Thirty-Two

Easy step by step guide to being robbed in Madrid:

Step 1: Allow oneself to be distracted by charming Irishmen

Step 2: Place bag on floor for 2 minutes

Step 3: Congratulations! You have been robbed of your important documents, keys and access to money. Now go to the bar and collect your free drink/s.

In fairness I have been very lucky in my travels and have never been pickpocketed or mugged, much to the astonishment of locals when I tell them I have gone into a favela by myself/wandered into the wrong side of Buenos Aires/generally gone outside alone. I am blessed with the natural appearance of being someone who frankly, is not worth robbing. I have wondered if pickpockets just feel sorry for me and steer clear, or assume I have already been mugged judging from my terrible wardrobe and dazed appearance. Whatever my tactic was, it was working up until last Saturday when I put my bag on the floor of a hostel bar and listened to Irish anecdotes brimming with craic. Two crooks snuck into the bar (we are awaiting CCTV to know if they were carrying bags labelled SWAG) and scooped up my new handbag, complete with passport, cards, keys and FAVOURITE FLIPPING LIPSTICK. Have they no shame?!

Bad luck indeed, but on the other side of the coin, my fortunes were reversed by the global friend team kicking into action and rescuing me from woe. One person booked a hotel for me, another went to order me pizza online while another gave me Consulate advice, as well as the kindness of a friend’s mum who provided cash flow. Most importantly, the hostel gave me free bar. I forget what happened after that.

I was initially unperturbed by the crisis, having faced this much worse in my job over the last year. It was certainly not the last call to the Embassy I’ll ever make, nor the last emergency frozen yoghurt I’ll buy. However no woman is made of stone and, inevitably, I cracked. The crack just came with unfortunate timing.

I didn’t crack when they took the passport. I didn’t crack when the policeman suggested it was my fault for looking at the Irishmen and not my bag. I was a cool calm lake when the Embassy worker told me that I hadn’t needed to take the day off work to go there after all; the passport application is online. My waters were calm when the British Embassy wifi went down. As tranquil as a Jedi frappucino when the Embassy printer malfunctioned and the kind gentleman couldn’t help me as he was trapped in a glass cage of Embassy security. It didn’t faze me even when the cup of coffee he offered me in recompense was made with fake milk Omega 3 enriched milk. Not even when the photographer taking my very specifically sized passport photo told me to smile repeatedly and wouldn’t take the photo unless you’re smiling young lady! Show me that pretty face!

Unfortunately, I cracked when the woman serving my frozen yoghurt offered me the wifi code.

I’m not sure that woman has ever had anyone begin to cry hysterically in front of her when faced with the wifi code to use with all electronic wifi enabled devices, with compliments of Llallao yoghurt company. Understandably she wasn’t sure quite what to do, and nervously added more dulce de leche to my froyo as I thanked her between gasping, choking sobs.

I took my hysteria outside and quietly mourned my lost iPhone between gulps of sticky fat free goodness. Things get a bit blurry when I cry, and puffy, and red, and generally horrendous. I found myself regressing to a toddler, covered in frozen yoghurt, toffee sauce and trying desperately to peel off the serviettes that kept flying out of my hands in the wind and sticking to my hair, clothes, coat and so on, conveniently covered in toffee as they were.

Again, silver linings here. The kind older man who stopped to ask me if I was alright just proved that you can make friends anywhere, even in a crisis. “It’s just…..you’re crying…..and you’re covered in yoghurt, I mean really covered…..are you alright? Do you need help?”

No, thank you sir, leave me to drown in my puddle of yoghurt and woe. I’ll be fine.

The iconic Tio Pepe sign on Plaza del Sol. Tio Pepe is a brand of beer and therefore loved by default across Spain. It stood on the opposite side of the square until Apple bought the building and decided they didn’t want Tio Pepe anymore. Soz Tio Pepe, time to move.

