After The Party It's The After Party

SO, after a lenghty, but a quite entertaining train ride we were in Madrid. For those of you, who have never been to the central railway station in Madrid, IT'S GARGANTUAN! It looks more like an airport than a train station. I tried to take a picture, but I couldn't fit it in a single shot from any angle, sorry about that. But it has dozens of stores, about a thousand platforms and at least one hotel. So imagine it, please. Now imagine me, looking like a moron with my camera twirling around like a fart in leather pants. But I did find a cool mailbox, so it was totally worth it.



From the station we took a taxi to Martina's house. She's Kataya's curling friend, who lives on the outskirts of Madrid. Now, when I say outskirts I don't mean some cheap suburb. I'm talking about La Moraleja, a restricted community where everyone has huge yards, high fences, pools, the works. (Westmount in MTL, Westend in Finland) Finally we arrive at the house, which is a few hundred meters from the Beckhams', by the way. Kataya had luckily given me a heads-up on where we were going, so I managed to keep my cool. Apparently I attract lairs, because the house was one, too. (Uni of Vigo the previous one)



From the moment the door opened, someone pressed fast forward.

Hiimmartinanicetomeetyou.
Thisismymomhelloimwies.
Kissesoncheeks.
Thisismartinasfriendlauratheyknowfromwaybackencantadomorekisses. Donttalktothedoginababyvoiceitwillgetexcitedandpeeeverywhere. Thisislaurasgrandmotherlauraistryingonadressforherhenpartyshes
gettingmarriedmorekissesoncheeks.
Holaimmartinasfatherpleasehavesomethingtodrinkhowwas
thetrainorwasitbushandshake.
(exhale)



In the first 35 seconds in that house I heard four languages. Martina speaking Dutch to her parents, the grandma speaking English, Martina's parents speaking English AND Spanish to us, and myself asking Katja in Finnish if she possibly knew what the hell was going on. She didn't.

We were shown to our room which was in the north-wing of the casa (could be any direction really, but you get the point), and I had to sit down. After a couple of deep breaths I got rid of my North Carolina Tar Heels cap (not the right crowd, really), put on several extra layers of deodorant, chewed frantically on some gum for 30 seconds and changed my shirt to one that doesn't say:



After this brief time-out (called "Jamo" in Finnish, after a legendary hockey goalie) I was ready to mingle. This is what I found out: Martina's family was originally from Holland (ishn't it veird?), but they had lived for years in the States, before moving to Madrid. Laura was getting married and her Grandma came to visit Martina's parents, whom she had known for a long time, whilst the girls where searching for a suitable outfit. And the wiener-dog called Inka would, in fact, take a wee-wee all over the place if it got too excited. This was interesting, because she already looked like she was trying to jump, and run to 3 different directions at once. In my opinion her getting any more excited would definitely involve some kind of a spontaneous combustion, turnig the wiener-dog into a hotdog wiener. (My God, think of the irony!)

AAANNYWAY, I got the tour of the house and the yard, that were both impressive, to say the least (Kataya had stayed there several times earlier). In time the situation cooled down and we got to, once again, tell our story. (Where do we know each other from, study in Vigo, why, so do you speak Spanish, really, seafood's really good etc.) Soon it was time to start planning the evening. Kataya complained that she was kind of tired from teh train ride, but as The Good Book says in Isaiah, 57 "No rest for the wicked", and boy, has it ever been so true.

11 pm:
We left the house. With Martina as our driver we headed to a local mall to get some dinner.

00.30 am:
We start towards Boss, a local college-type bar. Martina tells us she used to work there, and thus knows the bartender -> cheap drinks. I drink mine as well as the next guy, all the while trying to watch some NBA All-Star Weekend coverage on the wall-mounted flat-screen, and pay attention to the girls' stories. Time passes and we decide to go for seconds, since the drinks at the night clubs are VERY expensive. Unfortunately, either my beard is a dude-magnet or the guy thought I was looking at him, when I was actually looking over his shoulder; but the young man next to me turned to me and proceeded to introduce himself and ask how I was doing on this lovely night. Seeing this, the girls quickly decided to piss in my cereal, so to speak, and went to the bathroom, leaving me to be hit on. Ah. After some awkward conversation and a few polite smiles I turned around and was forced to take a long sip from my 50-50 drink. Luckily we were going to leave soon, so I didn't have time to unintentionally charm any more men.

