Madrid is explosive right now. You see people running, the street smokes and glitters, and then BANG. The first thousand times I jumped out of my skin: now I’m skinless.
Christmas, New Years Eve, and the Day of the Magi are several weeks of celebration without break. The santa hats and nativitiy scenes don’t go down until January 6th. Santa hats, hardly… every kid has whined there way into a troll or rainbow princess wig, a monster mask, a hat trailing fake dreads. At night the adults get into them, too; whole parties floating fake afros over their chic spanish jacketry.
I was talking about the explosions, though. The morning before Mama and Rosie left the ETA ended their ceasefire with a carbomb in the Madrid airport. Flights were suspended: until late last night we had no reason to believe they’d get back as scheduled. Luckily, their flight was for whatever reason NOT from the international terminal, and we all had the pleasure of waking up before eight to make the original flight time. I met a soulmate on the metro and the airport coffee vendor (like all of Spain) fell in love with Rosie. Coffee was spilled, flights were figured out, we all hugged and I wept. I’m home and have declared myself delicate and assigned myself bedrest before La Noche Vieja comes demanding celebration.
I’ve a thousand photos to share from their visit, from our trip to Barcelona and our tripping about Madrid. I'll put 'em all on shutterfly soon, I promise. Not pictured: Rosie in Germany, Rosie ordering orange juice with every meal; Mama and I in the Prado, Mama and I in the Parque de Buen Retiro watching a man run down a path yelling “Feliz ….dos….mil….sieteeeeee!!” for a camera about a thousand times, Mama and I dragging Rosie through museums; Rosie dragging us through stores; Mama waking up earlier than Rose and I and wandering alone every morning; all three of us eating falafel at Maoz (pronounced “mouth” in the castillian accent) many too many times; Mama and I getting stuck overnight in snowy Segovia.
Now come 2007, Ariana, a trip to Brussels and Amsterdam, more apartment hunting, possibly Dara with her goth band, and deadlines for four papers I haven’t touched. Felíz dos mil sieteeeeeeeeee, loved ones.