by Will Cade

I’ve never been so gratefulfor a glass of tap water until I came to Madrid. You can walk into any restaurant, ask for a glass (for free, even) and actually drink it.

This fall, I studied at the University of Murcia in the south – my first ever experience in Spain. If you asked for a water in a restaurant there, they would bring you a bottle. You could ask for free tap water, but you might as well ask for a sifter to clean out the sand and whatever other goodies were floating around. The director of my program told me the water was drinkable; it just tasted bad. But my Spanish friend who actually worked at the water treatment plant told me otherwise. I forget what exactly the harmful particles were (lead, maybe?) but it was more than enough to send me to the store a few times a week for a 6-litre bottle, just to drink in my piso.

For when I had class, I tried buying individually bottled water, but I would finish one off by noon, thanks to southern Spain’s desert climate (Tennessee, where I’m from, is almost as humid as the Amazon). I would then either have to drop an enormously expensive 60 centimos into a vending machine, or – and this still gives me the willies – drink it del grifo. I needed to buy a bigger water bottle, I decided, but one that I could refill myself.

Being that Spain has one of the most arid regions in Europe, you’d think that Murcia would have a high demand for sports bottles, or at least reusable water bottles. But when I asked around at different stores, all the salespeople said “no” and looked at me like I was asking for that new pair of Nike’s that let’s you fly.

I had no other choice: I had to go to El Corte Inglés – that lovely Spanish version of a Super Wal-Mart injected with a pure dose of high-value consumerism. Ah, I was right at home, but I hated myself for being so American. I immediately found a climber’s bottle with an opening and closing lip, an unbreakable body, and a touch screen GPS, all for only 15 euros. Perfect!

This bottle served me well in Murcia and when I was traveling around before coming to Madrid. Whether I was in class or in Italy, I could pull out my handy-dandy bottle and get a quick sip. Ironically, though, whenever I pull it out in public in Madrid, the Spaniards always seem to look at me strange. Why doesn’t he just take a glass of water at a café? I imagine them thinking.

by Will Cade

I’ve seen some strange things in the Madrid metro. I’ve seen punks; I’ve seen beggars. I’ve seen performers, and I’ve seen dealers. I’ve almost seen fighters, and I think I’ve even seen a couple of hookers. But I never thought I would see anything that even remotely looked like love, riding underneath Madrid with the dirty, discarded newspapers swirling in the dark tunnels behind me.

One night last week, I went down into the metro to catch my line home, but I had just missed it. I sat down and did what the Metro forces you to do: wait. A few minutes later, a couple sat down next to me. At first, as usual, I moved my bag into my lap and gave my pockets a quick check, in case someone made a go for my wallet or, more importantly, the writing pad in my back pocket which looks like a wallet.

The couple hadn’t robbed me: they seemed to be far more concerned with one another. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man rubbing the woman’s stomach while she rested her head on his shoulder. Oh get a room, I thought, once again reminding myself of my distaste for public displays of affection, even if only in the privacy of my own mind.

The metro arrived, and when we got on, they ended up sitting directly across from me. It was then I noticed that the woman did look rather pale. The man commenced rubbing her stomach with one hand, while holding what I then realized to be a purple box of prunes in the other. Dear God, I thought, piecing together the situation, that’s love.

For a moment I wished I was a doctor and could have offered them my card and told them to give me a call, that we could work everything out (for they looked neither European nor wealthy). But, unfortunately, I’m not a doctor, and I needed to get off at the next station.

They continued on, to where, I’ll probably never know, because I doubt I will ever see them again. But I also doubt I will be able to forget them anytime soon, for never before have I seen such a loving and caring display of affection, on the metro or otherwise.

By Khilen Mehta

On Sunday night CSKA Moscow wrote yet another chapter in their illustrious history by defeating Maccabi Tel Aviv 77-91 to claim their sixth continental championship crown and second in the past three years. CSKA’s victory over Maccabi at the Community of Madrid Sports Palace moves the Russian powerhouse into second place on the all-time list and they are now only two victories behind Real Madrid’s haul of 8 crowns.

Trajan Langdon was named Final Four MVP after scoring 21 points on 4-of-5 three-point shooting and 7 rebounds to outscore six fellow CSKA teammates who also managed double figures in the victory. J.R. Holden added 14 points, Matjaz Smodis, David Andersen and freshly crowned Euroleague MVP Ramunas Siskauskas scored 13 points apiece.

Moscow coach Ettore Messina paid credit to both teams for providing such a great spectacle for the fans but believed his teams character was the main reason for their triumph. He described it as ” a continual challenge to match up with them while maintaining our team character.”

The victory gave  the Russian champs another title to add to their trophies from 1961, 1963, 1969, 1971 and 2006, with the 2006 victory also coming against Maccabi. Alas, this time for the Israelis, they fought hard but there was to be no sweet revenge…