The Weekend

As I’m writing this (around 4:45 pm Sunday at a coffee shop, surrounded by pinkish tourists taking a break from the nearby Reina Sofia Modern Art Museum -- I’d include myself in this save for the fact that I’m taking a break from, well, something I’m unsure of at the moment), I’m finally feeling a sense of calm. This morning was hardly that as I spent it in the country’s largest flea market, scouring for a cheap mirror but leaving with potted yellow hibiscus flowers; but I think I can finally say that the fun parts of living in Madrid are finally on their way. There was a period of approximately a week wherein I thought I’d thrust myself into a bottomless well of bureaucracy, pork-infused everything and nickel and diming nags for roommates, but thankfully I think I’ve finally gotten a grip on everything and can start enjoying myself.

A quick recap on the weekend:

Friday was Rachel’s birthday. But before I continue, a few notes on her. As the knots in my back and mind have finally begun to loosen, I’ve started seeing her in a somewhat different light. I’m only bitching and moaning here so I don’t do so to anyone else, as it’s pretty obvious to me now that she’s a very fragile individual, and also because it’s generally not the nicest thing to do. At any rate, since arriving she has told me approximately five different stories about five different European suitors she’s had since this summer and on whom she’s set her sights while here. At first, completely fine. But the problem is that on the eve of my 12th day here, she has told me each of those stories at least five times now. At the absolute least. There’s Uve, the strapping German she wanted to visit for her birthday but upon her telling him so he was suddenly “busy;” Daniel, the Spanish financial ace who works at Price Waterhouse Coopers (she’s said this at least ten times, not sure why as those names mean nothing to me), her British would-be beau were he not in a relationship (she made sure to tell me that their connection was, in fact, real since their arms touched while sitting on a couch once), and two others that I can’t recall right now, which is shocking given how often their names and stories have been drilled into my head. Then, whenever we’re walking around the only things she can be bothered to say are “Oh, did you see him, Savannah? He was totally checking us out,” or “Oh my god, Savannah, we are going to lose so much weight while we’re here, it’s not even funny,” and then laughs frantically as if someone is holding a gun up to her head while showing her a video of a tap dancing corgi. Most times I stop responding after her third mention of how many pants sizes she’s gone down, but it never, ever ceases. In terms of frequency of speech, I'd liken her to a broken fire hydrant with red hair. I’m hoping this series of leaks is temporary. She’s also incredibly cheap to the point where she tries to get out of paying her share in common house expenses, a quality I honestly loathe. She’s tried this twice with me, once with pots and pans and another with decorative goods for the house. I’ve been keeping notes. In the past I’ve often been generous with my money, but life here is a different story. Surprisingly, it has been Siddhi who has been the most generous with her things, which is something I never thought I would say.

Anyway, her birthday. She’s incredibly indecisive, so I essentially had to cattle prod her into various tapas bars where I also had to order her drinks. I don’t mind doing that now since she doesn’t speak much Spanish, but the only way to really improve upon that is to practice, something which I obviously cannot do for her. So we get to drinking, and naturally Rachel begins speaking in the third person (re: “Rachel is drunk, drunk Rachel wants more drinks and boys and to lose more weight, etc etc,”) to the point where Savannah wanted to mix Benadryl in Rachel’s mojito so she would pass out. Didn’t happen, but I did have some fantastic grilled octopus on a piece of toast in the local marketplace. Got some in my shoe, but to be honest it would be difficult to make them smell much worse than they already do now.

So we mosey over to a bar called Dubliner’s, where I run into Rachel’s “Dani” of Price Waterhouse Coopers fame, and am quickly greeted as “Antipatica,” or rude girl. I’m assuming I received this title after I flatly (but politely) rejected him and all of his friends and told them that I thought they were wrong (which they were) about wanting Catalonia to secede from Spain. Frankly I’m a bit tired of my assertiveness being seen as rude, but at the end of the day I prefer effective, not-so-pretty communication to sweet nothings that accomplish even less than nothing. Anyhow, converse with them for a bit --something tells me that my assertiveness is something they actually enjoy but are simply unaccustomed to--and then continue on our merry way to Kapital, one of the biggest night clubs in Madrid.

Somewhere on the way we added a trio of girls from the UK, which was fine by me because they were very sassy and sarcastic. Enter the club (which, by the way, I feel incredibly silly for saying), and am immediately drowning in bass, fire engine red lights and scantily clad Spaniards. Didn’t feel cool at all, so I decided to get a drink so the only thing I would feel was drunk. It worked. Danced for several hours and realized at six a.m that, well, I was pretty knocked. Made the walk home after exchanging contact information with some of the UK girls, and saw that Rachel had a small cut on her leg and was bleeding. I didn’t say anything. Considered it my tip for putting up with her abuse of the third person.

The next day, Saturday, was more or less a loss. I got some work done and drank around four liters of water and waited for my eyes to become a little less bloodshot. That evening the four of us went out for a cheap dinner and drinks, and I had the pleasure of listening to two incredibly privileged white girls griping about how unfair it is that black people “don’t have to try as hard” to get into law school and that they think that the Civil Rights Act has only made Americans more color-conscious and that, were it eradicated, more problems would be solved. Apparently there are shades of Rand Paul everywhere.  

I listened to a point, but then couldn’t help but interject. Asked them if they knew the statistics that demonstrate the gross disparities in wealth, health, and socioeconomic status that exist solely because of the white majority’s oppression of people of color for centuries. They did not. Explained that, much as we were fortunate enough to reap the  benefits of those systematic and institutionalized abuses of majority power, we were born into a favorable situation and received innumerable advantages that we did nothing to "deserve". Said that the same could be said for minorities, except that instead of advantages, they received disadvantages, and the hurdles they would have to climb just to be able to apply to college -- let alone law school -- are much higher than ours, and that I see nothing wrong with the state taking measures to ameliorate those unfortunate circumstances, especially since it was the state who created and perpetuated them to the point that there is a statistically significant difference in basic life expectancy, and that there is no other force present that would have the authority and power to make those reparations. Reminded these would-be attorneys of the various Supreme Court cases that have struck down quota systems and said that race as an admission factor may only be used under the strictest scrutiny in the academic institution’s pursuit of diversity across the board. Explained that pro-diversity is wholly different than anti-white, gave examples of the affirmative action policies in other countries and how our approach to equality is hollow in comparison, and ended by saying that we should consider ourselves incredibly lucky to have the freedom of time, wealth and resources to be discussing the nonexistent dilemmas of white privilege over tapas in Madrid. Don’t know if any of what I said stuck with them, but suffice it to say the topic was changed quickly. Game.

At that point, they decided they wanted to go out to a bar (ah, the joys of being white), and I left with Siddhi to go home and, well, read nonfiction. Wasn’t being anti-social, I was just tired and wanted to immerse myself in the words and thoughts of people I actually find inspiring. 

Woke this morning, Sunday, well-rested and ready to go to El Rastro. Found several items I liked to decorate the house: one being a print of Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights,” one of my all-time favorite paintings found at the Prado (it’s basically 18th century Dalí about humanity and the end of the world), a Rivera print, and a few Moroccan-looking wall sconces. Oh, and the hibiscus plant. Siddhi also got some nice posters and a cute vintage, mustard-colored typewriter to go in one of our shelving units in the main room. So now here I am, a few hours later, typing away by my lonesome and feeling pretty good about most things.