As I step out from the comfort of my apartment into the hallway, I am greeted by the faint smell of dust, dirt, and grease. The hall is quiet and I have never stumbled upon a neighboring soul. I take the stairs quickly down four floors. As I open the door to the city of Madrid, I am greeted with blinding brightness and exhaustive heat.
On the contrary, the bright and warm feeling that overwhelmed me as I had taken a step out onto the warm pavement felt all too similar. Madrid feels the exact same (in terms of climate) to Reno, Nevada on a hot summer’s day. I begin to walk down the street with sensory overload. I can smell the loneliness of planted trees as I pass by them on the side of the street. I can smell trash and exhaust mixed with tasty restaurant delights. This simply tells me that Madrid is like an apple with bruises. There is always ugly with the good - I still would eat the apple. As I smell the exhaust, my mind draws the question of where are the gas stations in Madrid? I have not seen any gas stations in downtown where I live so that brings me to the conclusion that gas is to be purchased on the outskirts of town. I also wonder if cars run on electricity here as well, but that is not likely being that in the United States only a select few of the population own such vehicles.
The street and its buildings are bright and peaceful. The style of the buildings can best be described as classically maintenanced pieces of street art. I feel as if I am wondering a town that has a laminated fondness of its history. The people that I pass on the street are interesting. Most are quiet...Most look tired. It could just be that Spaniards seem to all have eyes filled with sleepiness, or it could just be a scornful look towards me being that I am now a minority. I think this because where I come from, there are certain parts of the country where people would want minorities to speak American language, and adopt the same ideology as they. On the contrary most Spaniard’s eyes have a story to tell, stories that I would not understand. The language barrier is still prominent within my mind, as I walk past chatty strangers I can pick absolutely nothing out of their conversation. I recognize that it is Spanish that they are speaking, but I would have no idea if they were talking about me.
I pass by a homeless man. He is just sitting on the side of the street like a stone. His clothes are ragged and stained. His hair is coiled up into what would be a crow's nest with a beard similar in texture to bark. There is a cup that is placed about a meter from his flip flops. He is not saying anything nor making eye contact with anyone. I truly feel that this man was down on his luck. My mind starts to conjure all of the unpredictable circumstances that might have led him to that dirty street seat. Maybe he was an alcoholic or gambler and lost everything to addictions. Maybe he abused his family and deserved to be on the side of the street. Maybe he just simply had bad luck. I reached into my pocket to toss change into his cup only to find that keys were the only metal present.
Birds fly above my head and are tweeting in happy tones. I feel like I am walking down the street in a fog of utmost happiness. I feel like I am in a fifties cartoon with no dialogue. This foreign reality feels dreamlike. This feeling comes from the bowels of my gut. I have never ventured outside of my own city before. It may be days or months before I get used to this new feeling, or it could simply take a couple of hours. The uncertainty of not knowing how long this feeling will last is peculiar. Is it possible to feel this way back in well known territory? When I get back to America will this feeling be prominent? Will Madrid begin to feel like home and home feel foreign? I am not sure.
I approach Plaza Mayor. The whole entire place feels like a cultural smoothy. There is a lot going on. There is a street musician in the corner, bartenders serving steaming paella to eager diners, and street performers making one Euro an hour. I stand and just listen to the cluster of Spanish words around me. I think to myself, walking back home is going to be uneventful... But then I remembered what I had done the day before.
The day before I ventured the streets of Madrid to Plaza Mayor as a flaneur, I blatantly propped my lazy glutes on my couches wholesome cushion. To be exact - I did absolutely nothing all day long. By nothing I mean that I forced myself into eating several bowls of cereal until I had regretted the extra caloric intake. Staring at my toes and wiggling them like squirming human beings never seemed entertaining to me, and it wasn’t. I was entranced with such a simplistic socially “weird” behavior. YouTube kept me up to date on the delinquent stupidity that the internet's entertainment has to offer. It wasn’t until I realized how swampy my back was that I actually got up to rinse myself off. I had been chuckling like a primate who was watching a banana getting pealed. YouTube gets the best of my primitive mind. Whilst in the shower I inspect the entirety of my person. I think to myself “I actually enjoy looking at myself naked”, not in a sexual sense, but rather in an anatomically curious way. It is weird that we have thumbs on our hands and not on our toes isn’t it? Why do men have nipples? Are fingernails biologically considered tools? Hmm.
I step out of the shower, look into my mirror, then do my daily ritual. I grab the drying mechanism known as THE TOWL. Im not sure why I feel any significance towards my towel but I do. Probably because when I was a child I enjoyed having a blanket. Maybe I subconsciously feel safe when I am drying off? Haha. Haha. Thats weird. But at least I admit it.
My mind quickly retreats back into the present. I think to myself, “Wandering isn’t just doing nothing. It is exploring. Its traveling. Its rubbing your ashy skin on the concrete of a foreign society only to find some new cuts.” I now relish in my walk back to my apartment. A sense of victory dominates my cerebrum. Wow, I actually did something today.
