Near my apartment at Plaza de España, the intersection of Gran Vía and Calle de Los Reyes is a reminder that I live in a city of 5 million–gigantic power-hungry buildings, swarming traffic, people spilling across the sidewalks and the plaza.

Starting August 1st, however, this intersection is something else entirely. It’s the scene in an Old Western at high noon. The street is empty, windows are shuttered, and minutes pass where nothing moves. Even the white sun directly overhead appears to be at a complete standstill, apparently unsatisfied until every last drop of shade has been dried up. A lone tumble weed, in this case a plastic El Corte Inglés bag, catches attention as it blows across the street and out of sight.

Madrid is a ghost town in August. Signs like the one in the photo above, which reads, “We are closed for vacation until the 3rd of September,” go up in store-front windows at the end of July. There’s no shame in closing up shop for the month of August to hit the beach on the coast or to escape to a preferred village in the mountains.

Only the brave and the uninformed are left in Madrid in August.

I have my plans to get out of the city. In fact, 3 hours from now I’ll be on a plane to Amsterdam, where I dream of wonderful weather–rain showers every day, cloudy skies, anything that will bring me to the point of shivering. I’ve packed my rain coat with high expectations.

I empathize with those who are left behind in Madrid this month in the same way I empathize with an ant smoking under a magnifying glass. So, I’d like to dedicate the rest of this essay to sharing what I know about staying cool in Madrid.

Lesson 1: Walk in the Shade
Shade will save your life. Your main job in the next month is simply to stay in the shade. I suggest pulling the blinds in your apartment and not leaving for 30 days. If, however, it’s absolutely necessary for you to leave your apartment, stay in the shade. If you’re walking on the sidewalk on one side of the street, and the shade is on the other side, cross the street. Don’t let stoplights, street signs, or even the occasional traffic cop distract you from your main objective, which is to stay in the shade.

If you’re on the bus, know the bus route. Choose a seat on the side of the bus which has the most shade.
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I can’t in all good conscience continue writing about life in Madrid without including a recipe for Tortilla Española. Tortilla Española is one of the most commonly eaten foods in Spain. It is a favorite appetizer served at cafes and bars and at home. It can be eaten warm or cold at any time of the day.

Prep. Time: 25 minutes
Servings: 4

Ingredients:
400ml or 2 cups of olive oil (aceite de oliva)
4 medium-sized potatoes (patatas)
1 onion (cebolla) (optional)
5 eggs (huevos)
salt to taste (sal)

Preparation:
Pour the 425ml of oil into a medium-sized skillet. While the oil is warming to a medium heat, wash 4 potatoes and peel them.

Slice the potatoes very thinly.

When the oil is hot, add the potatoes. If you want to add onion, cut up the onion very finely and add to the skillet.

In a large mixing bowl, lightly beat together 5 eggs.

When the onion is tender, and the potatoes can be easily broken apart with a fork, scoop the potatoes and onions out of the oil with a slotted spoon and add to the beaten eggs.

Add salt generously and mix. Drain most of the oil from the skillet into a bowl (to use again next time!), leaving just enough oil to coat the skillet.

Pour the egg, potato and onion mixture back into the skillet. With a spoon, smooth over the mixture in the skillet.

After 2 minutes is the tricky part. You need to flip the tortilla mixture up-side-down. Find a plate that is of equal size or larger than the size of the skillet. Turn the plate up-side-down and cover the top of the skillet. Now, with one hand on the plate and one hand on the handle of the skillet, quickly flip the skillet up-side-down, allowing the tortilla mixture to fall onto the plate. Slide the tortilla mixture from the plate into the skillet.

Although you should only have to flip the tortilla once, you may have to repeat this process once or twice more as needed. You don’t want to turn the tortilla brown, but you want the tortilla to hold together. It takes practice to learn when to flip the tortilla, especially if you are only going to flip it once.