Fine I was and in between the drama of losing my best passport picture I still managed to have fun in Madrid, one of my favourite cities. You could see the Spanish capital as a small collection of tiny villages, each stamped with their own identity. This could be said for many places but I doubt in any of them are the little villages so tightly packed and overlapping as in Madrid. One minute you’re in the Broadway style glamour of Gran Vía, the next you’ve taken a turn and found yourself in Malasaña, the former red light district now undergoing major hipster gentrification. I was staying in one of my favourite areas, on the border of classy Plaza Santa Ana and grungey Lavapiés, apparently the next “in” place. Naturally I wasn’t allowed in.

I managed to fit in some decent exploring and tried out the famous Populart, one of the best jazz bars in Madrid. Every night at 10.30pm a live jazz band strikes up the beat on Calle Huertas, and best of all, it’s free entry. I really enjoyed this little corner as it reminded me of Paris, but in a better way, a way that didn’t cost €30.

Another snippet of the Madrid music scene came in the form of Méson de la Guitarra, a little basement bar near the Mercado San Miguel that I discovered with an Australian sidekick last year. Along this street are several mesones, all with a different theme and a really quaint charm. At Meson de la Guitarra, the bar barely fits 20 people but is always crammed with at least 50, enjoying the cheap drinks, cosy atmosphere and best of all the live guitarists, who play folkloric Spanish songs which, naturally, everyone sings along to. I tend to sip sangria and shout OLÉ! every now and again to fit in.

Madrid’s cathedral, facing the Palacio Real. I had a glass of white wine at lunch in nearby La Latina, and had to have a nap immediately afterwards in front of the Palace. Thankfully no one robbed me while I napped. They waited until I was awake instead.

The secret to Madrid is knowing that it’s not really a capital city of the ilk of London or Paris, who are world capitals and rest easy on their enormous laurels. Madrid is a chilled out counterpart, happy to shrug his shoulders when faced with comparison because hey, we’ve got huge clubs, we’ve got mesones, we’ve got tapas. What more could you want?

Well, ideally a pickpocket cull, but besides that, Madrid is doing just fine.

This week is another busy one, with salsa classes and film nights taking up the work front and a visit from one of my best pals this weekend to the Big Lights of Salamanca. Have a great week everyone!

Thirty-One

Everybody loves a polygamist. That’s kind of the whole point.

So when our friendly Moroccan guide announced on the coach that he has three wives (as is perfectly acceptable in local custom) and is looking for a fourth, preferably English speaking, I took a deep breath and took the first step into what looked like a journey of serious cultural adjustment.

They say it’s impossible to build Rome in a day, but no one said anything about seeing the entirety of Northern Morocco in two. I have never been to Morocco, or indeed Africa, so had no idea what to expect, but suspected I would find out as we humped our way through camel rides, markets, haggling, pharmacies, restaurants and hotels in Chefchaoen, Tangiers and Tetouan, each a glittering jewel for each of Michael Douglas’ wives. OH. By the way, our guide is called Michael Douglas. He didn’t say if one wife is called Catherine.

First up was Chefchaoen, a blue nugget nestled in the mountains about 90 minutes drive from our base in Tetouan. The town went unnoticed for many years but has since firmly established itself on the tourist trail thanks to its unique habit of painting every building a beautiful shade of sky blue. We had a guide named Abdel to show us around; a frankly hilarious man about 5ft tall who we all concluded was the Moroccan Yoda. Shuffling along in yellow leather slippers, an enormous jilaba and a small pink fez, Yoda screeched through two teeth and a healthy fistful of “snuff” that his town and birthplace was blue to prevent mosquitoes, an idea that had grown to characterise this gorgeous village.

Abdel looked familiar to me. And this was strange, seeing as I have never been to Morocco, or met a Moroccan two-toothed fez wearing leather slipper shuffling pensioner before. But sure enough, the man felt like a very old friend. I expressed this to him and before I could say IT’S DEFINITELY NOT TO DO WITH THAT, ABDEL, my new pal was rolling up his floor length tunic to shove his snuff covered hand into his crotch.

“Perhaps you’ve seen my Facebook page?”, he asked, having just produced a brand new iPad from his trousers to show me his Facebook friend, Barack Obama.

Mystery solved. No, our common friend is not Obama, but the 30 students I waved off to Morocco last Spring with another tour company, and in whose photos I had spotted a small pink fez and lack of teeth.