On the contrary, the bright and warm feeling that overwhelmed me as I had taken a step out onto the warm pavement felt all too similar. Madrid feels the exact same (in terms of climate) to Reno, Nevada on a hot summer’s day. I begin to walk down the street with sensory overload. I can smell the loneliness of planted trees as I pass by them on the side of the street. I can smell trash and exhaust mixed with tasty restaurant delights. This simply tells me that Madrid is like an apple with bruises. There is always ugly with the good - I still would eat the apple. As I smell the exhaust, my mind draws the question of where are the gas stations in Madrid? I have not seen any gas stations in downtown where I live so that brings me to the conclusion that gas is to be purchased on the outskirts of town. I also wonder if cars run on electricity here as well, but that is not likely being that in the United States only a select few of the population own such vehicles.
The street and its buildings are bright and peaceful. The style of the buildings can best be described as classically maintenanced pieces of street art. I feel as if I am wondering a town that has a laminated fondness of its history. The people that I pass on the street are interesting. Most are quiet...Most look tired. It could just be that Spaniards seem to all have eyes filled with sleepiness, or it could just be a scornful look towards me being that I am now a minority. I think this because where I come from, there are certain parts of the country where people would want minorities to speak American language, and adopt the same ideology as they. On the contrary most Spaniard’s eyes have a story to tell, stories that I would not understand. The language barrier is still prominent within my mind, as I walk past chatty strangers I can pick absolutely nothing out of their conversation. I recognize that it is Spanish that they are speaking, but I would have no idea if they were talking about me.
I pass by a homeless man. He is just sitting on the side of the street like a stone. His clothes are ragged and stained. His hair is coiled up into what would be a crow's nest with a beard similar in texture to bark. There is a cup that is placed about a meter from his flip flops. He is not saying anything nor making eye contact with anyone. I truly feel that this man was down on his luck. My mind starts to conjure all of the unpredictable circumstances that might have led him to that dirty street seat. Maybe he was an alcoholic or gambler and lost everything to addictions. Maybe he abused his family and deserved to be on the side of the street. Maybe he just simply had bad luck. I reached into my pocket to toss change into his cup only to find that keys were the only metal present.
Birds fly above my head and are tweeting in happy tones. I feel like I am walking down the street in a fog of utmost happiness. I feel like I am in a fifties cartoon with no dialogue. This foreign reality feels dreamlike. This feeling comes from the bowels of my gut. I have never ventured outside of my own city before. It may be days or months before I get used to this new feeling, or it could simply take a couple of hours. The uncertainty of not knowing how long this feeling will last is peculiar. Is it possible to feel this way back in well known territory? When I get back to America will this feeling be prominent? Will Madrid begin to feel like home and home feel foreign? I am not sure.
I approach Plaza Mayor. The whole entire place feels like a cultural smoothy. There is a lot going on. There is a street musician in the corner, bartenders serving steaming paella to eager diners, and street performers making one Euro an hour. I stand and just listen to the cluster of Spanish words around me. I think to myself, walking back home is going to be uneventful... But then I remembered what I had done the day before.
The day before I ventured the streets of Madrid to Plaza Mayor as a flaneur, I blatantly propped my lazy glutes on my couches wholesome cushion. To be exact - I did absolutely nothing all day long. By nothing I mean that I forced myself into eating several bowls of cereal until I had regretted the extra caloric intake. Staring at my toes and wiggling them like squirming human beings never seemed entertaining to me, and it wasn’t. I was entranced with such a simplistic socially “weird” behavior. YouTube kept me up to date on the delinquent stupidity that the internet's entertainment has to offer. It wasn’t until I realized how swampy my back was that I actually got up to rinse myself off. I had been chuckling like a primate who was watching a banana getting pealed. YouTube gets the best of my primitive mind. Whilst in the shower I inspect the entirety of my person. I think to myself “I actually enjoy looking at myself naked”, not in a sexual sense, but rather in an anatomically curious way. It is weird that we have thumbs on our hands and not on our toes isn’t it? Why do men have nipples? Are fingernails biologically considered tools? Hmm.
I step out of the shower, look into my mirror, then do my daily ritual. I grab the drying mechanism known as THE TOWL. Im not sure why I feel any significance towards my towel but I do. Probably because when I was a child I enjoyed having a blanket. Maybe I subconsciously feel safe when I am drying off? Haha. Haha. Thats weird. But at least I admit it.
My mind quickly retreats back into the present. I think to myself, “Wandering isn’t just doing nothing. It is exploring. Its traveling. Its rubbing your ashy skin on the concrete of a foreign society only to find some new cuts.” I now relish in my walk back to my apartment. A sense of victory dominates my cerebrum. Wow, I actually did something today.