. I told her that i thought she had a beautiful smile, and, ironically enough, she smiled. We started talking (in Spanish), and it was a great conversation. I asked her if I could call her for some tapas sometime. She said that'd be great and she gave me her...let's stop right here and go back to Thursday night.

Thursday night. I went out to a discotecha, drank 1 euro biers on the street, had a great time, and took a taxi home at 4 am. On the way home, my small Spanish phone must have slipped out of my pocket...check that, not "must have" it did slip out of my pocket. That was the end of that phone...good thing phones here are not a big commitment - the phone, itself, only cost me 15 euros and you pay for minutes as you go. However, I admit DEFEAT.

Back to Friday night. The girl's name is Marina and she wants to give me her number, but I have no phone. Searching my pockets for something, anything, I found a pen. I handed it to her and she wrote out her name and number on my left forearm. TRIUMPH.

Ink from the night before still sprawled out on my arm, it was Saturday and that meant La Noche en Blanco...a cultural event for the ages. It was a great night - my spanish improved, the plazas were bustling, culture everywhere. I stayed up til 6 am to catch the metro home - I was travelling in the opposite direction of my friends, so I was by myself. This would have never happened had I been with my friends. Like I said, it was probably a quarter past 6 am, and I was dog-tired. The steady pace of the metro rocked me to sleep. I thought I would wake up when it stopped, so I let the sleep takeover. It turned out to be a deeper sleep than I had planned - I slept through five stops and missed my station by 4. Before I went to sleep I took off my glasses and hung them on my shirt - I clearly and vividly remember doing this. When I woke, my glasses were gone. There can only be one explanation for this....gypsies. The gypsies had stolen my glasses from right under my nose, literally. With their fast fingers, and quiet feet I had no chance - at least, while I was asleep. They might as well have stolen them straight off my face. One would think that my prescription glasses would be of no use to anyone else. Well, that is assuming that a gypsy thinks like everyone else - gypsies are not people. Give me your tears, gypsy. Very nice. I finally digress, BEWILDERMENT.

Blindly Yours,

C.M. Stassel

Without further ado....

A glimpse at my trip in my Madrid so far....

Lake at Retiro Park

El Rastro flea market

Donde esta' los zapatos rojos?

El Monument Alfonso XII a Parque del Retiro

Royal Palace

I got Next in Spanish

Today was my second day of class, and I was very tired. My weariness turned into frustration as my classmates refused to stop whispering and talking while I desperately tried to decipher the teacher's spanish utterance. The rooms at my school all have an echo, so when 5 people talk at once it is impossible to understand anything, especially Spanish. It took everything in my power to refuse the urge to stand up and yell at them, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Good thing I didn't do that. I decided to just laugh and mentally check out. If these people aren't going to let me learn, i'm not going to fight it.

After Spanish class I ate three perritos and drank una cerveza in the cafeteria...with a full stomach and a quenched thirst I was in a better mood going into my next class, government and politics of Spain. This class is taught in Spanish, so I knew it was going to be hard beforehand. My teacher is very nice, but it was really difficult to understand her rapid speech. I did my best, and felt like I learned something. I think that I am going to try to stick that class out because listening to her talk will definitely benefit my audio comprehension skills (audio comprehension skills? HAH). There are only 6 personas in the class, which means that I can't disappear into the crowd - there is no crowd. There are two French girls in my class, and one gal from Finland. They speak beautiful Spanish. They were sitting outside the classroom before class started - I approached them and started a conversation. I told them that I was from the U.S. and I lived near the beach, which I guess is funny because they started to laugh. It was probably the way I said it or the clothes I was wearing. Literally, I am the only kid in the entire population of students at Universidad Rey Juan Carlos who wears a hat to skool. No one wears hats or wears long, white socks - I wear both.

After my politics class I decided to take the subway north to metro station Francos Rodriguez. I was tipped off that there was a basketball gimnasio up there where a select group of Spaniards play pick-up games. I would like to tell you how I found out about these games and this gym, but, like I said it is a SELECT group of Spaniards and they asked me not to reveal their identities as it might compromise their pickup games. Anyway, I rode the metro North for about 50 minutes until finally I reached my destination. As I rose from the depths of the metro station, I saw that I was in a shady part of the city. Graffiti everywhere. Housing projects. Barbed wire fences. Closed down leather boutiques. It wasn't a pretty sight, but i'd come that far so I was determined to find this gym - El Gimnasio Fernando Martin. I walked in the direction that I thought was correct and asked two Spaniards if they knew where it was. Neither of them did. Luckily, I asked a third Spaniard in a business suit and he pointed diagonally across the street - I had found the gym. I walked to the front desk and said the secret password that I was told to say, and was granted entrance into the bball courts. I walked in and all eyes immediately fell on me, the American wearing a Volcom collared shirt, glasses, and red converse...needless to say I felt out of place. Perseverance. I laced up my Nikes and called next game in Spanish.