2.57 am:
We arrived in front of a classy-looking club called Archy (possibly a misspelling of "artsy"). The valet took care of the car and parked it next to the other regular cars. The curb in the immediate proximity of the entrance was decorated with mostly Porsches, with an Audi A6-A8 here and there. The cue was as long as this story, but luckily we had a man inside. Josito, as the girls called him, was a man of 29, that turned out to be a synonym for Madrid's night/morning life. He talked to the bouncers and only I had to pay to get in (I'm not hot enough). The place was packed. The music was crap, but everyone knew the lyrics. Apparently they were some evergreen Spanish pop-rock classics, but they sounded like bad remixes of Nick Kershaw- songs. After we finally found seats a man came over. He offered me a half-full bottle of Bombay Sapphire on ice, with some glasses, tonic and lemon slices. I leaned in and said "WHAT?". He then quickly explained that his party was leaving and I looked like a nice guy that could use a drink. (I almost took a taxi to the nearest 24h barbershop to get a shave, but decided instead to blend back into the crowd and play it cool.) I thanked the man, as he left with his friends, and turned to my party who was staring at me, looking very confused.

4.40 am:
Josito says it's time to move on to the next club, and we start towards a place called Pacha. This one has a slightly upgraded entrance, boasting a silver Maserati and a true old school classic, a pitch black Ferrari Testarossa. We go in, and this time even I don't have to pay. The dance floor is so packed that no-one has any room to actually dance, so people just sort of flow around in a single mass. Drinks here are 10 euros a pop, so I concentrate on observing the surroundings in order to let You, dear reader, grasp some of the atmosphere that I experienced. The music was mostly shit to be honest. I was kind of looking forward to some groovy house or something, since it was supposed to be a really hip club, but no. Crappy techno with a couple of old pop/trance hits. They weren't even so old, that they would have been good in a funny way (so uncool it's cool), they were just...well..poo. Kataya and I ventured upstairs with hopes of finding some other kind of music, which we did. But after two good songs they closed the upstairs, to our disappointment. It was 5.30. We rejoined the others next to the dance floor only to find out that it was time to leave. Finally, I thought. Thank goodness I had foreseen something like this, and just had a few drinks. But instead of going home it was vital, apparently, to go to an after-hours club, that opened at 6. Since I didn't really have a say in anything, I followed reluctantly. I guess the people who were hammered had a good time there, but I wasn't exactly thrilled, being really tired and having paid a 20 to get in. Girls, as the custom is, paid diddly squat. The DJ was obviously a schizophrenic, playing whatever he happened to set his hand on, including a definite highlight "Freestyler" by the Finnish Bombfunk MC's.

8.15 am:
The J-Man blows the whistle. Enough is enough. Evidently most of the people there were there just so that they could tell people that they partied until 9am or 12am or the next Tuesday, or where too drunk to find their way home. I grabbed the nodding Kataya from the wall and told the rest that WE though it might be about time to hit the old dusty road. They concurred, so I didn't have to open a can of whoop-ass. After some maneuvers with the car we were home at around 8.47am. Josito wanted to cook breakfast. I folded.

8.49,23:
I'm asleep.

8.49,25:
My head hits the pillow.

In retrospect, a very interesting night, a lot of new experiences, but a bit forced towards the end. Even Kataya had to confess, that although the free (obviously) booze helped, she had had a lot more fun the previous times in smaller, salsa-type clubs. So next time we'll know better.

Sunday came and went. Since we woke up at around 5pm and everything was closed anyway, we rented a movie (Office Space, a true classic) and ate dangerous amounts of Ben&Jerry ice cream, a rare treat for us "Skandies". Although I bet they have that stuff in Sweden, the bastards.

On Monday we walked around Old Madrid, which was awesome, even if the weather wasn't the best possible. Madrid has, hands down, the coolest main post office that I have ever seen, judge for yourselves.



Also found a hysterical bobble-head angel in a Pope-store (capes, hats and everything). I'm still not over this one.


Later some very controlled shopping and some tapas at a very idyllic restaurant. The evening was capped off by some seriously delicious Mojitos at a small club/bar, together with some salsa and reggaeton. Home at 2am. Much better.

On Tuesday, we enjoyed some frozen ice-strawberry-shake-shiznits, that resulted in serious brain-freeze.



Later we went to check out the Thyssen-Bornemisza art museum. In a nutshell it was: generally very solid, partly a bit boring, but with moments of brilliance. Favourite pieces by Estes, Church, Andrews and Lindner. El Greco was representing the home turf quite nicely as well. Saw Bayern München in front of the Palace Hotel

, and had some melted cheese at a Mexican place. And no, it was not a fondue, just a huge lump of cheese.. Go figure.



Back in Vigo, after a comfortable 45-minute flight, we decided that it might just be worth the extra 12 euros to travel by air as much as possible. However, as You might agree, I think the train ride was definitely a worthy experience. Kataya doesn't concur.

Next time: TOP 4 Nastiest Things