kellycrull.com - expat life in Spain

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.

“Our shower head broke,” Peter told me. “So I told Maria we needed a new one.” Peter tapped a finger on the face of his watch. “It was two o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday. It was the perfect time to go to Carrefour. No one else would be there. We could be back home in an hour with a new shower head. It made logical sense to me.”

He looked over at Mar?a and raised his eyebrows.

“So I said to Mar?a. ‘Let’s go to Carrefour and get the shower head right now, so we can be back home in an hour.’”

Mar?a smiled. She knew the story.

“Do you know what she said to me?” Peter asked me, craning his neck to get a look at me in the back seat. “She told me we couldn’t go until after five.” Peter laughed and pinched Mar?a at the knee, so she giggled. “She said we couldn’t go until after five because nobody goes to the stores until after five. She asked me if I wanted to be in the store all by myself, as if the question was an answer in itself. Do you know what I told her?” Peter said. “Yes!” He nearely shouted. “I told her I wanted to be in the store all by my self.” He was racking his right fist against the steering wheel with every syllable.

Mar?a turned around in her seat, smiling. “It’s true,” she said, nodding. “I don’t go to the stores before five.”

The last few months I’ve collected a few of my own stories about everyone being in the same place at the same time. I unfortunately ignored the advice of an English friend to stay away from El Rastro street market after noon on Sunday lest I be trampled under foot by a herd of wild-eyed bargain hunters. If you’ve been to El Rastro you know what I mean.

I’ve been to IKEA, the popular Swedish furniture store, in Madrid on a Saturday afternoon. I should have known something was up when I got off the bus at the other end of the parking lot and walked past car after car, each at a complete standstill, boxed-up kitchen tables bungee-corded to the roof, unassembled book shelves packaged to the size of small tree trunks lodged at awkward angles between the front seats, running through the car to the back window, squeezed between kids in car seats. Durable yellow Ikea bags-worth of what must have been kitchenware, wall-hangings, candles, and the like piled on laps and behind seats. The cars rode low to the ground and scraped on the concrete as they cautiously, one by one, pulled out of the parking lot onto the frontage road.

Inside IKEA, the situation was no different. The traffic-jam aisles were too much. In fact, my friend Warren couldn’t take it anymore. He abandoned a cart-full of Ikea valuables somewhere near the rugs. It just wasn’t worth it.

The truth is I prefer a quiet cafeter?a. In fact, as I’m writing this, I’m sitting in a cafeter?a at 11:06 in the morning because I know it’s only going to be me and the guy behind the bar.

I enjoy a little peace and quiet.

But. There’s always a but. I think part of the reason I’m writing today is because I think I’m changing. Don’t get my wrong. You’re not going to catch me in Pamplona smeared across one of those wooden barricades with a thousand others falling over me like a human tidal wave and a herd of snorting bulls barreling down on us. You probably won’t even find me in the metro at a busy time of day if I can find a way around it.

But I’m changing. I’m learning to do everything at the same time as everyone else because I do see something in it.

When I get away from Madrid for a few days, like when I go back to the States for a week or so, I often come to the same realization. I miss Madrid because I miss the people.

I love the people here, and I can’t help thinking that part of it is the inevitable sense of togetherness.

Case in point, Retiro Park. When people visit, I try to take them to Retiro Park on Sunday afternoon if they have the time. The park is overflowing with people. There are families. Usually a stroller or two. Sometimes Grandma is there getting pushed along in a wheel chair. The kids are buying ice cream from the concession stand. There are the young lovers walking and holding hands or lying inseparably in the grass. There are the ones in the row boats. The ones feeding the ducks. The ones selling ducks and other animals. The ones dressed up like Mickey Mouse and posing for pictures with 4 year-olds. The ones reading palms. The ones giving massages. There are the street musicians. The puppet shows. The artists with spray paint. The football (soccer) players. The bikers. The rollerbladers. The runners.

The park is alive on Sunday afternoon.

Anyone there, even if it’s their first time, feels a part of it all, a part of the togetherness. Everyone belongs.

Being an International, someone who’s not from Madrid, not even from Spain, that feeling of togetherness, that feeling of belonging, is what gives me the confidence that Madrid can be my home.

It’s when I’m with people here in Madrid that I feel most like I belong to this city.