by Jeanne Reidy

After a few weeks and too many lost-in-translation conversations with Spaniards, I began to sense what seemed like arrogance from them. They never seemed eager to help with directions or patient enough while I struggled to get a sentence out in my second language. I couldn´t understand why they hardly look at each other while passing each other on the street and say nothing when bumping into you on the Metro. At first, I was completely turned off by the Madrileño culture. Now, I defend it to the core. I can’t get enough. I’m addicted- so much so that I chose to stay in Madrid for an extra two months. 

There is no doubt that the Spanish culture is unlike any other. The people are blunt. They will tell you exactly what they are thinking- about anything, without sugarcoating it. They are willing to help, but will not go out of their way to do so. The best way I can think to put it is that they will gladly give you directions, but they won’t hold your hand and walk you there.

At first I was offended by the lack of assistance. For instance, in a clothing store, I couldn’t believe that no one welcomes me and offers to help me find something. Now, I’m thrilled not to have some peppy teenager in my face the second I walk in the door yelling, “Welcome to Store X! Can I help you with anything?” loud enough for her manager to hear that she is actually doing her job. I always want to respond with, “I don’t know if you can help me. I just walked in the door”.

It has taken me time to learn to appreciate the attitude. I used to think their pride was insulting but now I admire it. Their pride is different than any other I’ve encountered. It is not like the American underlining slogan of “We are proud that we are better than you”. It seems more that Spaniards are not trying to be better than anyone else. They are just so proud of their country. This pride is evident on the street, through the enthusiasm at sporting events, in the passion that leads to political protests and demonstrations. The culture has such a contagious fire to it that makes visitors feel like they are a part of it…even if it takes some time to do so.

One of the most impressive aspects of cultural pride I’ve seen has been, believe it or not, on the Metro. Now, I’m sure the streets in my neighborhood in Chicago have their names for some reason or another too. But I don’t know why. All I know is that Pulaski Street was named after Casimir Pulaski and the only reason I know that is because in grammar school, we got a day off of school in his honor. Still, I couldn´t tell you for what he is honored.

In Madrid, the Metro stops, and streets too, are named after influential writers, painters and religious figures. But the difference is that the explanations of their names are provided so as to educate those on the street. What impresses me most are, inside the Metro, the biographies of those who the stop is named after and examples of their work. For example, every day while simply waiting for the Metro, I read about the great painters Velazquez and Goya and admire their work while en route. It is impressive that not only do Spaniards recognize their history, but they incorporate it into their modern everyday life. How beneficial for the children of Madrid to be surrounded by such rich history and be reminded to embrace the pride of the Spanish culture.

Moreover, while on the Metro, riders are surrounded still, by a spread of culture that is generally glanced over. Most recently, I’ve read La Canción del Pirata, by José de Espronceda, and Kafka y la muñeca viajera, by Jordi Sierra i Fabra, while commuting to and from work. If unfamiliar with these works, they are classically famous Spanish poetry, posted around the underground subway. Most people hardly notice the posted culture on the walls of the Metro, but such important works of Spanish literature are clearly appreciated enough to be published around the city and should be recognized. For non-Spaniards, we shouldn’t be turned off by the Spanish pride but take is as an opportunity to take in some classic Spanish culture. All it takes is a look around the Metro.    

by Kika Patrick

Sitting in the oficina of European Vibe magazine, a man pressed the buzzer of the door. Popping my head up inquisitively, I noted the man was a little too scruffy to be a colleague, a little too old to be a friend.

There was nothing about his imidiate appearance that gave me answers as to who he was. Looking towards the others that were working that day, they also looked troubled as to who he could be and what he wanted. The stranger, walking straight passed those who were perhaps waiting for an introduction, asked in Spanish, to someone busying himself at a computer, if he could have some money. With a flash of an answer (no tengo I presumed, no transaction took place) he was away. To where – who knows but those left in the office were in shock of this strange procedure of gallently walking into a place of work and begging.

