Checked into the hostel. Checked out the hostel receptionist. He knew I was trouble when I walked in. And by trouble I mean, deeply, deeply jet lagged. Was it a Tuesday or a Wednesday? I had no idea, but I was ready to explore the city and blend in completely with the locals, as soon as I stopped updating my snap story.
First stop: let’s get some tapasssss. Oh wait, it’s 4PM and everything’s closed. Okay. No problem. I’ll go take a stroll in the Parque del Retiro, Madrid’s version of Central Park but with 99% more Spanish people and its own freaking crystal palace. Oh wait, totally forgot that I have no idea how to get around this city and the fire of a thousand suns is beating down on my whiter-than-the-driven-snow face. Nevertheless, this fearless writer braves the totally empty Spanish streets to find the unexpectedly full park.
So this park is large. Like, numerous football fields large. Let’s whip out that phone and check for some wifi–oh wait, a small mustachioed Spanish man wants to ask me how I could be staring at my phone on such a beautiful day. And he also wants to tell me about the state of political corruption in the country. And about his wife and children and dog and the best place to get cheap tapas and I assume the next topic of conversation would have been the air-speed velocity of a fully laden swallow, but he realizes that my Spanish could only stretch so far and I am left to my sadly American self charging that phone.
Alright, now what is there to do around here? Wait, oh god, why are there inert bodies scattered throughout the park?! Hmm they actually look pretty comfortable chilling there. I think I’ll just sit down right here and people watch, because that’s a thing (?). Oh, this is some nice grass, pretty cushy. Is Spanish grass somehow superior to American? Do they water it with sangria or something? Oh, there are some small Spanish children! 1 Spanish child, 2 Spanish children, 3…
This is how I learned the true value of a siesta.