Dark Days in Madrid

The first thing I noticed about Madrid were the buildings. They don’t make buildings that beautiful where I’m from. The prettiest building in Loveland Colorado was probably the old catholic church around the corner from where I lived, and it was nothing special. I had never left the U.S. before and I found my jaw dropping as I turned around every corner. The history held within the city’s buildings was incredible. Yesterday when I was passing through town in search of my hostel, I found myself in a square, I later learned was the famous Plaza Mayor, that was designed for a king. The red brick walls and grey spires towered over me. It looked regal, looming, and even sinister somehow. I wondered how a building so dramatic could have been a place of good and not darkness, but I pushed that thought aside.

I laid in bed the first night carefully tucked into my bed, phone and pepper spray under my pillow, just in case. I thought of the man who was supposed to be lying here next to me, in a hotel bed instead of a hostel. We had bought plane tickets together because he had always dreamed of coming to Madrid and then he left me. At the time it felt like a greatly romantic adventure but then I was left spinning with nowhere to land. I decided I would come to Madrid alone even if it was new and frightening. So here I was in a hostel bed alone listening to the man on the bunk above me snore up a level 4 hurricane. I considered kicking the mattress above me and feigning sleep but thought better of it.

After a somewhat fitful night I made my way into the shared kitchen to see what the hostel might have to eat. There appeared to be a plate of muffins and breads up for grabs but there was a group of other travelers crowding around them. I awkwardly hovered in the doorway unsure whether I should insert myself of wait for them to clear out.

“Hey, don’t worry we don’t bite,” one of the girls waved me over.

I smiled hesitantly and grabbed a muffin, “Thanks.” I turned to leave but she started talking again.

“Where are you from?” she asked. She didn’t have an accent, so I assumed she was American as well.

“I’m from Colorado,” I answered.

“What’s your name? I’m Sage.”

“Caroline,” I answered.

“Sweet, I’m from New York, Jake is from Minnesota, Annie’s Oregon, and Thomas is all the way from Alaska. Do you know what you’re doing today?”

I was suspicious of her kindness, but I decided to go along with it.

“I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do. I’ve heard a lot about the museums here,” I answered.

“Perfect, we were all going to go wander around, grab some food, and the Prado Museum has a free entry at six. You should come with.” She looked at me expectantly and I wondered what she saw in me.

“That sounds nice,” I said.

We spent the morning like Sage had said, wandering around. There were so many people bustling around and it felt like every restaurant had someone beckoning you to come inside. It was like fisherman reeling the unsuspecting fish into their clutches. I held my purse tightly as people moved around me, I had read that Spain was famous for pickpocketing. We settled in for lunch late in the afternoon, apparently in Spain no one eats until nearly four for lunch and almost ten for dinner. I felt like the culture shock was obvious by my expressions, and the rumbling of my stomach. It wasn’t hard to tell I was a tourist. I wondered if the man who left me would have felt less out of place than I did. The thought made my blood boil.

“What are you going to get?” I asked Sage nervously. The menu was overwhelming and foreign to me.

“I wanted to try paella at some point, but they come in huge portions, would everyone want to pitch in and give it a go?” she asked.

Everyone answered in agreement, as did I even though I didn’t know what paella was. Something about Sage just made me want to say yes to her. I read on the menu that Paella was a seafood rice dish famous in Spain. It struck me how little I knew about the place I was visiting. How had I ended up here? Had the man been the only reason? Everyone around me talked but I didn’t participate. What was I going to say to these people bursting with confidence? They had all come from interesting places and expected grand adventures while I was trying to figure how to survive my vacation.

As if on cue Sage asked, “So, Caroline, what’s your story?”

I blushed being put on the spot, but I answered truthfully, “I was supposed to come here with my boyfriend, but he broke up with me two weeks before the trip,” I said. “I came anyway because it seemed a shame to miss a trip to Spain and I would have lost out on a lot of money but now I’m here and I don’t even know anything about Madrid, and I still don’t understand why he left me in the first place,” I paused and took a breath, shocked by my own candor. “And I think I’m very angry,” I finished and took a large drink of the Sangria that had arrived as if to rescue me.

“Well,” Sage started. “Looks like you have some figuring out to do just like the rest of us.” She put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a little squeeze.

“Thank you,” I said genuinely. “Why did you invite me today?” I asked fueled by my confession and feeling bold.

She shrugged, “You just looked a little lost.”

