Nothing sparks solidarity like a boiler malfunction

Snapped a pic from Stephanie and Lauren's bedroom window (after we were let back in the apartment) of one of the fire trucks.

Up until this week, the Harlem house took the Jesuit Volunteer Corps tenant of solidarity to a new level: living with no heat.

I’d love to say that we felt such empathy for New York City’s nearly 40,000 homeless that we decided to shut off our boiler in the 40-degree weather just to remember how blessed we are to even have the option.

Um, nope. The “landlord” of our 100-year-old rectory apartment just hadn’t fixed the 100-year-old boiler yet.

Meanwhile, I was sleeping in a hat. Under four blankets and a thermal sleeping bag. And complaining about it.

Well, karma’s a bitch.

City Housing Maintenance Code and State Multiple Dwelling Law requires building owners to provide heat and hot water to all tenants. After Oct. 1, if outside temperatures drop below 40 degrees at night, the inside temperature must be at least 55. During the day, the heat must go on when the outside temperature dips below 55 degrees.

If building owners don’t comply, the Department of Housing Preservation and Development can sue them in Housing Court. But before taking any legal action, you’ve got to try to work tings out with the building owner.

We tried.

Each morning all six of us would put on our sad, cold faces and ask the secretary who works in the downstairs rectory the status of our sad, cold boiler.

Secretary: “It should be ready tomorrow.”
Next day: “It will be ready tomorrow.”
Next day: “Tomorrow.”
Struggling to still sound pleasant, I ask: “Why is it taking so long?”
Secretary: “It’s an old boiler.”
Me: “Did it just break?”
Secretary: “No, we’ve been needing a new one for a while.”
Me: “And they waited ‘til now to fix it?”
Secretary: Shrugs.

Finally last Friday we came home to a toasty apartment. But then I complained to my boyfriend over the phone that it was too hot.

Did I mention that karma’s a bitch?

Five hours later I awoke to my roommate shaking me saying that the fire alarm was going off and smoke was filling our apartment. Shoes. Coat. Hallway. The air was a hazy, grayish brown. Breathed in. Choked. We opened the door down the hallway to get out of our third floor bedrooms and were met by a billow of thicker smoke. Closed the door. No way in hell were we going down. Only way out was up. To the roof! We called 911.

Me: “There’s a fire in our house.”
911 Dispatch: “What’s your address?”
Me: (give address)
911 Dispatch: “That’s a church.”
Me: “I know. We live in the rectory next door.”
911 Dispatch: “You live where?”

As black smoke roared out of our chimney and out the door from which we came, two screaming fire engines bypassed the rectory and stopped in front of the church. Then our community of six females waved frantically and screeched into the cold, “Over here! We’re on the roof!” A fireman spotted us with his flashlight and waved over the rest of the crew. Meanwhile, the soundtrack from Titanic played in the background …

We threw down the keys, but not quickly enough. While one fireman climbed a ladder up to our fifth-floor roof, another was taking a fire axe to our front door.

After an FDNY investigation and some time freezing on the roof, we learned our “brand new boiler” wasn’t heating water at all. It was burning oil. Some negligent worker turned it on before it was completely fixed, and out of our basement inferno came oily smoke and carbon monoxide. Firefighters said CO levels in the rectory were over 300 parts per million. Sustained CO above 150 to 200 ppm can cause disorientation, unconsciousness and even death, according to the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission. Great.

Naturally, FDNY turned off the boiler, opened all the windows, turned on all the fans and finally cut out at 6:30 a.m. So, for risk of another boiler malfunction, we were left again without heat. But this time the windows were open. And the ceiling fans were on. And as I crawled back under my five layers of oily-smelling blankets, I could see my breath.

One week later, the boiler is fixed and our heat is back on. We’re thankful everyone is safe and that none of our things were ruined (sans the front door). Although karma may have forced a solidarity experience upon us, I’m grateful for the perspective. Going until Nov. 8 without heat was harsh, and winding up on the roof with FDNY was quite frightening. But at the end of the day I do have a bed to crawl into, oily smelling blankets and all, which is more than I can say for some 40,000 others this winter.

Afternoon rental car to Harlem

Remember how the entire premise of this blog is how terrible I am with directions? Well somehow I ended up driving a rental car 240 miles from orientation in Pennsylvania to our new home in Harlem. Then I returned said rental car to the downtown NYC AVIS during morning rush hour.

