Monday, October 12, 2015-Down to Madrid on Spain's National Holiday

Obeying Patricia, our San Sebastián Airbnb concierge, we stocked up on food Saturday as she insisted that nothing would be open today (Monday). Today reveals her claims to be completely specious. The fair continues. Perhaps Patricia believes that patriotism reigns supreme, but it doesn’t. For good or ill, money to be made harvesting the tourist trade overrules the symbolism of Spain’s National Holiday.

We gleefully note that many holiday visitors have already left Sunday to return to work tomorrow (Tuesday). “Yeah,” we think, “fewer people on the trains.”

After packing our remaining still-wet clothing (mostly jeans), we embark upon a two-hour whirlwind tour of the city.

We begin with the fair, enjoying the multi-hued booths open for business. Bear pushes Bird and me through the quiet streets before anyone else arrives. I see nothing I wish to purchase but enjoy looking. (Window licking, the French call it, but we have no windows. Don’t go there!) But if this really were the Middle Ages and I had one chance to shop all year, my attitude would alter and the merchandise would become much more appealing. I might be forced to buy one of everything! Oh no, no credit cards, cancel that fantasy.

Keith buys some doughnuts, freshly made. One bite of the anise flavored cake donut entrances him, my happy Bear. Delirious, he propels me down the streets out to the waterfront to look at the ocean. We see people attempting to sunbathe on the beach despite the cool weather. We find the aquarium, also not closed. We wander back in front of our house and get some coffee, tea and bad tapas at an open restaurant.

Back upstairs, Bear calls me to our balconies repeatedly to watch the fair unfold right below our flat. I catch sight of the medieval costumed people sauntering down the street playing antique instruments. I miss the more exciting acrobats, including the woman walking on a ball while jumping rope, preceded by a juggler, and followed by a man pulling a cart collecting donations.

I anxiously await a text from Bloodroot. As a mother, I find it impossible not to worry as my one and only massively beloved son flies in to Madrid from South America (Santiago, Chile). Seeking contact, I open my phone over and over again. I try to be discreet and unobtrusive as Bear will laugh at my worry. I fail; Bear teases me mercilessly.

Shortly thereafter, the landlady from our Madrid Airbnb calls asking for Bloodroot. Since Bloodroot will buy a phone when he lands, he currently has no phone number, and I can’t help her. She will look at his flight to see if it’s delayed and wait a while longer.

Meanwhile our taxi arrives to take us and all of our junk 500 meters to the train station. We engage in a hilarious quasi-discussion as my elementary Spanish deserts me and he “no habla ingles”.

At the station, we encounter our first (and fortunately only) amazingly nasty RENFE employee. The laziness of this woman defies imagination. All we need the bitch to do is walk ten meters and activate the battery operated ramp lifting me onto the train. She acts like I’m pulling out her eye teeth. We’re amazed as we’ve found the RENFE people bored and incredibly helpful as we give them something to do to relieve the monotony of clock watching. Not this puta. She first informs me, as I sit in Bird, that I can certainly ascend the three steps onto the train. We vehemently disagree, saying “Rampa, rampa” repeatedly. In her next attempt to avoid work, she badgers an English speaker into telling us that we needed to reserve the disability service 24 hours in advance and perhaps only through her goodwill she might condescend to help us. We begin to shout, “We were here Saturday and told to return 20 minutes early! What is the problem?” The English speaker rolls her eyes and tells her miserable co-worker to do her job. Señora Unpleasantness takes my name, ostensibly to call ahead, and with great reluctance loads me and Bird on the train. She refuses to assist with luggage, leaving Keith to trail behind us heavily burdened. Every other RENFE person has taken at least one suitcase in their free hand.

Unfortunately, today we have to manage two trains, the only thing I could find online (back in Denver) from San Sebastián to Madrid. After listening to Patricia, I was concerned that even RENFE would close today. This morning, RENFE’s website listed eight trains to Madrid today, all sold out. More unnecessary worry.

I don’t have too much trouble getting into my seat. The conductor stops by, insisting that we move Bird two train cars away and fold her up. Complying, Keith discovers the unoccupied handicap accessible spot where he feels we should be sitting in the first place. But RENFE will only let you sit in the seat you purchased. At times they can be kind and move us, but not today, as the holiday has left them screaming busy. I have a lot to learn before I book train tickets again.

Three hours later, a ramp meets us as we exit the train at Zaragoza, halfway back to Barcelona Sants. Gracious people move me and our stuff up one platform, through the ascensores, and down to another platform. We await the fast train to Madrid coming out of Barcelona. Sometimes I feel as though every train we take wants to send us back to Barcelona, specifically Barcelona Sants train station.