The guy in the office he asked is always here and told us that he does this often. Begging is a familiar sight in Madrid. Perhaps you’ve seen them outside Metro entrances, wailing in a slightly miserable and monotonous tone, “Por favor señor/señora“. Perhaps they are blind, or strangely limbed. Most reactions are for passers by to do exactly that and get on with their day. Do not confuse these beggars with those jolly people you see on the Metro and in the stations themselves entertaining us with their musical talents. Unless it’s that one guy who goes around with a battered fiddle and subjects passengers to some scraping sound that bearly resembles a tune. But on the whole these people are artists and asking for a contribution to their work, not hand-outs.

Moving on from Metro trains to the Cercanías. I noticed, whilst getting sent here, there and everywhere as an EFL Teacher, that begging has taken on an observedly 21st Century feel. Many times, when quietly reading a book, my knees were lightly touched by a neatly produced slip of paper. These computer printed mini leaflets would be explaining the predicament of the person who was moving down carriages, handing them out. The first time this happened to me I thought how awful it was – more littering, more paper wasted that no one wants. One of my biggest pet hates in our world are those people (actually employed by some organisation) who hand out flyers to strangers promoting something or other. How many times I have to walk through the arms of these people, walk over dropped and wasted pieces of paper on the pavement and see those who are idle enough to take them and promptly throw them in the bin. It’s criminal. So imagine how pleased I was to find the man on the Cercanias come back 5 minutes later and collect all his slips, to be recycled and inform more passengers of his plight.

I am against begging. I don’t believe in giving money out of pity for someone’s situation. I find it insulting to all of human race to do so. However, I do believe in charity and giving to those who make an effort to work themselves out of a situation. Re-surfacing onto the streets of Madrid you may have noticed lads on the street, perhaps outside supermarkets or conveniently placed on busy corners, holding a wad of newspapers in one hand and attempting to greet every pedestrian in order to sell it.

La Farola is the publications name. This I found out after several months of walking past the same guy who constantly said ‘Hola’ to me, I decided to stop and ask about what he was selling. Call it pester power, call it curious by nature but I was glad of his explanation. He told me in English (for he was keen to practice and Spanish was also not his first language) that it was a newspaper sold by the homeless and cost 2€. He was from Nigeria and living here temporarlily. On hearing I was from London he immidiately piped up and told me how he hated this country and wanted to move there as soon as possible. From this I thought Spain was a convenient stepping stone to bigger and better plans. No warnings of how expensive London was to live in could disuade him from wanting to live there (so the complete oppostite to every person who is currently living there or has done so in the past).

I decided to buy one and have a gander with my limeted Spanish as to what was inside. Those of you familiar with the U.K will know of a similar magazine called The Big Issue. This was set up by Gordon Roddick, partner of the late Anita Roddick who together created the Body Shop. Their aim was to give the homeless of London an opportunity to work themselves out of poverty. Now running with the slogan ‘the change is in your pocket’, Big Issue is found in most British cities providing the homeless that without it would be begging on the streets, with a legitimate income. The magazine has articles from many different contributors including those who have slept rough focusing on social issues of today and how we can change the world we live in through activity.

I thought that La Farola might have the same focus and indeed the issue I picked up had many articles on the state of environment, eucation and culture. So the next time you pass a guy holding a paper in his hand, be sure to enquire after it. I asked my Nigerian friend if he had to have identification to sell and he offered to show me his. This is so you know you’re buying from a credible vendor and not someone who nicked it. Unfortunately, I feel the spirt of this enterprise might be a little lost on the Spanish folk. Some who come out of the supermarket where I bought mine, and approach the guy just give him some money and don’t bother taking the paper. Indeed when I paid him, I had to prompt him to give it to me. I shall trawl my way through it, trying to understand the articles in depth on the metro whilst hopefully avoiding that annoying Violinist.

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.