Last Tuesday we six Harlem girls piled all our stuff into two rental cars and set out on our journey to the big city. Forget everything you needed to pass your permit test at age 15: lanes, traffic lights and general driver courtesy don’t mean nothin’.

Frankly I’m surprised we’re still alive. And I only led the group astray a few times along the way. Newark was a nice detour…

The NYC skyline from George Washington Bridge was a breathtaking sight. Shame I was too afraid for my life to divert my eyes from the road for more than a few seconds.

But we made it, and are finally settling into our new home after our first week of work.

We’re also adjusting to a life with limited Internet, so more details to come. My battery is dying at the Starbucks a few blocks from home where outlets are scarce.

And I’ve got to meet the girls in my community by Central Park soon for $3 margaritas. That’s simple living, right?

But really, this experience has been rich in the wildest of ways, from the neighborhood block parties to the people I’ve met at Centro Altagracia. Can’t wait to share it all when I find somewhere to plug in my laptop!

Leaving on a jet plane …

… don’t know when I’ll be back again.

But at least it’s going to be an exciting ride!

I leave for the airport in just more than two hours. I’m almost all packed … It’s no fun if you sleep before making cross-country trips and/or large life decisions.

We’ve got five days of orientation ahead of us. All the East Coast JVs are making their way to the Bellarmine Retreat Center in the Blue Ridge Mountains. There we’ll have sessions on social justice, simple living, community, spirituality and the mission of JVC. Then we’ll learn logistical things, like about our health insurance …

Anxious to leave home, familiarity and people I love, but so thrilled to start something challenging.

Don’t know what the Internet situation is going to be once we get to orientation. We won’t have wifi at home either, so we’ll see how long it takes for the next update on my life as a JV.

Why, hello again!

Hello, blog of mine, it’s been a year since we’ve last met!

Since then, ¡Vámonos! has undergone a bit of a makeover (check out the different tabs at the top). I’m moving on from my adventures abroad to some adventures on the domestic front — Jesuit Volunteer Corps in New York City. I’ll be detailing those experiences in social justice, faith, community and simple living starting in August.

Until then, I’ll be volunteering with Community Initiatives for Children in Minneapolis writing news letters and press releases in English and Spanish. I’ll also be studying intensely for the GRE amidst various summer shenanigans and attempting to live parsimoniously (thanks for that one, Graduate Record Exam) so I can prepare for not having an income next year.

More details to come. Can’t wait to share my adventures with you!

A sleepy despedida

It’s 3:24 a.m. in Madrid. My cab comes in an hour. I finished packing up five months of my life around midnight. And between then and now, I’ve just been waiting to leave. Not sleeping. Just waiting.

Of course I wiped out my dresser drawers in that time, and wrote goodbye notes to my host family. But I still can’t get over the illusion of this moment.

At least when we leave Marquette after a semester, we know we’ll come back.

I have no idea when I’ll come back to Madrid.

Five months here has left such a deep impression that I can’t just leave forever, so thoughts of return trip have already begun brewing. Just lacking the details at this point. And the sleep to make them make sense.

Going on two hours right now. The five of us Americans still left in Madrid went out last night to favorites Laser Karaoke (see shameless Americans shouting Kanye’s “Gold Digger”), Me Da Igual (see Americans realizing they’ve got mere hours left in Europe, and dancing emotionally to Spanish love ballads like “Colgando en tus manos”), and La Chocolatería San Ginés (see Americans toasting mugs of chocolate to a semester well spent, then chowing down on the best churros con chocolate in town).

So, when I got back home in the morning, I slept for a few hours until my host sister woke me up to say goodbye. She’s leaving for the United States (Minnesota, complete coincidence) to do summer English camps. We’ve got a Mall of America date planned, so I’ll see her soon enough. But thus began the despedidas.

Saying goodbye to the housekeeper, Mayra was even worse. The 24-year-old Ecuadorian who cooks most of our food and scrubs the house till it gleams has become one of my best friends here. But what will come of her when she carries out her plans to move back to Ecuador?

Spent all day trying to outsmart British Airways’ 50-pound-suitcase rule, and failing. The wine and olive oil I’m bringing back tip the scales. Oh well.

But now before my cab comes, I probably should shower and make myself my last café con leche in Madrid.

Adios, Complutense

At 3:34 p.m. yesterday I sent in my last paper of the term. Funny how simply clicking “send” on Gmail brought such relief. 

Four papers, four exams, and 200 paintings in the Prado later, I’m ready to enjoy my last week in Spain without academics.

