This is from back in December when I was in Madrid with my cousin Jen. We had spent two days in Barcelona and were headed back to Madrid. As I post this I am in Quito, Ecuador. It turns out that they speak Spanish here, too. From what I have heard, those Spanish people were not well-liked by the people who were here first. I don’t think they gave them blankets infected with smallpox or killed all their food as they rode by on trains, but apparently they were not very nice.
Jen and I got up early and left the hostel without bathing, as our flight was frightfully early. We found our way to the bus to the airport.
We made it through security and to the gate to learn that our flight was delayed. We were not really sure, but best we could tell the flight was delayed due to fog in Madrid.
With time on our hands we decided to get some desayuno. I got a fine-looking place of meats, those Spaniards love them some charcuterie. It came with a couple different cheeses, and a tortilla. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking “Jay, I know what a tortilla is. No need to try to impress with your fancy Spanish words.”
Well, listen here, you Mexican-centric gourmand, in Spain a tortilla is not a flat pancake made of flour, water, and lard (not that there is anything wrong with that). Oh, in Spain a tortilla is a pancake of thinly sliced potatoes with just enough egg to bind the potatoes together. It too was quite satisfying. I think the meal was something like ten Euros, but it was a far cry from an egg McMuffin.
After a leisurely breakfast, we took a place on the floor to line up for the plane as if we were awaiting a sold-out concert since we knew from our flight here that everyone in front of us would do everything humanly possible to fill the overhead bins before anyone else got on the plane, where we both managed to get a little sleep. We took the subway back home, this time with me watching carefully and dropping breadcrumbs so that I could retrace the steps to return to the airport the following morning.
Got back to the house and hung out in her room, mostly surfing the web and other doing stupid stuff. At some point it occurred to use that we should do more with our day than live some electronic life, so we went to the living room. There we found that her roommates and friends were discussing making brownies.
Jen and I considered doing . . . something, but failed to go so far as to make a plan. Eventually we went to the grocery store, half a block down, where we bought meats, cheeses, a selection of interesting beers, a passel of other victuals, and brownie mix. I thought that buying a load of tasty treats would be a nice thing to do for the roommates who had given up their living room to me several nights. They were pleased with the brownie mix, and may have eaten some chips, but they were completely uninterested in the array of treats that I thought would be perceived as tasty. For some reason felt like I was presenting the calcium carbonate covering of an irritant inside a mollusk to a source of breakfast meats. Kids these days.
We had talked about me tagging along with her to some fantastic club, but were on the fence. A friend invited her to some really great club that was “the number two club in Europe.” The place was a 45 minute train ride outside of the city. It was decided that she should go and that I shouldn’t. The idea of staying up all night long before my flight in the early morning brought back memories of missing a flight home from Greece and spending a night on the floor of the Athens airport. When the friend showed up we went out to see the lights for the last time.
After the lights, we went out for drinks. By about 11:30 it was time for them to head out to the club.
I went to bed.