31/01/19

“Hi! Do you speak English?”

It took a moment before he realised that someone was speaking to him. He had just stepped off the metro and onto the platform of Madrid’s Goya station, his head in the clouds and body still reeling from the night before. People shuffled quickly in and out of the carriages and as they cleared he saw a short, pretty female in her mid-twenties bouncing towards him.

She had dirty blonde hair that came down to her shoulders, and there was a petiteness to her figure that no grandmother would have ever been content to stop feeding. Most striking however were her eyes, an almost turquoise shade of blue that commanded your full attention.

He still hadn’t responded to the question when the girl, assuming his answer, shot out her hand and in a bubbly tone offered her name. It had the kind of sincere warmth that was impossible to disregard, and as he took her hand his look of confusion softened into a smile.

She had been in the same carriage as him and spotted his colourful fabric wristbands; a motley collection from the various music festivals he’d been to over the years which made for a nice, if not particularly hygienic, memento of his experiences. He sometimes found it difficult to let things go.

He was visiting for work and she, having just moved to Madrid the previous day, decided to be daring and try and make a new friend. Who better to start with than someone that shares your passion for music? They spoke for a while about live performances and then he realised that he was running late, it was Sunday afternoon and he was due to meet some friends to go see a basketball game.

“Do you want to come? We have a spare ticket”, having lived there before he knew what it was like to be new and alone, little gestures like that went a long way. Plus, her forwardness fascinated him and he was keen to learn more about her.

Over the course of a basketball game that neither of them were particularly interested in they took turns sharing their life-stories. She was about to embark on a year of teaching English and the accompanying adventure of being a young American ex-pat in one of Europe’s best party towns, while he, having lived through a similar chapter some years prior, now worked for an e-commerce company back in Ireland and was sent over occasionally on business. His strong connections to those who still lived there made this his favourite thing about the job.

When the game finished she exchanged numbers with his old group of friends. He felt satisfied that he had done his part to help a new traveller settle in, but his curiosity was not yet sated. As a veteran of the city he was now determined to show her its best side, and offered to bring her around a few of his favourite haunts. Donning his tourist-guide hat, he accompanied her through Madrid’s Old Town and recounted as much information as he could from a walking tour he had taken several years earlier. Anything he couldn’t fully remember he just made up, she seemed to enjoy it all the same.

They passed historical landmarks and the royal palace, arriving finally at the Temple of Debod – a bona-fide ancient Egyptian temple (albeit a small one) that was dismantled and rebuilt in Madrid in 1968, Egypt’s way of saying thanks to Spain for their help in saving other temples from ruin. It was located in the pride of place of Parque del Oeste, and the crumbling brown blocks overlooked an expanse that is widely considered to be the best place to view the sunset in the whole city. It was not by accident that they arrived there when they did, he had timed their route perfectly.

She was visibly impressed by the sights and the spectacular sunset before them – the sun casting a soft golden glow across everything it could before surrendering to the night. She was also overwhelmed by the ease with which they were able to talk with one another. Now it was her that didn’t want it to end, “I’m sure after all that walking you gotta be thirsty, where’s a good place to get a beer around here?”. Needless to say, he didn’t have to be asked twice.

Madrid has a reputation for having one of the highest densities of bars in the world, and it’s easy to see why. Go the the right area and it will seem that inside every doorway of every street is an establishment with its own offering of good wine and cheap tapas. She was happy to defer to his recommendations and he was determined not to disappoint.

From the temple they walked east until they found themselves in Mālāsana – the heart of Madrid’s nightlife, or groin, depending on who you ask. By day this was a hipster neighbourhood filled with vintage clothes shops and old fashioned record stores, but by night it was taken over by party-goers of all creeds – and its bars, clubs and plazas formed an epicentre of debauchery that could still be found kicking long after most other cities would have turned out the lights.

After feasting on an appropriate amount of Spanish omelette, cured meats and cheese she said that she wanted an ‘authentic’ bar experience, so he took her to a tiny spot called Casa Camacho.  Like many places it felt like this pub had been serving locals since time immemorial. Though there were no seats, it was still packed full of people – all of whom were drinking something Coke-coloured out of a short stubby wine glass.