However, as I walked for the last time from the smoky halls of Facultad B, I couldn’t help feeling a bit of nostalgia for the building in which we’ve spent so many hours this semester.

After getting off the Metro at Ciudad Universitaria (University City), a 15-minute walk will get you to La Facultad de Filosofía y Letras B. Facultades are like little colleges. Facultad B is home to all the history, art, philosophy, and music students of la Universidad Complutense de Madrid. And it’s home to all of us foreign students.

Facultad de Filosofía y Letras B

The outside is pretty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The inside of the building is a little more… well, gray and dismal. I think this photo actually makes it look better than it is. There are very few windows in the main areas, just harsh florescent lighting. The place was an icebox in January and February; we could literally see our breath during class. But even when it’s 85 outside, the Facultad still has a cold feeling. There’s no decor anywhere, no potted plants, no couches, no carpet. Think of Marquette’s Alumni Memorial Union, then strip everything pretty from it. The place is very bare bones, but it’s fully functional. I guess they decided not to “waste money” on shiny things like that Father Brooks mosaic on the second floor of the AMU. Such is public education.

Normally there’s students running all over the place. But these photos were all taken during finals week, when students hide in the library. That might be why there’s no smoky haze in the air (although you’re not supposed to, students frequently smoke inside the building). 

The main staircase leads up to the computer lab, which is probably the most popular place for all of us Internet-addict foreign students to pass time between classes.

A typical classroom.

Plan Bolonia protest posters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notice all the posters. They’re protesting Plan Bolonia, or the Bologna Process, a plan to streamline education at the university level throughout all of Europe. Most Spanish students are against it (for many reasons, but mainly because the price of education will rise), and those in Facultad B are particularly vocal.  

The cafeteria, normally this is buzzing with students.

And then there’s the cafeteria. It’s a zoo between the hours of 1 and 3 p.m., with students rushing to the bar to take a cafe con leche quickly before class. All the seats are occupied during lunch time; it’s perfectly acceptable to plop down at any table, even if you don’t know anyone already sitting there. The food isn’t bad, either. There’s tons of bocadillo (sandwich) selections, and about 3 euros will buy you a three- to four-course meal. Daily menu choices range everywhere from a salad to paella.  

To order: Insert coins, press what you want, collect ticket, bring ticket to bar. Easy enough, right?

In case a bocadillo isn't enough, order some alcohol for lunch. Here are just the beer options.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Many students have a cerveza or a tinto de verano  with lunch. In fact, there’s always empty beer bottles scattered all over the building, on the steps outside, in the parking lot, and in the surrounding woods. So I will say that many of us ordered an Amstel after all our finals were over on Friday and leisurely drank it in the cafeteria. And then we tried to imagine ordering a beer from Marquette Place. Ha.

But alas, even though Marquette won’t serve me an Amstel, the blandness of Facultad B makes me miss the AMU. 

Adios, Complutense. I learned a lot from your professors, made some great Spanish friends in your classes, and drank your Amstel. But my last seven days in Spain will not be spent anywhere near your campus.

Justicia? Just cultural

I always end up spending more time than I should in the women’s bathroom in Facultad B. I try to make it quick between my classes, but each time I enter a stall there’s always something new written on the walls. There’s boy talk, political messages, inspiring quotations, and even little notes politely asking people to wash their hands after using the toilet … because said hand washing is a highly underused hygienic practice in our building.

But yesterday I went into the stall that houses my favorite proverb:

It means “veganism is justice.” And yes, I did take a photo of it. Hours later, I went to a bullfight.

Although I do enjoy a hamburger once in a while, a corrida de toros is something I probably won’t watch again.

La Plaza de Toros

We entered the Plaza de Toros de las Ventas just as the corrida (which means “running” not “fight”) began. It was almost filled to its capacity of 25,000. Ticket prices vary depending on where you sit and who’s in the ring. The most expensive, on the first level in the sombra, or shade, are about 125 euros. We got the cheapest tickets for 4,50 euros in the sol, or sun.

A nice old man with squinty eyes tried to sell us cushions for our culos.

“You’ll be sitting on stone,” he said. “You’re going to want something for your culo.”

Later we wished we’d invested the 1,50 euros. We had the ultimate nosebleed seats: the highest level with seats on stone ledges so steep you feel like any sudden movements will tip you off balance and send you plummeting into the ring below. And we were in the sol. Sweaty, sticky, smelly … body odor and beer … men in straw hats, women fluttering fans.

The man sitting next to me commented on how hot it was. We bonded over how embarrassingly sweaty were, and became friends. He was kind enough to explain to us what was going on in the corrida below.