When you flip the tortilla and return it to the skillet, use the spoon to reshape the tortilla. When the tortilla is more-or-less solid, get a clean serving plate, and slide the tortilla from the skillet onto the plate. Cut into wedges or squares.

There you have it. Tortilla Española!

¬°Buen aproveche!
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Troy, the guy I work with, was standing with me in line in the mini mall near his house, and we were buying two baguettes for lunch. He was telling me that he never goes to this mini mall on Sundays. “You know why?” he said. He turned around and drew a line from where we were standing to the top of the escalator with his pointer finger. “People line up all the way to the top of that escalator waiting to buy bread on Sundays.”

The woman at the cash register with the shelves of bread standing behind her said, “Dime,” and Troy flashed two fingers and told her he wanted two baguettes. He was digging around in his pockets for change.

“Only on Sundays,” he said. “I came here once on a Sunday. Once was enough.” He handed the woman some coins and took the paper-wrapped bread from the counter.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said, “but the people around here like to do everything at the same time.”

A few days later on the weekend I snagged a ride home from a dinner party with some friends. These friends are in their forties. Peter is English. Mar?a is Spanish. It was late. We didn’t have much to talk about anymore. So I thought I’d ask them what they thought about Troy’s theory that everyone here in Madrid seems to do everything at the same time. I thought these two might have interesting perspectives since Mar?a is an insider, and Peter is an outsider.

So, I asked them. Peter smiled and told me a story about their bathroom.
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Click here to visit the Tate Modern in London.

I got off the bus today with a few people, and one of the girls on the sidewalk in front of me dropped a white shirt from one of the bags she was carrying.

I grabbed the shirt from the sidewalk and caught up to her. In Spanish, I asked the girl if the shirt was hers, which of course it was. At first she was confused, then the light went on, and she started saying, “Muchas gracias. Muchas gracias.”

In that moment (and others like it), a normal response would be “Your welcome,” the equivalent in Spanish being “De nada“. However, as I was standing there staring at this girl (who continued to thank me profusely) and wishing something intelligent and Spanish-sounding would come out of my mouth, I found out the words “De nada” as in “You’re welcome” never come to me when I need them. It’s like I’ve never said the words before.

I may be reading into this too much, but I think the words “De nada” don’t come easily to me because they’re not words immigrants use. Immigrants use words like “Excuse me” and “I’m sorry” and “I don’t understand” or “I need…” and “Where is the…?”.

As an immigrant, I find my life depends on people helping me. I say “Gracias” or “Thanks” every day. I say thanks to the people at the market for speaking slowly to me so I can understand how much I have to pay them. I say thanks to my Spanish friends who meet with me every week or so for a drink just so I can practice my Spanish. I say thanks to my land lady for calling the water company to figure out a mess with the bill that I would never be able to handle on my own on the phone (telephones are very intimidating when you don’t speak the language). I say thanks to a friend of mine for pointing out one restaurant from the thousands that serves good food at a decent price. I say thanks to a friend for going to the bank with me again to tell the girl behind the counter what I want to do with my account since I never understand any of the bank words they use.

So you get the point. The list goes on. I say thanks all the time.

It just wasn’t until today that I realized I miss being able to say “You’re welcome” once in a while. Maybe it’s that I miss having something, some shoes to fill, where I can actually give something back to other people. I think it’s actually a privilege to be in a place where you have something to give other people. Unfortunately, I’m sure some people never feel like they have anything to give back. I think I’m experiencing just a touch of that. For example, one of these times I’d like to avoid making a fool of myself and actually give someone clear, accurate walking directions to where they want to go in Madrid, and I’d like to give the directions in Spanish.

So, let’s end here. I don’t know if this rambling has been helpful. If it has been, just let me say, “You’re welcome.”

What do the Magna Carta, the Gutenberg Bible, Leonard da Vinci’s Notebook, Handel’s Messiah, and Shakespeare’s Folio all have in common? I found out today they’re all on display in the British Library in London.

