Authentic

I woke in a strange bed this morning. Which was expected, as I had to swap to a new room a few hours earlier. This was due to the woman in the cell next to mine deciding that the early hours of the morning were the perfect time to take a psychotic break. Or maybe it was just a messy drunken break – I’m not a psychiatrist. I could almost handle the sobbing and wailing, but the screaming and kicking the walls were a tad too much.

The strange thing was that this is not the first time a crazy drunk woman has gone apeshit in the hotel room next to mine in the middle of the night necessitating me temporarily moving to a new room. The same thing happened in Sherman Oaks in 2023.

As I very rarely stay in hotels, I’m actually running a great average here.

The scientist in me wants to know what the underlying factor is. I’ve already narrowed it down to three options.

1. Bitches be crazy.

2. Otherwise sane bitches like to manifest their crazy in hotel rooms, where the neighbours don’t know them.

3. Overnight proximity to me makes women drink heavily and go insane.

More study is needed. I should apply for a grant to travel the world, staying in hotel rooms, monitoring the audible manifestations of the mental states of nearby women.

I should ensure that it’s an arts grant. Treading on their territory will really make those ladies mad.

So, mildly sleep-deprived, I returned to my normal cell long enough to shower and dress, then set out in search of coffee. I pretty much just wandered randomly until I noticed Perro de Pavlov, a sweet little hole in the wall place on a side street. It’s the sort of place with handmade coffee cups, homemade jam, and cute mismatched vintage furniture. A band that could be Tame Impala but isn’t plays softly. I had a couple of cortados and some toast with delicious homemade jam and immediately felt much better.

Pirate Pete once again reflected my mood, although maybe he’s just happy because I finally found a drink more to his scale.

After the turmoil of last evening and night, I had a happy moment when I singled out the homemade jam for praise while paying my bill with the barista. It turned out that she’s also the owner, her cafe has only been open three weeks, the jam was the first thing she made for the cafe, she wasn’t sure about it, and I’d just made her day.

It’s nice to make someone happy just by telling the truth. It really was very good jam.

Afterwards I went for a stroll around the neighbourhood snapping pictures of the scenery.

I watched two women pause for a moment of silent reflection next to the Madrid Sex Pest Memorial. Or is it the Madrid Tan Lines Memorial? I lose track. This city has too many statues.

Back to the hostal to do some packing and arrange a taxi for tomorrow morning, then back out again for some lunch. I wanted a real Spanish lunch, given that this is my last day and most of what I’ve eaten in Madrid is bar snacks and variations of eggs on toast.

And hence I had a paella and some sangria. Possibly not the most authentic versions of either, especially as I ordered the Paella Mixta, which has a prawn, chicken, pork, mussels and a couple of things that I suspect aren’t actually calamari, but they hit the spot.

I followed it up with another authentic Spanish experience: the siesta.

Finally, I walked over to the Teatro Real for a performance of flamenco, featuring an elderly man known only as El Pele, who is apparently important enough in the world of flamenco to have the show named after him, and have it held in the royal opera house.

To be fair, he was pretty phenomenal, singing with a fire and power that belied his age. He started alone with a flamenco guitarist, then was joined by three young men in black who clapped and stomped in complicated rhythms as he sang and the guitarist played. Their job also called on them to cry out “Ole!” at anything that impressed them; so it seems that flamenco has hype men. Who knew?

Next, El Pele retired from the stage, and one of the young men took up the singing. It occurred to me that flamenco singing has similarities to the ululation of the Muslim call to prayer, and given Spain’s Moorish heritage, maybe the two things are related?

Then a female dancer came out, and with great elan threw her skirts around and stomped and clapped and clicked and struck dramatic poses, all with incredible energy and perfect choreography. After a short break, she came back with a traditional fringed silk shawl and an even bigger ruffled dress, and threw both garments around with flawless skill, using her arms, legs and hips to flip them out in wide, wild arcs… all while still clapping, stomping, clicking and posing. It was like watching an Olympic level athlete in action. It was enthralling.

Also very impressive was the guitarist, who played without pause for nearly ninety minutes. The man must have finger callouses like seasoned oak.

So I did paella, sangria, siesta and flamenco all in one day. All I needed to do to become a true Spaniard would be to wear a sombrero and commit historic genocide in South America.