Do not fear Tripper, for one Deputy did not forget to compartamentalize our insatiable desire to be rowdy in an 8" computer screen. Luckily, Tripper was able to escape the island of North America and trip over the Atlantic into Madrid for a weekend, but the Deputy was too caught up in World Cup fever to be able to properly document the transgressions.
I run out of the office on Friday afternoon, overwhelmed with the fear of missing out, for Tripper is in Madrid and it is only a boss's glare that keeps me from seeing him. I make it home and, within an hour, I get a buzz at my front door. It almost buzzed, "bzzz...I am Tripper...bzzz" or maybe that's just what I heard. He and his guuurrrrlllfriend make it up my five flights of stairs without an elevator and into my apartment. We have an air conditioning worshipping session and then head out to see my fifth bullfight of the "season". I am excited to just sit with sunflower seeds and a bag of candy while I watch the preparation of half of Madrid's dinner. In an effort to avoid boring the fans, I will say that it was amazing as always with the added bonus of seeing a torrero carried out in the hands of eight of his friends while bleeding from the head and unable to keep his head afloat and numerous head turnings in disgust at the blood lost and the reality of the situation revealed. (What an awful sentence, but the Deputy hates abbreviating unless it is in Greta's living room).
We make it back in time for a great tapas pick-and-choose in my favorite plaza, Plaza Santa Ana. A little bit of everything Spanish and some Sangria is enough to entice any foreigner to stay another day. After filling our stomachs with anything but bull meat (because we are classy as such), we approach Hotel Me at the end of the plaza. Some may know this chain of hotels but the one in Madrid is breathtaking. An amazing façade (see a Spanish keyboard can do that çñºªà and that too) and an uplighting of purple, the hotel boasts the best view of the city. I heard the plan is to pretend that you are a patron of the hotel and just mosey your way upstairs, but the problem comes with the fact you need a keycard to go up. So we come in, Ray-Bans blazing and Rainbows flopping, and make our way to the back. Casually, we file into some forming line and easy as pie make it inside the elevator. A "fellow patron" swipes his card and I, in my best English say, "oh...ahem...top floor please...terrace". The door opens and David Guetta walks into my ears. We make it to the terrace and it is the BEST VIEW OF THE CITY. With a 180º view of what Madrid has to offer, I sat back and basked in the sea of Good Hosting. What a great experience.
That night we head to Pacha, a chain of clubs that never ceases to please. Deputy heads to the abode of Tripper and GF in order for a pre-fiesta. We head out at an un-motherly-approving hour. Heading inside to further gloat my host-itude, I walk in as if showing my grandchild off to my friends at the retirement home. "Look at her, she's a beauty." We have a dance or two and I decide to make things interesting. I am a fan of putting my head down and dipping it in false ignorance and seeing where it can take me, sometimes letting yourself lead itself without ensuing doubt of consequences can lead to amazing things. I walk up to the stage where there are big, overstuffed couches and other luxurious arrangements. I walk behind a group of girls past a bouncer as each girl raises their right wrist robotically in order to be adorned with some band of sorts. I follow, Tripper and GF in tow, and I mimic the disposition of the girls. Right wrist raised with an air of annoyance at the formalities of having to prove my invitation to the stage party. The three of us receive wristbands and, BAM, we're in folks. We get a personal second floor to view the rest of the peasants on the dance floor that have to, it pains me to say, be, ugh, cramped at a club. We sit on the couches as one would do in the house of a legend, touch everything just to say you touched it. The night ended righteously with chocolate, churros and fun.
Saturday I met Charlotte at the airport, brought her back to my place to "drop off her bags". Just kidding readers, the Deputy and Charlotte are only the best of friends, she did actually come to just drop off her bags. Keeping you on your toes, making sure you are attentively reading. I go to the grocery store to further the Spanish experience, ham and cheese in Retiro park. I pack a blanket, a baguette and some essentials and meet Tripper and GF at the museum, Reina Sofía. We head in to the park and decompress, the best. There is nothing better than a park decompression, no sound, no stress, no expectation of grandeur. You just sit, and relax, and that is your expectation. When we fill ourselves with such expectations, false ones of seeing the best and brightest, we are set up to fail. Not to say that we should not set our sights high, but in terms of our day to day desires and wants and feels, is it so hard to be content with park relaxation? So many Americans these days will complain at the thought of stagnation, I must bring the virtue of standing still back to the States.
Then Kapital, see posts below in order to grasp the absurdity. Charlotte was not let in because she was stumbling, but the hilarious part is that she decided to wear heels for the third time in her life and literally could not walk straight, didn't have a hint of alcohol. Oh clubs, how I HATE YOU SO.