Six men make up the cuadrilla, or entourage: two picadores, or lancers, on horseback, three banderilleros or flagmen, and a mozzo de espada, or sword page. Then there are four auxiliary matadores with pink capes, and the main matador with a red cape. The corrida passes in three stages, each announced by a trumpet.

Inside the arena. In Spanish, arena means sand. Note the sol and the sombra.

The tercio de varas, or lancing third, the bull is jabbed in the back with a puyazo. It taunts and agitates the bull before it enters the ring. Then the picadores come out on their horses and stab the bull with a lance. This is to weaken the neck muscles and lower the bull’s head, making its charges less dangerous. Right. The horses wear armor so they aren’t disemboweled by the bull’s horns. We could hear the clashing of horn-on-metal even from our seats. Poor horse. The picadores also wear armor on their legs. Then the auxiliares taunt the bull with their pink capes.

During the tercio de bandarillas, each of the three bandilleros thrust a pair of barbed darts into back part of the bull. They try to get the darts, decorated with colored paper, as close to the wound from the lance. They run at the bull and fly through the air with their bandarillas. They stab the bull with one smooth motion, and then run for their lives to the edge of the ring as the bull charges after them.

The final stage is the trercio de muerte, or the third of death. The main matador enters the ring in his traje de luces, or suit of lights, and is alone with the bull. This is said to be the most beautiful, and the most perilous stage. The matador jeers the bull by screaming and whipping his red cape, a sword hidden underneath. He dangerously dances with the snorting bull for a few moments, and then stabs it through the shoulder blades, piercing the heart.

Bull charging at an auxiliary matador.

The trumpet sounds, the plaza erupts in applause, the matador takes a bow, and the bull is dragged in a triumphant circle around the arena by three horses. After that, they clean up the trail of blood in the sand.

Then it happens five more times.

We didn’t stay for the entire corrida. It wasn’t necessary to see six bulls tormented, murdered and bloodily dragged around an arena by men with swords.

And most times the death of the bull isn’t quick. A skilled matador should be able to stab the bull directly through the back and into the heart. Yesterday the guy was not that skilled. The bull had to be jabbed many times with smaller knives to kill it once it was down. Watching a 1,300-pound animal traditionally symbolic of strength and valor drop to all fours after such agony is arduous.

A picador on horseback stabs the bull, accompanied by the auxiliares with pink capes. The sometimes auxiliares run behind the fence at the top of the photo if the bulls are charging at them.

It’s something I don’t completely understand, but can appreciate. Kind of. The man next to me kept saying how elegant the matador was, how valiant the bull. In their trajes de luces, the matadores really are graceful – and seemingly fearless. As the bull hurtles horns-first at them, all they do is shift their arm, swooping their cape behind their back. The legs remain planted, the head up, the chest out. They scream “Ha” or “Hey” at the bull, challenging it to attack. After dodging a particularly life-threatening charge, the matador arches his back, puffs out his chest and sharply whips his chin up in supremacy.

It’s a refined series of movements, strategically choreographed to shift at the last second to sidestep a charging beast.

Graceful? It can be. But when the three old men behind you are chanting, ¡Vale, vale, vale, mátalo! ”Okay, all right, kill it!” It looses some of its elegance.

Three horses drag the bull one lap around the arena after it has been killed.

That’s one dance I could never do.

But for the cultural experience I’m glad I went. And I learned that the red color of the capes don’t actually attract the bull. Bulls are colorblind. The red is to mask all the blood. Pleasant, right?

 

 

 

 

 

What, no tweets!?

Recently I’ve been tweeting a lot more than I’ve been blogging.

It literally takes five seconds to post an update on Twitter, and therefore requires less of my thoughts to convert themselves to English. This leaves me more time to think of things to write for my 10-page Spanish literature paper, my 5-page history of Islam paper, and my page art paper, all due next week. The last two won’t be that difficult to crank out (I just have to start them first).

But anyways, what happens when you can’t tweet? What happens when you go to post something and a page comes up with a cute little drawing of an ice cream cone saying, “It’s cool, I can chill.”

What does that mean? It means “Twitter is currently down for maintenance.”

They said they’ll be back in about an hour. But what will the hundreds of thousands of tweeters do for an hour if they can’t tweet? There were 1,990,844 updates to Twitter yesterday alone, according to TweetRush. 

So I guess those (like me) who can’t tweet right now will blog. 