First play of the game - I get a screen from Cesar at the top of the key, pull up and shoot....the ball barely grazes the rim and goes out of bounds. First shot in Spain: Not a success. Things only got better from there, though - i scored 3 out of our 7 points before the lights were shut off and our time was up. I only got to play 2/3 of a game but it was worth it. I plan on going back this Friday.

This Saturday is el Noche en Blanco! It's a cultural experience like no other - or so i'm told. All the museums, theaters, and any other cultural Spanish buildings are open all night, and live music and festivities go on in all the major plazas...and everything is FREE! (not like bier and food and stuff, just free to visit the museums and go the concerts and things like that). I'm really looking forward to it - the whole city is buzzin with excitement!

That's all I got for now. Estoy muy cansado. Big city livin takes a toll on you.

Sincerely,

C.M. Stassel

p.s. TIP OF THE DAY: they sell bottles of Sangria for 1 Euro at the Supermercado across the street from my house.

...and pictures coming tomorrow - solely a picture post...no words....maybe a few words, but more pics than words.

Discotecha Dilemmas

There's no subtle way to go about it. You just have to put yourself out there and go for it. Granted, you are probably going to look like an idiot most of the time, and if you don't keep a positive attitude and laugh at yourself it probably takes a heavy toll on your ego and psyche. Luckily, for me, I've been laughing all weekend and my ego and psyche are in great shape.

Friday night, I took a late siesta from 7 to 9 pm, then showered and drank some biers in my apartment with my roommate. (My roommates a museum buff. His typical routine the past couple days has been to down a whole bottle of wine to himself then hit one of the local museums. I think he's going to the Prado tonight. I'm going to join him one of these days.) After the biers were emptied I met up with my friend, Marcus, who lives near Puerta del Toledo - about a 30 minute metro ride from my house. For some reason, the metro never seems like it takes that long, but then when I resurface and look at my clock 40 minutes have gone by. The metro is a time warp.

I drank some wine at his apartment with some girls that we met, then we went out to find a discotecha and do some dancing. As we walked the cobble stone streets promoters whistled at us to come into their club, while armenian street venders tried to sell us cans of bier for 1 euro - actually, probably the best deal in town. We had a semi-big group with us, so there was much debate as to which discotecha to go to - the problem is financial. For guys, it's very expensive to get into most clubs, and then on top of that each drink costs 11 euro. I opted to sit this debate out and just go along for the ride, so I grabbed a 2 euro coin out of my pocket and bought two biers from one of the street venders. As we paraded the streets of Madrid in search of an arena worthy of housing our urge to dance I sipped on a couple ice cold Mahou Clasicas.

The group split and I led one half over to a more local club called Cibeles - we had some 2 for 10 euro drink cards and it seemed like more of a Spanish vibe. Red lighting filled the place as puffs of smoke escaped the mouths of every single Spaniard in the joint. This is the real late night Madrid. I grabbed a mojito and went to the dance floor. Some Morrocans were hip thrusting left and right like they were filming a music video, while groups of Spanish senoritas danced with each other. I sipped on my mojito and decided to infiltrate their dancing circle.

In a discotecha, you don't just simply walk up to a group of girls, you dance up to a group of girls, or at least I thought that was the best method. So, I danced up to the closest group of girls - they were all beautiful by the way - and in my best Spanish accent asked a very cute Spanish blonde, "Quieres bailar conmigo?" Now this is the moment of truth, everything is riding on her answer - time slowed to a crawl, the music became inaudible....just kidding. She smiled, gave me a simple wave of her hand and said, "No, gracias," really accentuating her spanish lisp - it sounded like, "No, grathias." And that was it. My first discotecha denial. I wasn't heartbroken. I'm wasn't going to cry. I just kept dancing and sipping on my mojito. I figured this type of denial from these dancing discotecha damsels who hail from the center of Spain until my Spanish improved. I think the problem is that most of these girls get hit on every second of every day, and they assume the worst, so they are very cautious with the invitations that they accept. I guess they have to be, living a big city like Madrid. You have to be on your game and aware if you are going to make it out alive in this city. Scam artists, pick pockets, and creepy Europeans lurk behind every corner.

I showcased some of my dance moves and laughed off every rejection. The girls weren't dancing with anyone - they kept to their own little circles. It seemed like everyone was just dancing with themselves, so that's what I did. I danced with myself, until, sure enough, a spanish girl accepted my invitation to dance. I tried to carry on a conversation, but I could tell she was in no mood to talk, and it doesn't help that I look like a man, but have the spanish vocabulary of a third-grader. A couple more senoritas danced in and out of my life, and once I had enough of Cibeles I left to meet up with my friend, Alex.

