madrid

The Doorman in My Bewbz

I spent my last full week in Madrid wearing yoga pants and singing Santana’s “María María” as I cared for a teenager of the same name.  I was having a blast but feeling pretty suburban so to welcome the weekend I wore an outfit that made me feel like a prostitute on her way to a high-school orchestra concert. It’s difficult to say whether wearing a push-up bra makes me feel sexy or if it’s just that I enjoy the feeling I get from tricking weird men into whooping at what are really just two well-sculpted pillows. Jose María, the doorman, had rung me before I went out to tell me he had a package waiting for me and that I’d better come get it since it was his last day.

Now, I’m five foot ten or eleven in heels and Jose María is five foot on a good day. He ushered me into his office where I explained that the package contained a tablecloth made by my great-grandmother. The top of his head ended right at my big fake cleavage and I tried really hard not to laugh as he told me about his retirement plans. I wished that someone were painting us. They could title it:

Jose María and an Awkward Glamazon or
Tiny Doorman Passes Parcel to Possible Prosti or
Could Franco Have Foreseen This?

No one painted us, as far as I know. I crouched down to give him the customary dos besos and then walked out, me and that century old tablecloth both marveling at where we’d ended up.

Gazing at Navels and Cherry Blossoms

In October I grew a thousand hands, danced like a coke-head, couldn’t stop shaking my feet, and forgot to eat.

I walked too far, too fast, met too many people and heard too many stories, almost none of which answered the questions I was interested in: what are you afraid of? Do you ever feel embarrassed for entire days  and for no good reason? When do you feel most alone, most loved? What is love? Why? Can we talk about the things that are right? Can we not talk at all?

I felt half-convinced that I wanted to be an ad-woman or an engineer or the sort of person who cared about keeping up with the Jones. Acknowledging this, embracing it, later hating it, I recognized that it was time to, as they say, “move on.”

So I “made time” to spend time alone. I walked just as much or more, with ears out and eyes up.

Conviction is important, of course it is, but we’re all so full of it that sometimes I forget who I am and I most certainly forget “what matters.” My conviction is that we are all gross and lonely, sometimes assholes (by choice and by accident), and often confused. I have other convictions, warmer ones about love and the little things, but I’m bad at writing about them.

IMG_20161013_134438


In November I felt like a visitor, avoided all questions, climbed Embajadores and five flights with a bag of butter and broth. Half  of my world was name-dropping Wagner and the other half had been born without maps. Somewhere across the Atlantic there were rest-stops in the middle of Pennsylvania and trash-pickers in Fishtown that no one I knew had ever seen.

IMG_20161117_180736


In December, in Albacete, in an Audi, my driver informed me “this is a chick’s car” and then, saving himself, “but I’ve had 15 or 20 BMWs.”  I said almost nothing. He turned up Birdy’s cover of “Skinny Love” and declared: “esto si que es un temazo.” Because the car was comfortable and because he had a voice like a radio host, I didn’t mind the music (all covers and Calvin Harris). When I arrived in Murcia  I was thinking about becoming a business-man. I was also wondering if he made love to techno and, if so, what it would be like to be that sort of person?

I taught the sons and daughters of executives and diplomats in their museum homes. I bought a lottery ticket (my first) and for twenty-six hours I believed I’d pay off my student loans on December 22nd.

IMG_20161222_171454


In January, I ran. I re-read A Room of One’s Own while drinking a can of San Miguel. A man I love prepared me huevos rotos con jamon. Virginia might have called it “a man’s meal.” I imagined she’d be happy for me. On a Tuesday afternoon I got off my metro five stops too early. The resident accordionist was playing–what else?–the Amelie soundtrackAs people say these days, I just couldn’t.

IMG_20161230_150528783 (3)


In February, I began measuring my life out in Sundays. A Sunday suicide pact. A 7AM Sunday under a rain that might have been romantic were it not for the fact that I felt like falling down. A Sunday run after an all-night Saturday, burritos and Coronita and laughs and an evening walk that felt like spring. A burnt toast Sunday morning, old skull afternoon, a vibrant Retiro, a guitar or three I couldn’t see. A Sunday electric with what if and what the fuck and two porras at five am.

IMG_20170306_201451

So here we are, March. I’m feeling my feelings religiously and irresponsibly and in between bites of Swiss cheese. I’m feeling them on the metro and under spring skies on Tuesday afternoons. What is this blog? What is this life? I don’t know, but it sure is pretty.

IMG_20170307_162824_149

Mah-drid Moments

My proper camera was hit by a modest monster wave in the South of France last year and, despite its continued survival, refuses to un-zoom. The last time I took said camera to a professional, I was twenty-two and alone in San Francisco. All I wanted was a new lens cap, as I’d lost mine (along with my sanity) somewhere between Western PA and Michigan, so I found a camera shop on the pier and walked in. The  attendant looked at me like I was a large piece of human shit and chastised me for not having a proper case (in the monotone voice of a hobby snob, you know what I mean?) My response was something along the lines of man eff this, just give me the cap. After that, I ate a chorizo omelet as big as my face in The Haight.

That gratuitous story is just to say: I took all of these photos on my sorta-shitty budget phone. So if you’re a snob, close your eyes. Some Madrid moments from the last month.

mickeyparqueretiro

Mickey Mouse gets ready for work on November 12th, 2016. Four days post-Trump.

img_20161129_232133-1

A stormy capital. November 29th, 2016.

img_20161206_180939

La Latina looking golden (+ a stranger’s/Harry Potter’s? profile) on December 6th, 2016 (Día de la Constitución)

Good gloves, mediocre photos, and beautiful memories,

Seo

How is Madrid, you ask?

metro1

Madriz is a gorgeous place full of gorgeous people who don’t know my name. I go on long walks here, as I have done for a thousand lifetimes and will do for a thousand more. There are rose gardens and a suicide bridge and clouds the likes of which I haven’t lived under for some time. What a wonderful place to fall in love. The singer-songwriter on the metro requested no videos, please.

“You know, a flower is so beautiful to look at. But when you pick it, it becomes a thing and it dies. I don’t want to be a thing.”

Gracias, compadres. He retrieved a bottle of honey from his bag and took a swig.

The metro at 10 PM on a Tuesday is a tired place to decompress, an unlikely place to chuckle with a man who has honey in his throat.

Yes, it is Tuesday night. Yes, I am writing about the metro again. Yes, I am still young and Irish enough to revel in the absurd, to feel human and happy in a big metal tube.

And I hope you are, too.

Good night and good travels,

Seo