Lost in Translation

Summer drinks in Plaza Tirso de Molina. My Russian friend (who is proficient in Spanish) orders some lamb to eat. It is translated (unusually, for Madrid) into English as ‘lamb stripes’. We assume that it means ‘lamb strips’. But when it arrives, the waiter presents ‘lamb tripe’. Even the Russian, who eats packets of dried squid mailed from Russia, cannot stomach this. She tries to explain (in fluent Spanish) that the dish has been translated incorrectly, but the waiter assumes that she simply doesn’t know what tripe is. After a bit of haggling, he agrees to exchange it free of charge.

Later, I decide to treat myself to a JD and diet coke. Single Spanish measures are equivalent to English triples; sometimes more. I don’t know the word for ‘straw’ so I ask the Russian for the word. She directly asks the waiter for a ‘paja’. Our Spanish friend chokes on her drink, the waiter leaves without responding, and I am confused. Apparently, the Russian has just asked the waiter for a wank. Amid hysterical laughter and stares from other tables, we discover that she should have asked for a ‘pajita’. I am too busy wiping away the tears to ask the waiter the next time he appears, so the Kiwi has to do it for me.

JD and diet coke never tasted so good through a straw.

Lessons from Madrid

I leave Madrid in less than 48 hours. In some ways, it feels like I have only just arrived. But I made the decision to leave all the ghosts of memories behind, just before a hedonistic week of new memories was created. Oh well….

I have learnt new lessons in Madrid, as well as revising old ones. The first (which I only discovered a couple of weeks ago) is that people are not as disposable as one dark shadow once led me to believe.  From first going to university, I have discovered that it is always possible to make new friends; sometimes life-long ones. However, I have since realised that it is not always the making of friends that is difficult, but maintaining those friendships. For example, there are some friends who miss you as much as you miss them. People whose group is incomplete without you; people whose jokes and flaws and intimacy you need around you on a weekly basis.

I have also learnt that there are some friendships that ignite quickly, appear to burn on a low heat over time and distance, but never burn at full flame again, even when you are reunited in the same country.

And some friendships, the intense ones that are concentrated on shared experiences and distance from a different life, only last as long as the shared experiences do; even when you try to prolong them. There has to be mutual effort. Accepting the end of these friendships can be heart-breaking. It is like being dumped by a lover without being told why; or even without being told at all.

And that brings me to a revised lesson, or at least a proverb that someone wise told me a few years back: “People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. The trick is recognising which category they fall into.” I know that the gods have smiled on me because I have several friends who I can count in the ‘lifetime” box. These are friends you can return to without seeing for years and easily pick up where you left off; friends who have seen the best and worst of you and still message you to breathe the same air and expel it in laughter with them. That is not to under-value the reason and season friends; without them, you wouldn’t get by in foreign cities with new jobs and arrogant locals. But the trick is letting these friends go without sadness or resentment when the reason or season has passed. And that is a lesson I still need to revise.

So, with sadness I leave Madrid, again. But new adventures await. Life is for living and the world is my playground.

The wise one I mentioned is my little sister.

“All of a sudden, I miss everyone”

It is 2am. I get off the metro and ascend the steps into Plaza Tirso de Molina. The flower stalls are still there; the vibrant blooms taking on sepia tones under the light-polluted night sky. I marvel that people are selling flowers at this hour. And as I exit the plaza, I remember that I am alone in this city, completely alone. My mother would murder me for walking home alone at this hour; kill me before any of the countless rapists and murderers she imagines are lurking around every corner could assail me. But still, I walk alone.

This city, where I can breathe and be true to myself, is starting to haunt me. One afternoon, I imagine that I see my old best friend across the metro station on the opposite platform. But she is a mother now, living back in her native Italy. I am here, with plenty of acquaintances, a couple of good, old friends, and too much independence. Nothing anchors me; last time I had the blonde Italian and the Mancunian redhead on either side of me. But they are gone now, along with any remnants of our friendship. Now I drift through this city, remembering good times that will never be again, because I have changed, grown. My old anchors have sailed on other ships. The situation is different.

There is still that wild-fire inside of me: the need to party until the sun rises; to not be confined by medieval walls; to have endless options. I am half Irish, and that fire will never be extinguished. We O’Donnells live life until we die. Old age and cancer never stopped any of my legendary aunts from drinking brandy and dancing the night away into their seventies, or cultivating plants at high temperatures until the reaper came along. I guess we  make our own rules and live by them.

But now, despite its endless possibilities, my past time in Madrid haunts me. The fire still burns inside me, but it no longer burns in Madrid. Unemployment and poverty stalk the streets, the good times left not long after myself and my former anchors. Now, the world whispers the promise of new adventures to me. I need to go somewhere completely new; somewhere without memories lurking around corners, reminding me that I am alone here. I want  an un-lived adventure; to make new memories. Maybe this time the boy from the north will live them with me.

One thing is certain, however; adventure keeps me alive.

Salsa (written May 2008)

We made quite an entrance at the party. Unintentionally, of course. Not owning anything white, we were all flouting the “Wear a white top” instruction for a start. The apartment was packed with short, stocky, Latin-American men, clad in white shirts contrasting with their exotic skins. We were white enough. Claire was freckled with fiery red hair; Helen, also freckled, had straight, fair locks. I had jet-black curls and porcelain pale skin. Not knowing what to expect, and wondering if we’d be able to speak with anyone, we hovered around the drinks.  Alcohol, the greatest of all social lubricants. Unless you live in Saudi Arabia.

