MADRID

One thing is now clear to me - for those of you who thought I was in Spain, you have been duped. My most sincere apologies, but I have not been in Spain. Madrid is in Spain. Getxo is in the Basque country. Two very, very different things.
Due to the various technical difficulties that tend to befall us, Dana and I got on the 6pm bus to Madrid and arrived around 11pm. We stayed at Way Hostel, near the Tirso de Molina metro stop. First impression of Madrid - it's as if someone cleaned New York City with a toothbrush and re-routed the Metro system to make sense. Madrid is a very international city, we heard and met Americans and others from around the world all over the place. It also looked like it could've been plopped anywhere - it wasn't particularly Spanish.
Our first night Dana and I ventured out alone, ate some patatas bravas at a cafe, and then went to a few nightclubs. The thing here is to go out to a bar or cafe from about 11-1, a club from 2-5, and then an after hours club if you still have money or can still walk. We went to two small clubs in the Sol area, where they still only play American music. The following day we got a late start, and went on a free walking tour with a group from the hostel.

The Royal Theatre, made by Queen Isabel II who built it to piss off her gay husband or something, according to our tour guide.

A bad picture of the Royal Palace.

The front facade of the Royal Cathedral.

The back.

A building with 5 floors.

Plaza Mayor and the wildly popular homeless people dressed like strange animals.

Then we went to the Reina Sofia, a museum that covers 20th-21st century. If I could live in a museum, this one would be it. They had an excellent experimental and conceptual collection, as well as a beautiful Dalí exhibition, and of course, Picasso's "Guernica." I wasn't allowed to take a picture of the painting, but here are some of his sketches.

An unbroken version of "The Bridge Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even" by Marcel Duchamp!!

Oh hey, Man Ray.

I think one of my favorite parts about traveling is hosteling. You just meet so many interesting people. We ate breakfast with a guy who used to be Heidi Klum's kids' gym teacher at an NYC prep school, we ate lunch with a girl from Chile and LA, and a girl from Moscow who works at a hostel there and has the most ridiculous stories. We went out at night with people from Australia, Brazil, Canada, and New York, the latter of which knew someone I went to high school with.
Conversation:
Him: "You're from New Jersey? North or south?"
Me: "South, near Philly."
Him: "Oh, so in Cherry Hill."
Me: "Not in, but near. How did you know that?"
Him: "Are you from Mount Laurel?"
Me: "What?"
Him: "Did you go to Lenape?"
Me: "WHAT?"
Him: "I'm in a frat with (insert name here) at Johns Hopkins. He went to Lenape."
Me: "Didn't he run for class president one year?"
Him: "Yep."
This conversation happened in Madrid. Weird.
We went out Saturday night to a club called Kapital, which was cool but overpriced. I don't really like clubs in the first place, but this one played decent music and did this weird thing where there was a machine that blew cold air and fog at the dance floor from time to time. It was 20 Euro to get in, and 10 Euro for a drink after that, which was not happening.

Hence the pregame in the hostel.

Sunday was trying, considering we were running on two hours of sleep. We went to El Rastro, a flea market in the old part of town, which was cool but there are no pictures. Whipping out a camera would've been an open invitation for pick-pockets. We attempted to go to the Museo del Prado, which is the Madridian equivalent of the Metropolitan. But we had less than an hour, and a timed entrance ticket for two hours later for the Hermitage exhibit. Can you imagine attempting the Met in less than an hour? Me either. My resulting panic attack led to the decision to not even walk inside.

Instead we stopped by the Cervecería Alemana, which is apparently one of the (many) bars that Hemingway was known to frequent. According to the internet, this one was his favorite. I couldn't remember where he used to sit, so I just took a picture of the decor figuring you can imagine the rest. I sure tried, although it was hard with our judgemental mesero who gave us the more expensive English menu.

Here I was mentally pretending to be Lady Brett Ashley.

I bet Hemingway got the Spanish menu.

Our trip was so exhausting I was actually relieved to return to the tundra, and excited to go back to school on Monday. But that was yesterday, today a nasty virus has manifested in the form of a sore throat and congestion. And my American medicine (Thanks, Mom!) isn't really helping against this Spanish virus, that was probably picked up from the excessive sharing at hostel. Although everyone at school is sick too, so perhaps Spain should declare a national sick day. There is truly nothing worse than dealing with students covered in yellow paint when you can't breathe out of your nose.
Except for of course, small Spanish children. My least favorite part about my living situation is dealing with the children. I could care less whether or not the Maria's like us at this point (they don't - it's become very clear), but I do care about the kids. I'm sure they weren't asked if they wanted two Americans moving into their playroom. The problem is that a) I have a lot of work to do and b) the kids are brats. I have no desire to hang out with these children, especially when I have three lesson plans to write or when I could be on Skype.