I've been robbed!

I used to pride myself on the mere fact that I had never been a victim of a pickpocket.  After yesterday’s events I can no longer claim to be a pickpocket virgin, but I can claim the rights to an interesting story. 

Around 5:25pm Sunday afternoon I was in the process of changing metro lines with Sarah Crooks and my friend Katie Vatteroddt, who came to visit last week.  My green and white Freitag bag was comfortably slung over my right shoulder and resting on my hip, the velcro was intact.  Our small group of three stood together in the metro, each of us being at least six inches taller than the average passenger and looking like complete foreigners.  As we stood there, idly chatting about our plans for the rest of the day, I opened my bag in search for a kleenex.  I found the white tissue and noticed that my bag felt uncharacteristically empty, and that is when I realized that my fuchsia, crocodile print wallet was nowhere to be found.  I looked up at my friends and calmly stated, “somebody has stolen my wallet.” 

Crooks gawked back at me and promptly shoved her hands into my bag, searching for the missing wallet.  After coming to the realization that my wallet was in-fact missing, she bombarded me with a slew of questions, “do you have your passport, how many cards did you have in there, were you carrying a lot of cash, why are you so calm right now?!”  I thought for a second and replied that yes, I had my passport, no I did not have many cards, just my MN driver’s license and my spanish bank card.  Thankfully I also did not have much cash on me, a measly 10 euros and some change.  I knew that I could order another drivers license when I got home and that I could call my bank and cancel my card, at the most I had just footed the lunch bill for my slippery little friend. 

We stood there for a while longer, rehashing the last five minutes that lead up to the discovery and when the thief must have made his move.  We were standing in the very last car of the previous metro with our backs up against the wall, from there we exited the car and walked a few minutes to the connecting metro line.  The crime must have been committed during the short 2 minute walk, but when and by whom? Lost in thought we were all of a sudden confronted by the man who was standing behind, Crooks.  he held up a fuchsia colored wallet and asked if it belonged to one of us.  With confusion plastered across our faces I managed to find my voice and claim my wallet.  The man informed me that he had found it on the floor next to him.  I immediately looked inside and found that all of my possessions were intact except for the money. 

At the next stop the man got off and we started speaking with the older ladies who were standing next to us.  They gave us their opinion on the matter and were convinced that the man who had just exited the metro was in-fact the thief who had stolen my wallet in the first place.  I came to the conclusion that if someone was going to steal my wallet, I guess I would not have wanted it stolen and returned any other way!  The three of us guiris (tourists) laughed about this phenomenon for the rest of the day.

Besides providing one of Madrid’s finest with lunch money, last week was full of several other wonderful things.  Katie arrived on Tuesday and on Wednesday morning a good Spanish friend of mine came to our apartment, picked us up and so started our day of tourism.  Our first stop of the day was in a town called, San Ildefonso, which is located about 80 km north of Madrid near Segovia.  The main attraction to this town is the 18th century Royal Palace of La Granja de San Ildefonso.  The Palace used to be the summer residence of the Kings of Spain and is now open to the public as a museum.  I have never been to Versailles but am told that the Palace and it’s gardens are a smaller version of what can be found in France.  We purchased our admissions tickets and began our slow saunter down the great halls and through the exquisite rooms.  Every room was full of either large tapestries, paintings, sculptures, grand furniture or clocks.  I say clocks because King Carlos IV had a slight obsession with these time keepers.  Each clock was different in color, shape and size.  With each new room came different clocks and a growing anticipation to see the beauty and creativeness that was put forth into making each one unique and memorable. 

After making our way down and through the lengthy palace corridors, we were deposited into the royal gardens.  We did not explore all 1,500 acres or see all 26 fountains, but we did have an enjoyable walk while taking a few fab photos.  Feeling content with our time spent inside the Palace we ventured on over to the Chapel.  I entered a side room, looked up at the wall and was warmly greeted by a few human skulls.  Ok, I have seen human bones before, but that was at the Science Museum in St. Paul and I knew what I was getting myself into.  This encounter on the other hand was completely unexpected and caught me a bit off guard.  I snapped myself out of my state of shock, paid my respects and walked briskly out the door I had just come in. 

Once we were all standing outside of the chapel we came to a unanimous conclusion that it was time for lunch.  So, we climbed back into the car and took off for Segovia.  All three of us had been to Segovia at one point or another, but Katie wanted to refresh her memory which was fine by me.  Segovia is an enchanting little town.  We had just wrapped up our tour of Segovia and were sitting upstairs in a charming little coffee shop sipping on green tea and hot chocolate when we started talking about what else we could do with our day.  The spanish sun was starting to descend behind the mountain peaks but we still had a couple hours of daylight left, so we got back into the car and made use of our time. 

I had a hard time believing that I was in Spain as we zigzagged up and over the lush mountain terrain.  When in Madrid one hardly notices that there are mountains nearby, but in reality these majestic beings are just a 45 minute drive from the city. Spain is full of mountain ranges, but the land directly around Madrid is sparse and dry so that when I am placed in the mountains I am convinced that I could not possibly be in Spain.  The views from the car windows were beautiful and I found myself reminiscing about my other home away from home, Switzerland.  As we climbed higher and higher the temperature dropped lower and lower.  3 degrees celsius turned out to be a tad on the cool side for going hiking in capri pants.  We settled for a quick look around and a few mouthfuls of delicious mountain water that was spurting from a drinking fountain type thing on the side of the road. 

By the time we pulled into Alcobendas the sun had retired for the evening and we were anxious to start our REM cycle as well.