He was at Kapital, which is a seven-story club. It's kind of a touristy place, but I was down. It was 4 am and the metro had already been closed for 2 and a half hours so I was in it for the long haul (metro opens back up at six). There's no really in-between in Spain. You either catch the last metro home at 1:30 am or, if you miss it, you bite the bullet and dance the night away till 6am. I met Alex on the 7th floor of the club, which was more of the chill area, filled with comfortable couches, pool tables, & a full bar. We talked to some Spanish girls who were playing pool. They were really nice and didn't make me feel like an idiot because of my third-grade level comprehension skills. They wanted to learn english as much as we wanted to learn spanish, so we helped each other through the conversation.

The club closed at 6 and we walked across the street to get some food. I ordered a hamburguesa and Alex ordered a Bodillo de Calamares (It's a calamari sandwich). Both were incredibly delicious. Then we parted ways and I took the metro home.

Last night, which was Saturday night, my friend, Matt, and I met these Spanish girls in Puerta Del Sol and hung out with them for about two hours. They were really nice and willing to help me with my spanish, which i've concluded is not very good. I have the hardest time understanding what they are saying, because their accents are so thick and they speak so fast - it all becomes jumbled together and all I can hear is jibberish. We exchanged Spanish numbers, and planned to meet for tapas and speak half the time in Spanish and the other half in English - they wanted to learn English, as well.

Perseverance is the lesson that you all should take away from this post. Perseverance, and buy your biers on the street for one euro - no one can enjoy an 11 euro watered down cocktail.

I found out that bullfights, or Las Corridas de Toros, take place every sunday at about 6...i missed the one today but I think i'm going to become a Bullfighting aficionado like Ernest. You know, Hemingway.

Also, I went to El Rastro today, which is like a huge flee market. They sell all sorts of things at bargain prices...from bottle openers to side satchels to books to shoes to small children....just kidding. About the small children. Everything else is real.

Hasta Luego,

C.M. Stassel

p.s. my camera is still on the fritz. I have a ton of pictures but I don't have the proper cord to upload them to my computer. Pictures coming real soon. Ten paciencia!!

Royal Chops

"Hey, have you seen Susan?"

"Yeah. She's not here."

"Do you have her number?"

"Yes, but she's pregnant so don't get any ideas."

...this is an actual conversation, and Susan is, indeed, very pregnant. She's one of my USAC advisors here, in Spain.

Today was a great day...I learned a lot, was inspired mucho, and moved into my apartment.

The day began with an all-you-can-eat in 30 minutes buffet. The food portions in Spain are so small so it was nice to be able to pile the food onto my plate. The buffet was muy delicioso, apart from the incredibly small, tiny, little water glasses that I had to refill after every sip. I enjoyed watermelon, orange slices, pineapple, cheeses, bread, and a wide array of meats - I guess you could call them breakfast meats, but seeing as Spaniards eat these meats (salami, turkey, bacon & ham) at every meal it might not be appropriate.

Forty-five glasses of water later, with my thirst finally quenched, we set out for the Royal Palace. The palace is a magnificent and grand structure seeping with mystery, love, and elegance. The rooms are decorated with stucco, much of it painted gold. Romanticized portraits of past Kings and Queens adorn the walls, and images of Gods and flying cupids grace the ceilings. The throne room was my favorite - the walls were covered with velvet, and as Italian chandeliers occupied the space overhead, and gold lions and bronze statues lined the perimeter, the focus of the room funneled towards the center where two beautiful mahogany chairs padded with rich velvet stood, demanding our respect. Except I knew, these were more than just chairs. They were thrones. As I daydreamed of the historic events that took place in this elegant room I couldn't ignore one specific recurring thought...one day my bedroom was going to look like this. However, instead of thrones I will have my bed. No, not a king sized bed. One step above that. A Lord sized bed.

As we continued to tour the palace inspiration struck in the form of a fallen king - Alfonso XII. He didn't inspire me to conquer far reaching kingdoms or paint masterpieces or write a novel. No, his facial hair was my inspiration. Widely regarded as the most handsome king Spain has ever had, Alfonso XII was a romantic who possessed a mutton-chopped beard that makes Santa Claus look boring and uninventive. He was the first King of Spain to marry for love. He married his cousin. I'll let him slide on that one given the time period he ruled in, and his glorious beard.

I thought you might want a visual.

Awe-inspiring isn't it? Alfonso was diagnosed with tuberculosis and suffered an early death at the ripe age of 28, but not before he taught us a few lessons: Marry for love, and be bold with your beard. In his honor, I have decided to recreate his famed mutton-chopped, bear-chinned beard while I'm in Madrid.