“This,” he proclaimed as he handed her one, “is a Yayo”. A Yayo is a mini cocktail composed of gin, vermouth and gaseosa (a sweet soda water). “They’re quick to drink and many bars across the city will do their own take on them, certainly at €2.50 they’re great bang for your buck!” he laughed. They each had four.

The night meandered on, and as the drink flowed their connection deepened. Thoughts and feelings that would normally be repressed came with astonishing ease to them both, and they found themselves at an unfamiliar level of honesty. She spoke of her troubled past back stateside and he of his difficulties in re-adjusting to ‘normal’ life since moving home to Ireland.

At one point they realised that all masks, personas and defensive guards had been dropped, and it was just the two of them, as their truest selves, baring their souls to one another. It was liberating, and brought with it a new type of intoxication.

As they walked side by side up the road to her flat an uneasy silence fell between them, the first of its kind to appear all day. There was a shared uncertainty of what might happen next, and apprehension inhibited the free-flowing chat that had underpinned their story until now.

He was busy trying to think of another fun fact or witty remark that might steer them into more familiar waters, when all of a sudden he felt the softest brush imaginable on the back of his hand. Barely a whisper of touch. He couldn’t tell if this was just the cruel consequence of walking too close to one another or was it something more. Something braver.

He mustered up the strength to speak his mind but as he turned to say it already her lips were on his, and suddenly they were embraced, all notions of what should or shouldn’t be done forgotten. Then they were in the temple of her bed, unleashing through their bodies the energy that had been building from the moment they first made eye contact on the metro stop a lifetime ago. They moved as one, and in that indescribable moment of perfect harmony she locked her eyes with his and they stared right into each others souls. It lasted an eternity and it lasted an instant. Neither had ever experienced anything like it.

In the aftermath they both lay there panting for a time, saying nothing, afraid to break the spell. “That… wasn’t sex…” he finally said. “I know…” came her reply. She held onto him like she never wanted to let go, as he stared up at the ceiling and wondered if he would spend the rest of his life chasing that high.

All of a sudden it was bright again, they had outlived the night and talked through the dawn. They still weren’t ready for this shared experience to end however, and in defiance of the reality that it would eventually have to they sought for a way to push it out as long as they could. Just one more adventure before the real world could invade their bubble of happiness and truth.

The suggestion of visiting an Andy Warhol exhibition in a nearby gallery came up and was jumped on without hesitation. Neither had slept, but neither cared. They were drawing energy now from a limitless well that no substance could ever hope to replicate.

They arrived at the exhibition right as it opened, and upon receiving their tickets he remarked on the different artworks that were printed on the back of of them, “It looks like I got the tin of Campbell’s soup. Oh cool you got the funky banana that he did for Lou Reed’s album cover!”. She offered to swap but he insisted that she keep it, as it was the best one to get.

They spent the rest of the afternoon listening to music and drinking sangria in the park, and then when it got dark – home beckoned. But home was two very different things for them, for they led two very different lives, something that no amount of serendipity could change. He had a flight to catch back to Dublin and all that awaited him there and she had to prepare for what would be her only year in Madrid. Resigned to their fates, he walked her to the metro station, their story would end as it began – on the platform.

As he prepared a goodbye in his head, she locked her gaze with his once more and without flinching said “I want to thank you for everything, for you being you and letting me be me. And I want you to know – I love you”, then a pause, “I really do”. She then pressed something into his hand, kissed him one last time and quickly jumped on the metro before it took off.

Speechless, he opened his fist, and saw that it was the ticket from the gallery, complete with Andy and Lou’s banana. His head shot up to try and find her, and was met again with those bright blue eyes – forever piercing through the cloudy metro glass as it accelerated into the subterranean darkness.

He looked down at the exhibition ticket again, time had worn much of the details and the colours were now faded, but the memory shone as brightly as ever. “What’s that Grandad?” came a voice. “Just a perfect day…” he whispered, to no-one in particular.