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Takes one to know one,” she said. And just like that all my preconceived notions about her washed away. Perhaps she didn’t know what she was doing either. This was oddly comforting.

We waited for a while at The Prado Museum, the line stretched all the way around the building, but it moved quickly. Inside we went our separate ways and I found myself staring at a painting by Francisco Goya called “Saturn Devouring his son.” It was a grotesque depiction of a crazed looking giant ripping off the head of another smaller man, apparently his son. The pigments were dark, and blood spilled down the son’s body. I remained in this area of the museum reading everything about Goya and his “dark” period. The artist had become disenchanted with the lack of change during his life. Starting as a court painter he fell into a depression and created disturbing dark masterpieces. As I stared at his painting of carnage and darkness, I wondered what exactly dragged him into that abyss? And did he ever make it out?

“Caroline?” I jumped at the sound of Sage’s voice. I had gotten completely lost in the crazed eyes of Saturn.

“Hi,” I said. “Is it time to go?”

She nodded and said, “This is horrible,” as she gazed at the gruesome painting.

“Yes,” I said, unable to break my gaze. “It is.”

The group headed towards the bull fighting arena, an activity that you apparently ‘must do’ while in Madrid. I wasn’t aware it was an activity that still took place. I imagined bull fighting as a begotten form of entertainment only appearing on the pages of books by Hemingway or the like. But it didn’t much matter since I didn’t have a ticket and wouldn’t be able to get one on such short notice. I was enjoying the company of people and strolling through the streets of Madrid feeling oddly lighter after my deep dive into Francisco Goya’s darkness. My mind wandered back to thoughts of my relationship. Memories flashed before my eyes of all the times I failed to notice that he was pulling away from me. Of the times he didn’t respect me or love me like I wished. I had been wrapped up in the parts of him that were shiny and exciting and was blind to the parts that would have done us in eventually. Really, he did me a favor seeing it so soon. Maybe he saw something in me he wasn’t ready for, something a little darker than the parts that made me shiny and exciting. And yet my chest still ached, and my heartbeat quickened when I thought of him, in sadness or anger I couldn’t always tell.

We arrived at the arena, and everyone produced their tickets.

We were saying goodbye when Annie said, “I’m sorry guys I don’t think I can do it. Do you want my ticket, Caroline?” She held it out to me.

“Yeah, thank you,” I said grasping the paper stub.

I might have said I couldn’t do it either just a few days ago. I’ve never been into needless violence. But suddenly after my intense interest in Goya’s dark days and the anger emerging from my broken relationship, I decided I might as well experience Madrid and all its gore.

“You guys have fun,” Annie said as she turned back.

Inside, the arena was packed with people. The energy was palpable as the group passed rows of people drinking wine and sharing food with those around them. There was lots of laughter. We found our seats and waited for the spectacle to start.

“Why do you think they still do this?” Sage asked.

I answered quickly, “People crave violence.”

No one seemed to know what to say to that, so they awkwardly moved on to a different topic. Someone had packed wine in, so I took a plastic cup and filled it.

The encounter started shortly after. As the wine spread through my chest the energy in the arena shifted. Instead of eager anticipation of something unknown it moved towards apprehension as the Bull trotted into the arena. It was a huge creature stamping its feet and shaking its head just like in all the movies. It felt like everyone collectively stopped breathing as the matador made his way into the arena and joined the bull. Then he bowed and threw up his hands and the crowd cheered. I was silent. Something about this felt very wrong yet there was so much excitement rising in my chest. The matador presented his red flag, and the dance began.

The bull became angrier and angrier as the matador teased and stole away the flag. The tension was rising as the bull once again charged. At the last moment the matador pulled out his sword and slashed at the bull as it raged past. There were gasps and cheers from the audience. The bull suffered, it limped and breathed heavily. When the red flag came out again it was like the animal had no choice but to charge through his pain. As the beast limped towards the matador its eyes flicked towards its audience. I could swear the bull looked right at me as he ran head on into the matador’s sword. He gave a large bello and slumped to the ground. The crowd went wild. I realized I was crying.

As the group made their way back to the hostel, they talked excitedly among themselves.

“That was crazy,” someone said.

“Did you see how big that bull was? I can’t believe people are willing to do that,” someone else added.

I wasn’t listening carefully, I was too focused on what I had felt when the bull looked up at me.

“Caroline what did you think?” Sage asked.

I thought about my answer, how I wished it weren’t true. How I felt like I couldn’t lie anymore.

“I loved it,” I answered.