We left the Royal Palace and returned to the hotel. Finally, it was time to move into my apartment. A Spanish student named Esteban met up with my roommate, Zachary, and I at the hotel to take us to our apartment on Calle 12 del Octubre - our landlord, Gloria, spoke no english. We arrived at an unsuspecting building sandwiched between a barber's shop and run-down convenient store. It was home. Gloria buzzed us in and we took the cramped elevator, not even big enough for the three of us, to the fifth floor.

Gloria is a very kind and animated redheaded women. She slowly opened the door to our new home revealing wood floors, green couches and wooden doors with green window panes. The apartment had a lot of character. We have a small kitchen with yellow walls and an interesting looking dishwasher. Our TV in the living is smaller than my computer screen, but I don't plan on watching much tv, anyway. Zach got the master bedroom and queen bed, while I was left with the tiny broom cupboard room and twin bed.

My room is very classy and charming. The dresser stands seven feet tall and really is a beautiful and useful work of art. A crystal chandelier, fit for a king sleeping on a twin bed, hangs from the ceiling. I hit my head every time I walk under it. Pink drapes sway in the breeze as they hang over a smart looking bed-side table and a miniature lamp lights my way. I couldn't be happier with my set-up. The twin bed is actually very comfortable, and the apartment has a really good vibe about it.

Remember earlier when I said that I learned mucho? Well, I learned a little too much. After unpacking and settling in, Zach and I set out for some cervezas and monaditos. We went to the local supermercado and bought a case of Mahou Clasica and some bread, cheese, and salami. We went to Retiro park and posted up at a cool spot elevated above the street with a clear view of a red- brick Cathedral. It was surreal.

Zach is a really nice guy and we get along fine. He's very high-spirited and energetic, and seems really happy to be in Madrid. After a few biers, he began to tell me of his latest travels to New York and how happy he was to leave and come to Madrid. "I care alot about him, but he was such an asshole," he told me of his recent relationship. Did you catch it? Yes, he did say he. I had a hunch before, but that confirmed it. Zach's gay. I'm living in the romantic city of Madrid, in a small charming two-bedroom apartment down the street from Retiro Park with a gay man. What a cliche. I've never really had a gay friend before, let alone a gay roommate. It's going to be interesting. I'm looking forward to it - i'm in Madrid. Zach is a journalism major and a movie buff, who also found this overly-aggressive and particularly corny kid from Baltimore in our USAC group extremely annoying. He called him a "faggot", and used words like "puss" and "dank". Zach's alright in my book.

I'll leave you with some pictures of my apartment and room...and a picture of the first friend I made at the airport in D.C.. Her name is Mary.

I have arrived.

The long streets are lined with ancient buildings and run down housing complexes. Motorists speed by on their scooters, while spicy Spanish women strut their stuff in their skin-tight, white jeans. Alleys at every other turn are filled with carts of fruit and fresh fish. Hay leche desnatada (watered down milk) in my coffee. I don't know where to go or what to say...finally i've arrived in Madrid.

"Quisiera Lacon a la plancha con queso y una cerveza." - those were the first words I spoke in Madrid. It was to order a sandwich and a bier at a little cafeteria called El Brillante. The sandwiches in Madrid are as basic as they come; just meat, cheese, & bread - it was good, though. The bier was even better, especially after all that traveling. It was a Mahou Clasica, which is supposed to be a popular draft in Madrid - it was good. I had three of them before noon.

The man who ran El Brillante was called Javier. He was an old man with a scary face, he had a huge mole right above his eye, but as I tried to strike up conversation in broken spanish he smiled and helped me through it. He asked me if i liked anchovies. I said I didn't know because I'd never tried them, so he brought me a little sample. They were heavily salted and extremely fishy, but, surprisingly, they weren't that bad - they went well with the bier.

Two beers deep I decided to try to talk to the man sitting next to me. He was eating a churro and drinking a cafe. I'm not really sure what he was saying most of time because he spoke so fast, but I just tried to keep the conversation going. By the end of it he gave me one of his churros and joked that churros go well with bier. He patted me on the back as he left and told me he'd see me tomorrow, "Hasta manana." I tipped Javier 5 euro, shook his hand, and told him that i'd see him in the morn for a churro and cafe, he laughed.

A little buzzed, and full of Lacon a la plancha con queso I went back to the Hotel Paseo del Arte for my first siesta...i think i'm really going to enjoy siesta!

-C.M. Stassel

p.s.

The women are beautiful. I'll upload pictures soon. For now here's a picture of the artificial pond and monument to Alfonso XII in the middle of the park that I live across from...