How did it get late so soon?- Dr Seuss

Nearly two months later I find myself writing my second blog; eight weeks of tomfoolery to order and detail. As such I am going to try to confine this blog to ‘la marcha’... 

After the death of Franco in 1975, and the country’s return to democracy in ‘78, Madrid became the symbol of the country’s liberation. It quickly embraced all that had been forbidden and currently has one of the most, if not the most, amount of bars of any city in Europe. Indeed, ‘la marcha’ (nightlife) in Madrid is great. We have dared to go where the pijos (posh/rich kids) go but have found our niche; the euro-trash equivalents to the Roxy/Moonies. Shameless. The first prestigious establishment I refer to is a place called ‘Copas Rotas’. We find ourselves there at least once a week, ushered in by the very eager Spanish Eduardo who will always supply us with a free shot or two, and has more recently upgraded his kind gestures to include the occasional free cocktail or even a rose. What luxury. Copas Rotas (lit. broken glasses) offers one euro cava to consume whilst they accompany chart hits with visual entertainment in the form of Embarrassing Bodies. So enamoured of Copas are we even a half-hour visual examination of hemorrhoids won’t deter us from this delightful place... Once we’ve guzzled our way through a few classes it is time to head to the surprisingly Spanish 'Irish' bar where encounters with the Madrilenos are ever enjoyable and after befriending Spanish Justin Beiber, engaging in inbetweener-style dance-offs, avoiding drowning in tequila-or all of the above-we religiously drag ourselves to indulge in a well deserved slice of pizza from one of the many 24 hour pizza pitstops. Thankfully this city never sleeps. More eloquent than me, Hemingway wrote: 

“In Madrid on cold nights you can drink sherry brandy and go to bed. To go to bed early at night in Madrid marks you as a little queer. For a long time your friends will feel a little uncomfortable about it. Nobody goes to bed in Madrid until they have killed the night."

However, as in London, we do stray from this type of clubbing. The supposedly ‘trendy’ part of Madrid is called Malasaña and since we all live pretty close, we have a few favourites there. We’ve visited Chueca-the gay barrio of Madrid-where I have never seen so many toned, bronzed and fabulously sculpted men. Michelangelo would be impressed. We have recently discovered Madrid’s answer to Ronnie Scotts and with an Amaretto in hand we reveled in some good old-fashioned jazz courtesy of ‘DJFunkwoman’. I will most definitely be returning. The weekend that my sister Lydia came out we were lucky enough to go to the Bon Iver concert at El Palacio Vistalegre. This has been one of my highlights of my time here. It was absolutely incredible but cannot be done justice by my words here. 

The differences in drinking habits between home and Spain are ostensibly similar but inherently different. Not only has this been my observation, but my Spanish flatmate’s too who has been surprised at the amount consumed at 'British' pre-drinks. And yet I am continually surprised by los jóvenes here. The quintessentially Spanish phenomena botellón is their pre-lash taken to the streets, replacing cider with a calimocho (red wine and coke) or two. I’m not convinced. I have also noticed at Uni that the Spaniards like to have a couple of bottles of beer with lunch before going back to class; and yet we’re still considered to be the drinkers! On one occasion I was told by an anonymous party-goer that he ‘doesn’t like British men because they’re always drunk’... but apparently British girls are fine. Phew. So I am yet to come to my conclusion on drinking habits, and I’m all for cultural immersion, but for now I’m going to stick to being a Brit on this one... 

Until next time,

La Rubia

(Yes, apparently I’m considered blonde here!)

Arriving in another country on one’s own is no mean feat. For a first-time ‘solo’ traveller the prospect of touching down at a foreign airport was rather daunting, despite being a mere two hour flight from home. However, my initial anxieties were soon dispelled with the gung-ho nature of flat hunting here in Madrid. Meeting an Australian traveller at baggage collection going to the same hostel as me was a blessing, for we arrived at ‘Cat’s Hostel’ Madrid in a luxurious taxi, and I was, for a time, saved from the bumbling ‘Emma’ disaster that I had envisaged starting my ‘new life’ abroad. The next couple of days were spent searching online for flats. My very first enquiry was immediately rejected for being a straight woman; they were only after gay men. At least in this respect Madrid felt like home from home. After trundling around the city for days, I had nearly decided that being homeless was better than living in most of the austere and vacuous flats i’d seen, however I finally stumbled upon what is my current abode and Spain could not have embraced its ‘laid back’ stereotype more; I signed my contract an hour after seeing the flat and pay my landlord cash just...well, whenever. I have two Spanish flatmates who are both accommodating and friendly and extremely encouraging of my rusty Spanish! When I do or say silly things they refer to me as a ‘guiri’ which is essentially a foreigner abroad, but hopefully by the end of the year this nickname will be long forgotten. 

With a flat sorted, I have felt immediately at home in Madrid and my initial unease has been replaced with a feeling of promise and excitement for my year ahead. I have met the most fantastic people (UCL Lawyers-thanks) with whom I have never laughed so much; I have been able to test the infamous Madrid nightlife-and yes, it is the city that never sleeps-,amongst more cultural festivities of tapas, the cinema and a brilliant Edward Hopper exhibition. We have attended our first quintessential Spanish house party which was a time warp, transporting me back to the 90s in which all fashion seemed to be inspired by the Spice Girls. Nonetheless, we all got on well and spoke a lot of Spanish-which is always more fluent after a few cervezas. 

On a more poignant note, the climate of unemployment in Spain is shocking. Juxtaposed against some of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen is a deluge of jobless and homeless beggars, or yonquis as the Spanish refer to them. The gulf between prosperity and misfortune in Madrid seems huge and is exemplified by the many protests that are all too frequently covered by the news. (Thankfully, I am yet to get in the way of the rubber bullets.) Yet of course I am hopeful the situation will improve because it deserves to; the city is amazing and the Madrileños are fun and amicable, as long as you can speak loud enough to get heard. 

For all the current misfortune, Madrid on the whole seems alive, exciting and full of love-manifesting itself in an obscene amount of PDA and strange chat-ups where being encouraged to open a bank account with Santander can swiftly become a proposition for a date. For those that have never been, you have much to look forward to: Madrid has all the culture of London, all the gays of Brighton and all the sun of Spain y me encanta!