Here it is, the one thing that Cedarbird has probably been dreading more than anything else - my esoteric, wordy, long-winded description of what I think about Madrid as a city.

You know you hate it.

--

13 Apr 2008.  7:51pm.

The sun pokes his face through the thick clouds for the first time in what feels like ages as I walk down the bustling streets of Madrid this Sunday afternoon.

"All the blue changes,

all the blue chains . . ."

The droning, calm music in my ears seems counter to everything the city represents, with its gaudy stores, designer buildings, and mid-day neon lights.  Everything is so big, so commercial.  It's almost like a bastardized Spanish version of New York City.

"All the blue changes, rearranged."

But that's only on the main streets.  I take a quick right, aimlessly walking, letting a wind of change pick my direction for me.  Within two blocks, Madrid is no longer the bustling metropolis embodied by the downtown area.

"Giving up on beautiful,

and making peace with strange . . ."

Outside of the center, things get messy.  This is the city they don't want you to know about.

Sitting on the street corner is an old gypsy woman, dressed in bright colors but with eyes that seem as though they've seen too much hardship over too many years.  Her dress barely covers where her legs used to be.  She extends a small cup with her left hand, while flexing the stump of her right arm.  Her ancient voice pleads for help, begs for charity.

"All the blue changes, rearranged."

I think of King Benjamin's words as I reach into my pocket, pull out a few Eurocents, and drop them in her cup.  It's not much, but it's all I have.  She smiles at me, a toothless tragedy, and thanks me profusely.

"All the blue changes,

all the blue chains . . ."

Up the street, I hear the kiss-kiss that can only mean one thing - a corner hooker is trying to get my attention.  I take a fugitive glance in her direction, and the sight breaks my heart.

"All the blue changes, rearranged."

The girl couldn't be older than twenty, and in another life she could have been gorgeous.  Instead, she's haggard, worn, having lived too much for a person her age.  I face forward again, hands stuffed in my pockets, ignoring her as I walk past.

She cries out behind me, "We have good time!  ¡Vamos a pasar un buen rato!"

I don't flinch and press forward, but my heart goes out to her.  Another broken life in the dirty Madrid streets.

"Giving up on beautiful,

and giving up on pain . . ."

I can't take it anymore.  I see a subway station and dive down the steps.  Passing through the gates with my multiple-ride ticket, I head down, down, through corridor after stairwell, descending to the dark veins of the city.

"All the blue changes, rearranged."

The station is mostly empty as I wait for the coming train.  I haven't really looked to see what station I'm at or which of the lines I'm about to ride, but I figure I can sort that out once I'm in the car and headed out.

There's a shadowy figure huddled on the bench in the corner, trying to sleep.  It's dressed in rags, a tattered jacket and torn jeans, pulling the dirtied remains of a cardboard box tighter around itself in the cold tunnel.  I look a little harder, and I realize it's a boy of fourteen or fifteen.

"All those things we were, rearranged."

The train arrives and I leap on, fleeing from the image I've been presented.  Another wasted life, drifting like flotsam through the years.

"All the things we were, rearranged."

I ride the subway to a station I recognize, disembarking in a flood of tourists towards the Puerta del Sol.  This is the city they encourage you to see, full of expensive restaurants and needless monuments to empty-headed monarchs.  Yet there's still a darkness lurking just under the flashy skin.  There are signs on the windows of almost every store, warning to be on the lookout for pickpockets, who tend to favor areas like this - tourists are foolish gold mines, ripe for the picking of the streetwise.

"The city in a hundred ways,

it wouldn't let you stay."

I walk into the Plaza Mayor, a huge open-air plaza bounded on all sides by drab apartments.  it's bright and sunny, though, and the friendliness is almost infectious.  Near the center are the usual street performers, a 'Living Statue' and a clown.  Sometimes I wonder if they live entirely on what they make doing their stunts, or if it's simply a supplementary income they enjoy.

"The city in a hundred ways,

would never let you stray."

I'm approached by a teenaged boy in a fat down jacket, who tries to explain to me that he can't get the zipper to work and asks for my help.  I light into him.  "Do you think I was born yesterday?  I get close enough to try and help and my wallet's gone.  Go get your mother to unzip you, dumbass."

He gives me a one-fingered salute and takes off running.

That's it.  I'm going back to the hostel.

"The city in a hundred ways,

it wouldn't let you stay."

I find a metro station, hop on, and head out.

Madrid has been a great experience, and once-in-a-lifetime chance, and I also got to make some new friends.  I'm not sad I came; it's been well worth my while.  But I'm ready to head back home to Tarragona, that vibrant, lovely jewel I adore so much.

"The city in a hundred ways,

would never let you stray."

I miss my sea.  I want the Mediterranean.

It clouds over and starts to rain again.