The second half of the week held a few more exciting events for Katie and I, Flamenco, Rastro, Retiro and Bull Fights.  Friday night after practice we hustled home, showered, ate and jumped onto the metro, destination, Plaza de Espana.  About an hour later we emerged into the plaza and bee lined it for the first Starbucks we could see.  Thankfully, the woman working gave us a set of flawless directions and then we were well on our way to finding, Las Tablas, a Flamenco bar in Madrid.  We arrived a few minutes after 10:30pm but luckily nothing ever starts on time in Spain, so we ordered some sangria and gave our eyes a minute to adjust to the candle lit room. 

At the Flamenco Show.

The room was small and intimate.  Tables of friends and romantics were clustered around the wooden stage while waiters slipped silently and discreetly around the room making sure wine glasses were full and cheese platers were plentiful.  The group of performers consisted of two male guitarists, two male singers, two female dancers and one male dancer.  As the clapping, singing and heavy pitter patter of steps commenced I quickly began to appreciate the detail and work that is required to successfully pull off a flamenco routine.  I do have to admit, though, that I am a bigger fan of the dancing than I am of the singing. Even though I could not understand the words, the Cante (song) sounded quite sad and heart retching.  The singer changed octaves constantly and appeared to be in the midst of weeping more so than singing. 

The female dancers were the only ones wearing a different color than black.  They started the show off in what looked like a long, white, lacy cardigans and proceeded to change outfits several different times throughout the performance.  Their dark black hair was pulled away from their face into tight buns at the base of their neck and their facial features were made dramatic with the help of an eyebrow pencil while their lips were painted red.  Their hands flowed through the air while their feet stamped out a constant rhythm that followed the sounds of the weeping man.  They stared out into the crowd with a seriousness that captivated everyone’s attention.  The man then joined in as well and as time went on he became the highlight of the evening.  This young man danced and danced and danced.  Pounding out such hard, continuous rhythms on the floor, I had to adjust my seat so that I could marvel over the swift movements of his feet.  His brow began to glisten and after ten minutes his black button-up was drenched with sweat.  There were several times when I thought that the performance was over and then suddenly he would accelerate into another climax of movements and sounds.  The final leg of his performance was received whole heartedly by the spectators, standing up in their seats and giving him a well deserved round of applause. 

I do not think that I will become a Flamenco super fan, but I am glad that I was able to experience this historical piece of spanish culture. 

Sunday brought a whole new slew of things to do.  We started out our morning with the Rastro.  Slowly making our way from stand to stand amongst the masses and finally ending at my favorite tostada bar in Spain.  Tostada just refers to something that is toasted.  The shelves in this small bar are filled to the ceiling with toasted focaccia bread that is topped with a variety of different ingredients.  Tuna, mushrooms, octopus, ham, beef, eel, you can find it all atop a tostada and for an extremely low price.  The line is constantly curving out the door and down the street, but do not worry, it moves rather quickly. 

After lunch we headed for Retiro park where we leisurely strolled past the street performers and musicians, all the while relishing in the warm sunshine.  From Retiro we headed to the Bull Fight.  I had already seen one bull fight this year and knowing that I had not overly enjoyed the tradition the first time around I was a bit hesitant to go again, however, I am glad that I did.  The matadors on Sunday were much more skilled than the ones I had watched back in the Fall.  Opposed to taking seven tries at killing the bull, Sunday’s matadors maxed out at three.  The bulls on Sunday also appeared to be more vivacious and scrappy than the bulls that I saw in the Fall.  During one round the bull charged the horse, knocking it over and throwing the man to the ground.  The bull then jumped in the direction of the man who was curled up on the ground next to the horse, but just barley grazed him as he went bristling by.  Immediately more people came to the rescue of the fallen man and managed to coherse the bull away from the scene.  During a different round, one of the bulls got up and personal with the matador, leaving streaks of dark blood all along the front of his fabulously pink outfit.  Seconds later the bull got even closer, ripping a tear through the fabric which covered the matador’s hamstring.  The matador limped around for a bit, determined to conceal his pain, but we could see the tear and the blood all the way from our seats in the third level.  There did not seem to be as drastic of a survival gap between man and bull on Sunday afternoon, perhaps this is why I enjoyed the event more so than the last time. 

Walking in Retiro Park.

At the bull fight!

Between the days of my culturally full weekend, we did have another game.  It was an away game, but luckily against C.R.E.F., the other team from Madrid.  We drove the twenty minutes to the gym and prepared ourselves to play.  Once again I was reminded of the oscar wining acts that Spanish players are so famous for.  The fact that the referees did a great job looking the other way did nothing to curb my frustration.  I played with four fouls, doing my best to not make the slightest bit of contact with anyone in a three foot radius.  After 40 minutes of play we were tied.  Five more minutes were put up on the clock and the game began for the second time.  During the following five minutes we failed at putting the leather ball through the net.  We ended up losing, 67-58.  Along with the loss of this game came the realization that we would not be making the playoffs.  We now have two more games left in our season, tomorrow’s game against Ibiza and next weekend’s game down in the south of Spain, near Cadiz. 

Leslie’s Loose Ends:

 In Spain the book, Where’s Waldo, is known as, Donde Esta Wally (Where is Wally)?

 Heads or Tails? I am not sure where the names for this coin toss come from, but in Spain it is not heads and tails, but Cara y Cruz (face and cross).  Ya’ll can thank Ms. Crooks for this loose end;)

 Katie went to the Thyssen Museum in Madrid and informed me that there is a large black and white picture of the falls at St. Anthony Main in Minneapolis, crazy. 

A big thank you for all of your kind words and prayers in regards to my grandfather, I really appreciated each and every e-mail. 

I hope you all have grand weekends!
Love,
Leslie