For a while after our entrance, the room was divided into Salsa-dancing Latin Americans, and us. Stereotype central. To me it seemed that they were having way more fun on the crowded ‘dancefloor’ than we were, chatting by the drinks table, clutching our rum and cokes. “Sod this,” I announced. The girls flicked curious glances at me. Ever the lover of dancing, I made my way to a friendly looking, though not particularly attractive guy. He put out his hand, “Yo no puede bailar la Salsa,” I attempted in sober Spanish, which is a far less eloquent dialect than intoxicated Spanish. Apparently, it didn’t matter. There was nothing for it but to get into the swing of it.  I knew my friends were watching me as I cast off the shackles of Englishness. It wasn’t long before Helen was dancing with a different guy. Eventually, Claire joined us. Finally, some guy who suffered from verbal diahorrea (not far removed from average Spanish conversational habits) drove her to seek out a dance partner from sheer earache. Gradually the room mixed like coffee and cream. Despite outward appearances, I was actually the shyest of my friends. It was only the high rum count in my bloodstream that allowed me to accept the passionate kisses of a hot guy whose name I couldn’t remember the next day.

Unfortunately, despite my best efforts that night, I suffered from some typically English behaviour. Propelled by the escalating high from salsa, alcohol and hot guys, I accepted offers of drinks until the room spun. I was oblivious to the fact that everyone except us and the people whose apartment we were in had left the party. It was 5am, a normal night in Madrid, so time to go. We left amid protests and offers of more rum, or a tequila shot. “Pretty English girls! Stay and dance!” Outside, the fresh air played its favourite game, making me giggle hysterically, become weak at the knees and embrace the pavement. At this point, you know who your friends are. Oh, I knew who they were, Goddess bless them.  I just didn’t know who I was.

The next afternoon I awoke with the devil’s after-party in my head and a shipwreck in my stomach. I tried to remember what had happened. I was alone, of course. After all, I’m the shy one. I was wearing last night’s sexy outfit, now crumpled, but had somehow managed to remove my contact lenses. I’m always baffled as to how I manage to do that. I turned to my room. Coins lay scattered all over the floor. Taxi fare? Before even contemplating getting up, I called Claire.

“What happened?” I asked. Laughter.

“You’re a dead weight girlie!”

“What?”

“Are you up? Look at your knees!” I moved my knees towards me and observed large purple bruises on both of them. “Ow, guess I hit the deck? Forgot to tell you, that sometimes happens. I think I’m still drunk.”

“Haaaa! Us too! Cinema later?”

“I’ll let you know. I’m gonna vom now, I think. Text me later. Thanks for getting me home.”

“No worries hun. Feel better soon.”

“Hope so. Later.”

Drinking on an empty stomach is never wise. Less so when you’re as small as I am. After relieving myself of last night’s poison, I remembered the fun party I was now paying for. The memory was of another world, a magical night when we could all speak fluent Spanish and dance Salsa effortlessly. Now I could barely speak English. There’s only one place you can go in cases like this. Bed.

In Madrid…

I am back in Madrid, a place that I had never even planned to visit again. As a general rule, I don’t believe in going back.  There are too many new places to go forward to. But over the five years since I was last here, the myth of Madrid has acquired a somewhat legendary status in my memory, as well as my anecdotes. One PGCE, one MA and five months of unemployment later, Madrid seemed like the best option; for work, for fun, for living the dream.

To say that returning to Madrid has a dream-like quality would be innaccurate. It is more akin to stepping back into the echoes of memories; a temporal slip where I half expect to see a past version of my self. Dressed in a deep crimson blouse, tight grey mini-skirt, dancing on speakers in smokey nightclubs with my girl friends until 6am, when the Metro opened in time for a ride home. These echoes of memories are what formed the legend that was Madrid.

As I look for my old favourite haunts, I do not see this former self laughing and drinking, with the Mancunian redhead and the Italian blonde. On this particular day, Good Friday, I walk alone, revelling in my re-ignited independence.  Eventually I re-discover my favourite chill-out bar, ‘Yambala’. I walk past the door a couple of times, checking to see that I am not still there with the redhead, or my German friend.  I am not. I am outside, now, in the spitting rain. I need to pee and to drink, so I step into this echo of the past, into the reggae music pumping life into the tiny space. Wooden tribal masks adorn the walls of the bar room, while cushions and Morroccan throws create a dark, cosy space to smoke flavoured shisha pipes in the back.

The candle-lit back room is where I drank my first mojito; a cocktail that I have been unable to enjoy anywhere else. It is where I spilled water all over the redhead’s crotch early one night; where I used to meet my German friend; where I shared a stolen weekend with a past love. Back then, everything was raw. My heart ached, smashed to pieces. I was invisible to the arrogant Madrileños. Now, I draw admiring glances. Now, people respond in English to my poor Spanish. Now my core is strong, and I pulse along with the vibrant beat of this city.

Before I returned, I imagined that I would feel as I had before: insecure, frustrated, lost; partying and sleeping the weekends away. But I have grown up, and this time, I am open to Madrid.