Hola, from Madrid, Spain! Amanda has given me the great opportunity to bring an international flavor to her blog, so thanks to her I get to share one of many adventures from Madrid’s public transportation.
Of course, Thanksgiving was last Thursday, but, because Spain doesn’t celebrate my favorite holiday, my friends and I decided to celebrate that Saturday. Also, as Spain doesn’t enjoy the great American dishes such as turkey, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie, the hunt for these items was epic. We traversed the city by none other than the great Madrid metro.
My apartmentmate and I had ordered a 25-pound turkey from the superchic department store that, oddly enough, has a superchic grocery store inside that sells superchic food such as whole turkeys. When we got to the store, however, we saw the 25-pounder and decided to get the more practical 20-pound turkey. After picking up other essential items, we were ready to go.
Fortunately, we had planned out how to manage the metro with our precious groceries. Most tiny old ladies in Spain use little rolly carts when they do their grocery shopping, though the shopping part may be secondary, the primary purpose being to roll over people’s toes. My friend Audrey has one of those carts. She’s no tiny old lady. It just came with the apartment – that and a porn channel after 8pm. So, my apartmentmate and I borrowed the ever-trendy rolly cart.
We loaded everything up and headed for the metro.
Now, when Spaniards were building the metro, I think they specifically thought, “Why make this handicapped accessible? Oh, God no.” So there are no elevators, and escalators are few and far between. I attempt descending the stairs with the old lady cart full of Thanksgiving goodies and a 20-pound bird. Of course, I drop the cart. It falls down the first flight of stairs, hits a landing, and teeters on the edge of the second flight of stairs. I’m frozen. I just watch our precious turkey falling from my grip and all I can think is, “Thank God it’s not a baby.”
The cart is ultimately recovered. I manage my way through the turnstiles, onto the platform, and onto the train. The train gets surprisingly crowded for a Friday afternoon, and before I know it, I’m pinned into the farthest corner from the door, clutching my old lady cart and far removed from my apartmentmate and partner in crime. By the time we come to my stop, there are about 20 people between the door and me. I cannot move with such a cumbersome tote, and a look of panic must have come over me. A kind Spaniard sees my distress, and he deftly moves people aside, thus clearing a path for the rolly cart and me. I get off the train, but before I could say “Gracias,” the doors close and my good samaritan is gone.
Ah, I felt like a Pilgrim in the New World, trying to maneuver myself, but ultimately relying on the wisdom of locals. It’s just like the first Thanksgiving. But hopefully my adventure won’t end in genocide.