Personnel hustle us onto this train and abandon us with a chorus of “Baila, baila” (dance, dance). Actually, they say “Vale, vale” (OK? OK?). The fast trains have a very tight schedule, never stopping anywhere for long. We notice our seat numbers are 7A & B, halfway down the train. It’s 8:40 PM; I’m completely exhausted, but I begin to walk down the aisle as Keith holds my arms, keeping me upright. But my left leg will not move forward at all. This causes massive consternation among the other passengers. An incredibly kind woman and her daughter sitting in the last seat by the train car door jump up and trade seats with us. In our travels, we experience many random acts of kindness that earn our eternal gratitude.

Our first train took three hours to get to Zaragoza. This train, a high speed AVE (bird) train, flies along the tracks a longer distance to Madrid in an hour and 20 minutes. At Zaragoza, they’re so busy shoving us on to this train that they don’t really care where we put Bird, so we put her by the door. She’s happy to be near us, often frightened when she feels abandoned, folded up several cars away.

Every long train ride comes with a movie both dubbed and subtitled in Spanish. The conductors hand out ear buds that we never understand. But most people seem to find the buds easy to use. Viewing this film for the third time, we wonder how often RENFE changes films. RENFE began running the film before we boarded, so we only see the last part. The movie, called St. Vincent, stars Bill Murray. I note that Murray looks a good bit worse for wear. Keith says that Murray always looked scruffy.

At long last, Bloodroot calls, telling me that his plane crashed, stranding him in the Azores. Panicked, I momentarily believe him. Where did he learn to be such an inveterate smart-ass? Could this be his upbringing? Naturally, despite my motherly paranoia, his plane landed on time at Barajas, Madrid’s airport. He took a while getting across town in a new city but eventually found our new landlord. After receiving the keys, he settled in for a nice, long nap in our new Airbnb. We arrange to meet at Customer Service for handicapped folks in the Puerta de Atocha train station when our train arrives at 10PM.

When we pull into the train station alas, alack, no ramp greets us. Someone has dropped the ball! I suspect, perhaps unfairly, the nasty creature in San Sebastián.

This is how today begins to feel to us.

We watch in horror as everyone pours off of the train. No ramp arrives. I am stranded, three steps above the platform. In terror, I fear the train will just drive off with me on it. After what seems an eternity, Keith flags down three train conductors who stop and consider my predicament. They chatter in Spanish, reaching some agreement amongst themselves.

The three strong men approach my train car, hoist Bird and me, shouting uno, dos, tres and set me on the platform. The gentleman with the best English begins to push me while dragging one of our suitcases. Keith trails behind with the remaining baggage as we roll up to Customer Service. I learn the high-speed train is actually a German train, very long and strong. The conductor expresses great pride in the train. “It goes 300 kilometers per hour!” He continues in a different vein, “Madrid feels like and is a real city, unlike Barcelona, which is basically a tourist mecca.” He updates me on all the cool things to see in Madrid. I relate our planned Madrid itinerary and he approves.

He has visited the States seeing San Francisco, Las Vegas, and the Grand Canyon. What would those three places teach you of America? San Francisco, expensive yuppies; Las Vegas, addiction and tastelessness; Grand Canyon, beauty. So we’re a beautiful, expensive, addiction-prone people lacking taste. Perhaps correct, no?

The conductor delivers us to Customer Service, still open. In halting Spanish, I explain that we plan to meet our son here. No Bloodroot. The clock passes 10 PM, 10:15, 10:30. We call his phone as he calls us, but Vodafone does not consider our calls important and constantly drops them. We can’t get through. Finally our phone rings. Rejoicing, we hear Bloodroot’s voice. He’s been waiting by the Information desk where all the normal passengers file out as they exit trains. The boy never has listened. Handicapped people roll through secret ascensores to Customer Service. Drama resolved, Bloodroot greets us a few minutes later.

Bloodroot insists we need no taxi. He grabs some luggage and leads us to our little apartment, easily within walking distance.

But the drama of this day never ceases! The apartment elevator, probably once a broom closet, in no way accommodates Bird, though she considers herself a petite wheelchair. Indeed she meets all size requirements in the States where everything is huge. Here, she greatly exceeds elevator width. Bloodroot runs upstairs. Assisted by a nice neighbor, Miguel, he gathers a kitchen chair for my seat that does fit in the elevator. They send the elevator and chair down. The boys sit me in the chair. The elevator lifts us four floors. Success!

We enter our new flat. This flat has a full kitchen, including a dishwasher. We have a double bed on the floor, a kitchen table and a very, very tiny bathroom. I fear I will not be able to access the bathroom by myself. We also have a terrace upstairs, where Bloodroot sleeps. (Photo from a later day.)

Following a vocal animal greeting, Bloodroot tries to tickle Keith but to no avail. Keith squirms, but never giggles. He renames Bloodroot “Ticklehoof” the dancing goat.

We dine on the food we had prepared for the train. Concerned about both the elevator and the bathroom, we give Bloodroot the task of finding somewhere else to stay. He utilizes his computer skills, but fails to discover anything costing less than €250 a night. He finds nothing centrally located. Very late, 1 AM, we turn in for the night.