by Helen Macrae

As city, Madrid has got it all. With theatres and tapas, bars and bullfighting, shopping and sunshine, it’s cosmopolitan, frenetic, bold, brash and…smelly.

When I first touched down in Spain I was overwhelmed by the host of aromas to hit my nose (starting with that all-too familiar smell of smoke mere seconds after I had walked into arrivals), but after a while I became accustomed to it all as I busied myself with daily life, trotting around the city teaching executives useful words like chav, monkfish and Tesco clubcard. It took a visit from my parents and their non-initiated noses to remind me that Madrid has an amazing array of aromas, some of them nice and some of them nasty, but all combining to create that unique “Esencia de Madrid”.

My sensory journey begins each morning at Metro Sol, when I change from Line 3 to Line 1 and my nostrils are hit with the delicious smell of freshly-baked waffles coming from the cafe in the station. Luckily I’m always in too much of a rush to stop and buy any, otherwise I’d currently be the size of a small country. Unfortunately though, even this divine smell is sometimes not enough to mask the stink of drains which seems to permanently hang in the air round Sol. Other unpleasant odours I experience on the Metro to work are B.O., bad breath and, my personal favourite, the smell of someone sweating out alcohol they drank the night before. Yuk.

More agreeable aromas you might encounter as you journey round Madrid include cut grass when the gardeners have been out in force in one of the city’s numerous parks, along with the delightful scent of flowers as you walk by the Botanical Gardens next to the Retiro. The smell of cigarette smoke is pretty much unavoidable anywhere you go, as is that of frying food, both of which may or may not to be your taste. As you wander round Lavapies you’re hit with the pungent smell of curry, laced with a whiff of hash and perhaps a dash of urine. Walk round the more well-heeled barrios of the city such as Salamanca, Retiro and Opera, and you can smell money.

But my favourite smell in Madrid is one that it’s difficult to put my finger on, and which at times can be quite elusive. As my mate H puts it, it’s that smell you sometimes catch a waft of on a summer’s evening, just as dusk is drawing in, a smell full of promise and anticipation of the night’s adventures. The smell of fun!

Madrid Metro - Smells delightful?

By Will Cade

I never know if I should give money to panhandlers or not. Reading their signs about having children and no job, I do feel for these people, but I never know if my money is going towards a hot meal for the family or a fresh bottle for mom or dad.

Street performers, however, fit into a different category. They’re providing me with entertainment, which, if I like, I’ll gladly pay for. What they do with the money is their own business: they worked for it.

My favorite street performers in Madrid have to be in the Metro, because they give me a much needed break from a busy day running around the city. We have some talented metro musicians here - and some not so talented - but there’s nothing like hearing African bongo drums or an acoustic version of Ave Maria echoing through the underground.

Even with these daily pick me ups in Madrid, I have to be the most impressed with the metro performers in Berlin, although at first I didn’t realize they were performing. Out of the blue, a homeless or otherwise scrappy looking individual would step onto the metro. But before asking anyone for money, this person would proudly lift a newspaper - one specifically written for the homeless to sell - and commence to give a speech.

Now, I don’t know a lick of German (aside from a few curse words) but still these speeches were magnificent. Sometimes they sounded like the diatribe of a madman, but they were given with enough vigor to inspire me to do whatever it was I couldn’t understand them saying. And other times they were given with such a smooth delivery that I felt like I was sitting in the Globe Theatre listening to Shakespeare, or, in this case, Goethe.

Not until these performances were finished would anyone even start to rummage through their pockets, and sometimes not until after the applause erupted into the metro with more intensity than the speech just given. It’s times like this when I’m not only happy to emtpy out my pockets, but I would gladly sit with these people over a coffee and listen to their stories - even if I don’t understand German.

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.