As a graduate in English Literature, I felt justified in dragging April across London to the British Library to see Shakespeare’s originally-published folio (36 play scripts in all). When we got to the library, I found out they have an entire section of old literature, including the original Beowulf, works from Bronte, Yeats, James Joyce, even the manuscript of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland of all things.

I felt the envy of literature and drama lovers everywhere as I stared through the casing at Shakespeare’s originally-published folio.

Yet at the same time, I heard the words of a question April had asked me the day before, which went something like this:

Why do we feel the need when we’re on vacation to go around and see the same things everyone else is seeing especially when we know the experience is going to be crowded with people and most likely dull in the end anyway?

I think this question came as a result of watching the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace (which at the risk of going on a tangent I’ll just say was a complete waste of time).
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April and I only knew two things about what we were going to do on holiday in London before we left. One. We were going to see Les Misérables. Two. We would have terrible seats–we were going to get the cheapest tickets we could find. I threw the binoculars in the suitcase before we left.

Our first day in London we found Leicester Square. The square is the perfect solution for anyone looking for the cheapest tickets to a show in London. The ticketsellers on the square sell last-minute tickets, the ones the theaters haven’t been able to sell, at usually half the price.

When we got to the window and asked for the very cheapest tickets to Les Misérables, the girl said she would have to call the theater and see if there were any tickets left. She said she didn’t think there would be any really cheap tickets left at least.

The girl was on the phone, and the person on the other end of the line must have asked how tall we were, of all things, because she started measuring us according to her height and telling them how tall she thought we were. She listened a bit longer then put the phone over her shoulder and said, “I have two front row seats if you would like them.”

She paused and smiled slightly. “The only catch is these seats are directly in front of the stage. The person from the theater asked how tall you are because if you’re not tall enough, you won’t be able to see much but the front of the stage.”

We took the tickets.
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Late Monday night I met a guy named Augustín. He was on our street asking for money.

It was coincidental because April and I and some of our friends had been talking that night about the people we all recognize on the street who ask for money.

Living in the city center, it’s an almost daily occurrence to have someone ask for money. It’s such a normal thing, yet no one seems to have figured out a way of handling the situation that they’re happy with.

Most of my friends, including myself, don’t give anything to the people asking for money. I suppose not giving anything is the easiest solution, but at least for me, it often leaves my conscience cluttered. I justify myself, usually saying something like I don’t want to give someone money if I don’t know how they’re going to use it. They could buy liquor or drugs and hurt themselves instead of using the money for something useful. But in the end, I don’t buy my own reasoning. The fact is I’m not helping the person, and actually I find myself either becoming more indifferent or even wishing the person wasn’t there on the streets asking for money–not because I wish they had a better life, but because they make me feel guilty, and I don’t want to feel guilty.

So Monday night I figured what have I got to lose. When Augustín asked me for money, I told him I didn’t want to give him money, but I had time to run down to the kebap shop on the corner and buy him something.
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Some friends of ours, Samuel and Robyn, are house-sitting this summer out in the suburbs. They have a house that makes any of our apartments in the city look like a sandbox. And they have a pool. The perfect recipe for a 4th of July party.

Samuel and Robyn agreed to get the house ready and to buy some lighter fluid for the grill in the back yard, and April and I said we’d cover all the snacks and the side dishes.

We have friends from other countries, so I told April I wanted to make the food authentically American. We’d only bring foods that we would actually eat at a 4th of July party back in the States. That meant no olives. No gazpacho. No tapas. What it did mean was a grill. Hamburgers. Hot dogs. Potato Salad. Potato Chips. Chips and Salsa. Watermelon. Iced Tea.

Twenty-five of our friends showed up. We swam and ate until we were round as watermelons ourselves. The party was a success. At least I thought so.

Six of us were on the bus on the way back to Madrid, and I decided to ask two of Shmuel and Robyn’s friends who are Spanish if they enjoyed the day.
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