Morocco’s Yoda, folks

Newly reassured that the world was and is as small as ever, I began to get into my Moroccan stride. Now, getting into my stride normally involves a large glass of Rioja – a no no in Morocco where a woman drinking is equivalent to a woman in fishnets on a street corner (so they say). Instead my new vice is Moroccan mint tea, the nectar of the non-alcoholic gods. I’d been really looking forward to trying Moroccan food and drink and it didn’t disappoint. Over the weekend I was stuffed with cous cous, chicken, tea and glorious goat’s cheese.

I have now decided that the only acceptable way to enjoy goat’s cheese is served in a 1kg portion on a large leaf, in the middle of a medina. This was how I got my (first) portion on Saturday as we toured Tetouan’s gargantuan (garganTetouan??) market, now a UNESCO World Heritage site, our second stop on the tour. The medina is walled and with its one entrance and seven exits, it’s easy to get lost in what to me seemed like a small, self sufficient city. People live, work, sleep, eat, meet and worship in the medina. We were introduced to the stunning mosque, the oven, the fountain and the school, all of which come together as defining pillars of any medina worth its salt. One of my favourite parts was the tannery, not so much for the stench of rotting flesh, blood and lye covered skin, but for the delightful products that emerge on the other side.

Tanning leather in Tetouan medina

Not since Ron Swanson redecorated his living room has there been so much leather in one place. In this store I was overwhelmed by the bags, shoes, books, and so many other leather products that you would never have expected to find made from cow/camel skin.

Unfortunately I had a terrible accident and left half of my salary in that one Moroccan medina. If anyone ever sees my life savings, please tell me and my new mustard camel skin handbag.

It was unfortunate timing that straight from buying their compatriot’s hides to hold our lipsticks, we then went straight to Tangiers for a camel ride.

I had been prepared for this by a colleague, who warned me that it was not so much the 5* Mercedes Benz experience as being plonked on a camel in a car park, led lumpily around for 2 minutes while the owner screams “OH MY GOOOOOOD, CAMELZZZZZ, AFRICAAAAAAAA” to garner excitement. It was all of this and more; in an attempt to get a selfie I sat in camel piss. It’s the price you pay. However the timing was incredible as we got to ride our camels backlit by one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen.

From there we ventured into Tangiers, which had a much more bustling and animated vibe than what I had seen of the sleepy Tetouan medina ­– though that could be due to going at night, when most of Morocco comes out to play. The medina this time felt like going into the belly of the beast and much more electric. We ran through alleys and turned down backstreets, frantically chasing Michael Douglas as he led my boys to the ultimate goal; a good fake Rolex store.

Armed with our souvenirs, both traditional leather and knock-off luxury, we boarded the bus the next day for the gruelling 12 hour bus ride. As we left, Michael had the final surprise. He didn’t really have three wives, just the one, and, shockingly, his real name is not Michael Douglas.

I can’t say I would rush back to Morocco, and cannot put my finger on why. Everyone I met was lovely, the traditions fascinating and the mood buoyant but for some reason I didn’t click with it. It was a beautiful place, but inevitably as a  group you have a different introduction to a city than if you were alone, and I’m not sure I could solo travel in Morocco without some serious research and without working on my palm-greasing skills – hideously, trying to tip Abdel I ended up dropping 100 dirhams onto his leather slippers, like some sort of mini Moroccan Yoda foot stripper. So I’ll work on that.

It’s telling that my mood totally lifted once we did a pit stop in Seville, my old stomping ground from last year. Seville was home to some very rough times for me but it somehow felt like coming full circle. After a really ball-aching time in Seville, this time I came back smiling, covered in camel pee and leather goods, rocking fake Ray Bans and beaming. Maybe this time next year I will return to Morocco and reconnect with it as I did its Spanish neighbour. Without the camel pee.

Now I’m back in Salamanca and fully launched into the rest of the time I have left here, all 9 weeks of it. This weekend I’m headed to Madrid for a much needed wine R&R session and will do some exploring of one of my favourite wine bars cities. Until then, shokran for reading!