Aquí No Hablamos Inglés pt.2
So of course when I write “this evening”, what I mean to say is “when ever it conveniences me, probably a surmisable amount of time later”
It’s also somewhat difficult to force myself to sit down and write, but that may have something to do with the age in which I was spawned and my generations ever shortening attention span. It’s not that I don’t want to do it, nor that I don’t have the time, but something always pops up on the seemingly endless Internet, and so here we are: two weeks later with only this to show for it.
Yet here’s the rub: The longer that I put this off, the harder it begins to recall the exact specific memories of what happened, and as such now I am some what rushed off to document my Spain trip, both for now, and potentially five years down the road, when I would like to re-reflect on such a sunny week.
As long at the days were in Seville, with admittedly little to no sleep, what I was not prepared for was my body jerking awake at 8am after a night out at the Feria, and looking at my iPod, realizing through blurry eyes and a slight headaches what time it was. Suddenly I snapped to attention, because my flight would leave in an hour. Thoughts ranging from No, no, no! to more PG-13 words were flitting through my mind as I did my best jumping one pant leg at a time into my clothes trying not to make too much noise as to wake the others in the room.
Sprinting down the big avenida at 8:07 in the morning to catch the 8:15 bus is something that will set your heartbeat racing. Of course, with Seville being as small as a city as it is, the airport is not far and even as such I was able to comfortably check-in and even have 15 minutes to catch my breath and even take a cat nap before boarding. I would chalk it up as a win.
Madrid at 10 in the morning was drizzly, but by noon it had cleared up, and if I’ve ever had a bad word to say about Socialist governmental models, forget it, for as an under-26/student, nearly everything was for free or at a reduced price.
Getting to see the Spanish painters, the likes of Velazquez, El Greco, Goya, and so forth, was nice, for a cultured person is an interesting one. While I would brag a little and say that without a doubt the Paris museums are bigger, shiner, and in some ways better, certainly I spent two hours easily at the paintings, and while I may not know all the stories or names behind the paintings, now I can say that I’ve at least seen them and picked out my favourites. (El Greco’s self portraits slay me)
I found myself a lunch in a small tucked away restaurant right off one of the main roads, and after some small talk with the shop owner, I settled into my jambon and fries meal, and even managed to get a free tea out of it, but perhaps I was not hiding the exhaustion riddled on my skin as well as I thought I was.
I got to see Picasso’s Guernica up close – and if the thing is grotesque in paintings, it’s no where near as gruesome as the thing is up close and live. Fitting, I would say considering the history and the circumstances under which Picasso painted. Spanish Civil Wars and Franco and wars and suffering and death. It’s the sort of thing that strikes a chord that resonates with you, as you think back and reflect on it. So I’m not one much for modern art, yet understanding Guernica as a living breathing painting; it’s something that you carry with you, arguably for your life.
I’m glad that I took the nap at the hostel when I did, because at night I figured that one week was all that I was going to get and damned if my body couldn’t take the beating, hopped up on caffeine and booze. So that meant that I would start to meet the people in the hostel and we would go out to bar crawl, and stay out dancing, with live music, and the occasional drink until 5 am.