So even crazier than the extreme heat of a totally abandoned mid-siesta Madrid, is the sudden 20 degree (centigrade, suh European) drop that necessitates evasive sweater action. Luckily, with a handy little brother in town, all I had to do was throw on his oversized sweater and I was ready to get into all those clubs that seek semi-homeless looking tangle-haired American travel writers. It’s a thing (I hope).
First stop: a 2-hip-4-u bar, as the kids would say (identity of said kids unknown). Billed as Madrid’s “first urban resort,” Gymage has a line out the door on weekends, so I decided to try it on a Thursday night. It’s located on top of a gym, I assume so you can feel mildly physically inferior as you ascend through levels of Madrid’s most beautiful and then feel extremely physically inferior as you sit among them. Just to throw in some history (because bitches love history), the terrace sits right alongside the church of San Martin de Tours, a mid-18th century building with a notably baroque exterior (Notably Baroque – the hottest new a cappella group). So as I sat on blindingly white furniture wondering when I was last this close to a gym, I also got to observe a possibly sacrilegious but pretty gorgeous view. The anticipation of the church bell ringing from 5 feet away kept me on my toes.
I asked for my usual, the waiter was like “Qué?” and I was like oh right I’ve never been here. So instead he kindly offered the “Gymage Surprise”, a made-to-order drink based on each client’s preferences (‘sweet’ and ‘weak’ like my charming disposition). The end result – a magnificent creation comprised of three types of fruit, outrageously green ice, enough alcohol to drug an elephant and about 50% gum drops. Any attempts to find out what was actually in it were rebuffed. Challenge accepted!
Then for the clubs. Let’s check out this one over here, seems chill. Ok, not open yet, come back in an hour no problem. One 2 euro beer and a tapa later (I love this country), I came back to find a veritable army of cartoonishly huge bouncers along with some women wearing heels that could be classified as weaponry. I walked up to a man whose torso could inspire very intimidating poetry and asked about uh maybe getting into that club right there. Less than impressed by the kickass holes in my sweater and yoga pants, he mildly suggested that this club might not be right for me (or maybe suggested that I buy a pet turtle? Spanish is hard). And so we concluded my night of being the coolest kid in Madrid, happily sipping a 1 euro cup of wine (have I mentioned I love this country?) at a bar with an appropriate number of jeans-wearing, pierced people. The gangsta life chose me.