Marathon Sunday

This morning I awoke not to a cacophony of car horns, or the incessant buzz of a jackhammer, or people shouting (errr, talking) to each other in the street, but to the Chariots of Fire instrumental theme looped over and over. It took my sleep-addled brain several minutes to remember why, and then I quickly put on my glasses and joined my roommates on the balcony to watch the runners in the 31st Maratón de Madrid make their way down our street. The runners streamed by, buoyed by the downhill stretch and the still cool morning. They chatted, ate bananas, or stopped to use the facilities (or should I say walls) of the alley below our flat. And then I went back to bed, lulled to sleep by Chariots of Fire.

If you pass a kiosco…

And pick up this month’s (May, that is) Condé Nast Traveler (España), you will find something I’ve written at the very end of the issue. It’s a page about parks and plazas in Madrid, which is part of the issue’s Madrid guide. I would put it online, but ‘fraid this is only available at your local newsstand (and in español!).

Almanzor, take two

This year we decided to go back for Almanzor, mountain a few friends and I attempted to climb a year ago. A snowy April in the Circo de Gredos, home to Almanzor, the Laguna Grande, and other beautiful rocky pinnacles, remains one of my favorite spots to be in all of Spain. And, I repeat, it’s just over two hours from Madrid.

Anyway, this year we were quite a large group of friends of friends and ex-lovers and so on: thirteen in all who walked up to the refugio Saturday afternoon. Fewer departed for the big peak early Sunday — in more snow and less water than last year — and in all we were seven who reached the narrow Portilla del Crampón, and stood there for a while in the whipping wind and rapidly increasing fog, surveying the ice-covered rock and not finding the anchor for the rope we wanted to mount. Below, on the other side of this frighteningly narrow “pass of the crampon,” the canales oscuras (dark channels) yawned their gaping mouths. With the deteriorating weather conditions, the nasty-looking ice, and pocas ganas to spend a while mounting the whole set-up to make sure we didn’t fall down into said depths, we decided to head down the very snowy ladder we had climbed.

To be honest, I was still on a high from having overcome last year’s fear and actually making it to the pass. The view (on both sides) was enough to leave you breathless, and looking down at what we’d come up, I wasn’t sure how we had done it, or how we would descend it. But we did. I don’t know if we’ll ever make the spring snow ascent of Almanzor, but I wouldn’t be opposed to keep trying.

The bane of my existence

Yes, we’re talking about that white box you see on your left. I first encountered it in Chile, when I was studying abroad and living with a slightly eccentric Chilean family. If I didn’t remind them to turn on the calefont, I would have an ice cold shower. Or sometimes I would be surprised out of a mid-shower reverie by a blast of frigid water due to someone turning the apparatus off. [Yes, yes, I know millions of people all over the world survive without hot running water. But I had come from the U.S., where the water in my shower always ran hot if you waited long enough.]

So I wasn’t exactly surprised to find a calefont in my new home in Madrid. I was quickly corrected by my Spanish roommates that it was not a calefont but rather a calentador (heater). OK, whatever. The White Box That Heats Water made it known in a few short days that it was a royal pain in the culo, that the gas would turn off when it wanted to, and then it was all but impossible to turn it back on again. We finally devised a system whereby we’d take turns holding the pilot until enough gas was in the chamber (generally upwards of five minutes of pushing your thumb into a button) and the flame would stay lit.

But the problem persisted, the Box turned off and lighting the damn thing didn’t get any easier. We finally called servicio técnico, who sent a repair guy who proclaimed the Box very dirty and said we should do a better job of maintenance. Said repair guy (reported my German roommate Inga) was muy muy guapo. This was December 2005.

Fast forward to April 2008. In the more than two year interim, the guapo repair guy had returned at least once, the Box continued to turn itself off when it pleased, but the re-lighting process had become considerably shorter and easier. But in April of this year of economic crises, strange weather, and an incredibly drawn out primary season, the Box turned itself off, and none of the six residents in my flat could turn it on. We called servicio técnico, they would send someone that day (urgente) for 120 euros, or sometime in the next one to three days for 60.

I had already begun bathing myself in the old-fashioned style, that is heating water and pouring it over my head. (I had done this once before in early 2006 when I returned from Christmas holidays, the Box was turned off, and I, alone in the house, had no idea how to turn it on again, and desperately needed a pre-party shower.) It’s a slow system, but it works. Lucky for us, the guapo returned the following day (I again missed his lovely visage due to occupational obligations), fixed something, said the Box had been leaking, and we had a glorious 24 hours of hot showers before it turned off again Saturday afternoon and refused to turn on again.

And then water started to drip from the Box. A lot. We filled Tupperwares every few hours. So this week the guapo returned, inspected the Box in a rare moment it was not leaking at all, promptly lit the thing, and probably walked off muttering about what a bunch of nincompoops we were. My roommate who attended him was surely too embarrassed to insist that, no, it really had been leaking.

Well, I’ve got news for you, Sr. Guapo who I’ve never seen: the Box is still dripping several days later after you marched in and said it was fine. It started promptly after you left and hasn’t stopped. We still have our precious hot water, but I fear that at any moment it could turn itself off and be very ornery when we attempt to turn it on again.

And this is one thing that makes me miss home.