What I originally wanted to tweet was that my host sister is watching Hannah Montana in the other room, voiced over in Spanish. I recognized Billy Ray Cyrus’s voiceover as soon as she turned it on and knew she was watching Hannah Montana. Thought it was comical that Billy Ray Cyrus has a Spanish voiceover. Thought is was more comical that I can now recognize it.

Had I been able to tweet that, it would have been less than 140 characters. 

Because it certainly is more fun to read in brief than to read as a blog post. 

P.S. Thanks, Twitter, for forcing me to update my blog

Good gripe

I went out last night and came back afónica. That means I lost my voice.

You could probably draw some conclusions if I mentioned that I crawled into bed at 6:30 a.m. after dancing all night at Joy Eslava…

But entrance to Joy is free on Thursdays for students, and we don’t have class today because it’s the Día del Trabajador, or Labor Day, in Spain. And because my friends and I can relate to the 17 percent of willing and able Spaniards who are unemployed, we decided to skip the 8-euro drinks and soberly belt/rock out to American classics like Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” all night.

So, the fact that I have quedado afónica is not because I went crazy last night. But as I dodged the elbows of sweaty dancers and tried to keep from getting pushed over onto the sticky floor coated with broken beer bottles, I couldn’t help but think: This is how people get sick.

This is how people get la gripe porcina.

I’m pretty sure my sore throat and muscle aches are just from singing and dancing too much to Bon Jovi. My stuffy nose is probably just from lack of sleep. But when Spain’s health ministry confirmed Europe’s first case of swine flu on Monday, I was a little concerned. The Spanish media really played it up. Health Minister Trinidad Jimenez appeared all over the television, newspapers had huge front page headlines and article upon article of analysis. Photo spreads of people in surgical masks could be found all inside the papers. It was hard to miss.

Now with constant updates online and on television, we know that Spain has confirmed 13 cases of la gripe porcina, and suspects 59, according to The New York Times. Two cases are in Madrid, according to El País.

On my way to el Parque de Buen Retiro today I saw a few people getting onto the metro wearing those little white masks. Comforting, eh?

Granted, I haven’t seen too many people wearing masks, and most who do have suitcases and are most likely traveling. Most mask-wearing folk are seen in Barcelona and Valencia.

The television news team interviewed a bunch of students yesterday about the dangers of disease-spreading among young people. Universities are frequented by thousands of people per day. People share cigarettes and drinks on- and off-campus. And when you factor in Madrid’s nightlife that never sleeps (read: sweaty guys in crowded dance clubs), us youngins are prime gripe candidates.

Mom sent me an e-mail reminding me to wash my hands with soap and water long enough to sing “Happy Birthday” twice. I then reminded her that A) running the water for that long might be a sin in Europe, and B) the girls at the university, at least those in Facultad B, rarely wash their hands after using the restroom… kind of nasty.

But I’m going to continue more or less like normal. Just more consciously. I guess don’t go shaking anyone’s hand, try not to touch anything on the Metro, and don’t give the traditional Spanish greeting! I might just try to smile more instead of greeting with dos besos (a kiss on each cheek)…  So here’s a smile from Madrid – because my voice is gone anyway ☺

Touring Madrid, formally finally

I got to play tour guide this weekend! My friend Lauren from Marquette came to visit from Florence, where she’s spending the semester. Not until she came did I realize just how many of Madrid’s touristy things I haven’t done simply because I live here.

 The best way to experience Madrid is just to explore on foot. There are so many cool buildings, parks and monuments throughout the city. We did plenty of walking. But here’s a taste of the tourist Madrid we explored this week:

 El Palacio Real

El Palacio Real. We couldn't take photos inside, but the outside is pretty impressive.

 

 

Commissioned by King Felipe V in the early 18th century, this gigantic white edifice looms over the Ópera area of Madrid. It sits on a bluff overlooking the mountains and Manzanares River. Alfonso XIII was the last to live there until 1931. Now the Spanish king and queen live on the outskirts of Madrid, but the Palacio Real is still used on special occasions.

There’s 2,800 rooms inside — Lauren and I toured about 1/100 of them. It’s magnificently ornate with swirling marble floors, walls lined with silk and intricately woven tapestries. One room is made and decorated entirely with porcelain, walls and everything. We walked through the banquet hall that seats 140. We saw the battle armor of knights and swords as sharp as they were 300 years ago. Very much worth a trip, and they have a student discount. It was great to finally go inside after walking past it for four months. It’s kind of hard to miss…

 La Catedral de la Almudena

The white cathedral matches the Royal Palace.

