Heat

When I made chili for my roommates a few years ago in honor of the Super Bowl (we weren’t watching—just eating), most of them couldn’t take more than a few bites without uttering some expletives and putting their spoons down. They loved the corn bread, though.

There’s not a particularly serious culture of spicy food in Spain. I’m not quite sure why Spanish gastronomy shies away from a little heat in food, but it’s worlds away from the U.S.’s Mexican/Thai/horseradish/hot sauce-loving culture. The spice aversion runs so deep here that plenty of ethnic food (from Creole to Indian) has been tamed to please the Spanish spice-shy palate.

This is not to say there aren’t exceptions. Patatas bravas are fried potatoes with a famously spicy tomato sauce, though I think the sauce tends to be more vinegary than anything. Gulas, fake baby eels, are sometimes sautéed with garlic and a sprinkling of chilies. And then there’s La Rioja—where they apparently love spicy things. I discovered this not long ago on a trip to the land of great wines; we ordered a tapa of roasted red peppers and they were hot! A friend recently brought over a can of these Riojan red peppers—amusingly enough called alegrías riojanas (“Riojan happinesses”)—for me to try and they (along with the chili I made the other day) have sated my appetite for heat for the time being.

Snow day

It snowed yesterday evening through the wee hours this morning and, though there can’t be more than 3 inches on the ground, it wreaked havoc on life as we know it in Madrid. Result? Esperanza Aguirre, beloved president of the Comunidad de Madrid, canceled school.

When I went to bed last night and the snow was still falling and sticking I guessed something like this would have to happen. The Monday before winter break was also a snowy mess, but I had a second period substitution and slogged my way into school only to spend the morning entertaining the kids with games and a movie before they sent everyone (well, the few of us there) home. It hadn’t seemed like much snow that time, and was actually quite a slushy mess because it started to rain, but Madrid is completely unprepared for situations like this. I didn’t see a single plow or salt truck that day.

This time I was prepared for Madrid’s utter un-preparedness and, since I normally go in a bit later on Mondays, texted a coworker upon waking up. She said she’d gotten into school without a problem, so, disappointed but carrying on with my routine, I laced up my running shoes and went for a run in relative snowy solitude in the Retiro (gorgeous in white).

By chance I glanced at my email before hopping into the shower and saw a friend had mentioned that school was canceled in much of Madrid. I checked my school email and, indeed, class had been canceled today, though the facility was open to take care of the kids that did make it. I called my direct boss who told me that there were plenty of teachers there and they would all go home at lunch time anyway—no need for me to go in.

So I joined the hordes of camera-armed, hiking boot-clad unusually smiley madrileños and headed to the Retiro.

Bicycling

I have a bike again (with a cojonudo lock). While America was eating turkey last Thursday she and I were giving thanks at the November Bici Crítica (with video coverage!).

Cabrones!

I leave the piso just before 7.30 tonight to cycle to yoga, all suited up with my reflective gear. But wait—bici’s not there, where I left her half an hour earlier locked to a tree two floors below our balcony. What?! My mind reels. Did I forget to scramble the combo? Did I lock her to the post next to the tree? And my gaze lands on a tightly wound coil just below the curb. The lock. It’s cut, cleanly. Must’ve taken all of five seconds.

Autobombo October

A little bit of press for the new neighborhood.

On being handicapped in the big city

Nearly three weeks ago I fell while hiking in my favorite spot in Madrid, La Pedriza. We were busy exploring the far reaches of La Pedriza posterior when I stupidly tripped forward and felt a yank on my left arm as I hit the ground hard. When I brushed myself off, my shoulder was conspicuously lower than it normally is. Six hours later, after an intense thunderstorm and a careful three-hour descent in a makeshift sling, the shoulder had been returned to its rightful place by an ornery emergency room doctor.

And thus, with my left arm completely immobilized in a sling, I began a three-week stint as a persona discapacitada in Madrid. I’ve been commuting to work and more or less living my life as normal, to the extent that a one-armed person can. I have grown used to people staring and, especially, to the majority of people who don’t budge to give me a seat on any of the various modes of public transport I use daily.

There are always exceptions, though. Today, as I was riding on a city bus, one woman was especially solicitous, looking concernedly at me even after I declined the offer of her seat. As I approached the door to leave, she offered to help me off the bus (I had a small suitcase in tow) and, when I demurred, she leaned over and confided that her daughter currently has both arms in casts and she, to put it lightly, knows how it is. I, too, can say I’ll never look at physical incapacities the same way again.

Back

It’s mid-September and life, even in Spain, is resuming its more strenuous post-summer pace. Excuse my absence. It was a nice long summer bookended by a move out and a move in and now, new house, new job, and a dislocated shoulder later, things are still in flux but heading towards a more settled state.

On the kindness of strangers

Last Thursday night around 8 p.m. I navigated my way through crazy Madrid evening traffic towards Cibeles and the monthly gathering of bicycle-minded people called Bici Crítica. On the Castellana just north of Colón, my chain started doing funky things and I pulled onto the sidewalk to investigate. As I’m a rather inexperienced cyclist, I had no real idea of how to remedy the problem and so grabbed the chain and tried to put it in its place. But lo and behold I heard someone shouting instructions to me (in Spanish) from the neighboring lanes of traffic: “Just pedal and the gear will catch!” I turned to see who was advising me; it was none other than a municipal bus driver leaning out the window of his big red bus. I pedaled with my hand and, of course, the gear caught.

The ride, when we got started, was great. K and I commented on how liberating it is to ride on streets overtaken by bicycles. And so silent! Some drivers were pretty aggravated (the taxistas are specialists in this), but there were plenty of well wishers along our two-hour route all the way up Calle Alcalá to García Noblejas, where the Madrid government is building bike lanes on the sidewalk, to the dismay of many pedestrians. Towards the end of the ride I had a brief conversation with two women standing out on their 8th-floor balcony and cheering for us:

Me: Mejor que coches, no? (Better than cars, right?)

Them: Mucho mejor! (Much better!)

And at the end of the night, after a picnic on the other side of town, K and I started to make our way, somewhat uncertainly, back to our barrio. We came across another cyclist at a traffic light at Avenida de América and asked if he knew the best way to go. He asked if we’d been with the Bici Crítica and said that though he’s been riding to work daily for a year, he’s never been able to make the monthly event. And then, though it wasn’t on his way, he led us to a street that would take us basically straight home and avoid the worst of the traffic. In 15 minutes we were home.

Recent observations on the metro

What do you think of changing your baby on the metro? Good idea? The other afternoon I witnessed a young mother changing her rather large baby’s very dirty diaper in a row of three seats on line 10. I boarded the train when the operation was already in progress, but, judging by the splatter, it seemed that it might have been some sort of shit explosion necessitating immediate nappy changing. I felt sort of a mix of revulsion and empathy toward this woman, but I have to say that she was not attending to the matter in a very neat fashion. When she left the train, there was definitely still shit on the seat.

And how about clipping your nails? Great idea! The metro is the perfect place for that. This afternoon I had the privilege of listening to the clip clip clip of a woman’s nail clippers as she took care of some of her personal grooming underground on line 6. What a treat!

Latest autobombo

I hadn’t been doing much writing since the demise of Inside Spain back in March (yes, the crisis has hit very close to home), but I’m happy to report that I’ve started up again. I’m writing about Madrid for the travel site Momondo, which is primarily a flight search engine, but also has a well-reported section of travel articles from cities around the world. My first piece, about Madrid terrazas, is up and there should be more to come soon. Keep up with me here.