 

 

Adjacent to Palacio Real, this cathedral built in1883 is equally impressive. It honors Madrid’s female patron saint, the Virgin of Almudena. When the Arabs invaded Spain, the Christians living in the area hid a statue of the Virgin Mary in a vault enclosed in a wall surrounding the city. When the Christians re-conquered Madrid in 1085, they looked for the statue. It is said that the wall opened up to show the statue and two burning candles. The name now comes from the Arabic word almudeyna, meaning wall of old citadel. This is also the name of my 13-year-old host sister! I love unique names with stories behind them. 

 Real Monasterio de San Lorenzo de El Escorial

We made a day trip out of this one, taking the Cercanías train about an hour from Madrid northwest to the town of El Escorial.

We first went to the monastery commissioned by King Felipe II and finished in 1584. It’s an enormous granite structure built to house Felipe II. You could compare El Escorial to Straz Tower, a residence hall on Marquette’s campus. Straz has the huge dorm rooms, a work out facility, pool, study and game rooms and a dining hall all in the same building — there’s no reason to leave.

We couldn't take photos inside El Escorial, but here's the basilica.

El Escorial contains a palace, monastery, basilica and library all within its walls. Felipe II never needed to go anywhere, kind of like those lucky Straz kids. The only thing Straz is missing is a Pantheon. Below El Escorial is the Panteón de los Reyes, where the bodies of Spanish royalty rest in marble and bronze sarcophagi. There’s three empty ones for future rulers. Good for the Spanish monarchs, but I don’t think I’d want to be buried under Straz Tower… kind of a morbid thought. 

Another morbid thought: Felipe II constructed the place with a devotion to Saint Lawrence, so the floor plan is supposed to resemble a giant grill. Why? Because Saint Lawrence was martyred roasting alive on a giant grill. The Basilica is home to Titian’s The Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence, a fresco portraying the gruesome event. We didn’t get to see it, however, because the Basilica was closed for renovation.

The rest of the monastery was open for tours, however. Impressive and highly recommended!

El Valle de los Caídos

Daunting? I think so. Shame we couldn't take photos inside.

 

 

The Valley of the Fallen is certainly not to be missed on a trip to El Escorial. It’s about 15 minutes from the monastery by bus. But be warned: The place is eerie.

Our ears popped as we drove higher up into the mountains. The forest thickened and the temperature dropped. Then out from the trees we saw a gigantic stone cross looming from atop the mountain. The cross is nearly 500 feet high and made invisible by low clouds on rainy days.

Lauren said it looks like God would just reach down from the clouds and say, “Raaaaaaaar!”

Inside that mountain is a basilica almost as big as St. Peter’s in Rome. But this one’s just creepy.

That little door in the center is the entrance to the enormous basilica.

Right-wing Spanish dictator (with fascist ties) General Francisco Franco ordered its construction by 20,000 defeated communist prisoners. The basilica and crypt are supposed to commemorate those killed in the Spanish Civil War (1936-’39). After his death in 1975, General Franco’s body was moved to the basilica. José Antonio Primo de Rivera, founder of fascist Spanish Falange, also rests there. The remains of 34,000 Spaniards from both sides lay in the crypt.

Tapestries depicting the apocalypse hang from the walls. Dark stone angels with veiled faces emerge from the granite. The place is cold and has a coppery green light to it. There are no windows (well, yeah, they blew a big hole in a mountain to build it).

The audioguide was 2 euros, which we didn’t get, but I almost wish we did. There’s lots of political controversy with the construction of the basilica, and further commentary would have been nice.

You can hike up the mountain to the base of the cross. Lauren and I got about half way until we saw a “Closed for Renovation” sign. And then it started hailing. But that’s the mountains for ya.

Going Out in Madrid

Lauren and me on the bluff of Valle de los Caidos. It's an incredible view. P.S. This would be what my hair normally looks like (see previous post).

 

 

No tour of Madrid is complete without a meal from the Museo del Jamón, cheap bocadillos and tinto de verano from 100 Montaditos, sangria and tapas from El Tigre, and some Láser Karaoke (everything from Spanish love ballads to Abba’s Dancing Queen). And let’s not forget that Madrileños stay out ‘til the early a.m. on a regular basis. We may or may not have decided to skip that whole sleeping thing so Lauren could just jump right on her 7:10 a.m. flight back to Italy.

It was so great to see Lauren and show her around the city I’ve called home for almost four months. She goes back to the States in a week. Wishing her safe travels home!