Madrid, livin’ la vida loca and nearly killing a man while doing that -Part 2

I am feeling incredibly uncomfortable because we have just picked up the flaming red Toyota Aygo from a place you won’t see pictures of when you type ‘Madrid’ onto Google Pictures because it was so desolated I felt like we were about to get picked up by two gorgeous women, who’d get us drunk and then take us to their boss who would sell us to have us cut open like lambs for the slaughter. A la part of the Eli Roth slasher film ‘Hostel’; Mediterranean Senorita-version.

 When my chicken ass grabbed itself together we were first going to hook up with our friend living in Madrid. After we have finally arrived downtown Madrid… everything looked beautiful from behind the car window, I couldn’t enjoy any of it without a window separating us from the road-air enveloping us. Yes, Google ‘Madrid’ onto Pictures and you will no doubt see beautiful things. One of the things you will not see is the smog air that rules the roads relentlessly. But it comes as no surprise, the war of the roads is obvious here. It’s like Paris around Arc de Triomphe… a goddamn menace; kill or be killed.    

 NOW… FINALLY… MY SWEET SWEET BAR with SWEET SWEET SENORITAS IN IT. Or… where are the senoritas? Yes… No… Is this another sign we should head straight back to the Netherlands because something horrible is going down this trip… I’ve been waiting all day long for my Madrilen-women fetish to be developed and we arrive at an awesome club that is remarkably OPEN (we would later find out this is indeed remarkable) at a time… these people like to call… SIESTA.
 Day 1 summarized; the closest I got to talking to Madrilen bombshells was when I was scared of being kidnapped by them somewhere in outer Madrid. Christ…

 After we took our own siesta at the hotel. We went back to midtown at night. HooWee, I have read about the street-drinking culture here… but seeing the real thing is even more fabulous. Incredible amount of street-crowd till up to 4AM on a midweek day… And don’t worry about the occasional drunk ludacris bothering you. The Spanish Guardia Civil will smash your fucking teeth in and ask questions later when you can’t even pronounce shit after your entire denture is stuck in your throat. In the Netherlands these people only come out when there is above average civil unrest. Here in Madrid? They are strolling down the streets like they are Tony Montana himself. I have seen, with my own goddamn eyes, terrified like hell, how a man disturbed two pretty ladies and got introduced to their friend, mister Civil Guard and HIS friend; called: long, metal, tubish, police-stick that will leave you crippled and begging for mercy. Nope, out here… you don’t shout “FUCK DA PO-LICE!” in the PoPo’s face and get away with it.
 
After we have waited for almost two hours or so to get into a club only Italian Mafia, Spanish models and Frank Sinatra seem to get in effortlessly, we were surprised it isn’t even that big of a deal. It’s marketing. The line in front of the club is marketing. Everything is marketing. (Doh, that’s what they try to teach me at Communications.) The club really wasn’t all that… probably because the Mafia would have shot my ass if I as much as looked at a woman that could have belonged to them.
 After two out of us three got a bit drunk, still had fun with some people we met at the hotel we drove back to the hotel. No, no… drinking and driving is bad. Good thing we had my sober cousin with us. This is when the real action started.
Play the YouTube video and read along to get a better vibe.  Red, Red Wine – Bob Marley
This is kind of exactly how it went down.

Drunk friend: “Red, red, wiiiiiiiiinee.”
Drunk me + Drunk friend:      “Gooooes to my heeeaadddd.”
Sober cousin + Drunk me + Drunk friend:  “Make me forget tha-–”
Sober me:      “WATCH OOOUT!”

IIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
*car screeching and spinning*
………………………
………………………
………………………
No, this is not a (wannabe-)thriller/cliffhanger/what-the-fuck-ever.
………………………
*car stops*

Seeing your life flash by in a second when you are about to go to jail for manslaughter is not what I saw. What you DO see is the life of the guy you’re just about to hit flashing before HIS eyes. While the guy is seeing his life flash by, we are shocked, thinking if we hit him or if it was one god-intervened-him*frikkin*self close call?

 
Sober cousin: “What?”  Me and our friend look him dead-panned in the face, “he’s still standing. And what? You only live once!” as if he now could add ‘nearly killing a man’ to his list of achievements, my cousin adds.
Sober me:       “I DON’T! MY HINDU-ASS IS COMING BACK REINCARNATED!”
Drunk friend:  “And boooyy is karma gonna have a field day with you!”
Drunk and happy-strange-man-is-not-dead me: “Should we go say sorry?”
Drunk friend:  “Yeah. Good idea.” And just when our friend wants to open his door, my cousin locks it from the driver-seat.
Sober cousin:   “WHAT ARE YOU? CRAZY? What if he pulls out his gun and shoots us to death for nearly running him over?” he says, realizing his mistake we had all missed, because just as he pushes the pedal to the floor and blazes away, he is turning back onto the street. Yes, you read that correctly, ‘turning BACK onto the street.’ We were indeed driving on the sidewalk that was meant for the god, damn, PEDESTRIANS.

 Man, I swear to god. We are going to drivers-license hell.

 

The Toyota Aygo in the corner for punishment of his wreckless behaviour, but good thing he’s red; blood-stains don’t stand out.

After that we actually drove back peacefully, having thanked god in our minds, and (too bad) sober again, getting back to Bob’s Red, Red, Wine which didn’t seem so red anymore. We were in aftershock. Boring aftershock.

 The next day all was forgotten and none of it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. Because today, we are going to the Real Madrid Champions League football game. And FYI, the game is called “FOOTBALL”, not frikkin’ “SOCCER” for Christ’ sake. How on earth can one call a game FOOTball if you RUN along while the ball MOST of the time resides in, your HANDS. Now in REAL football. True to the earth European/South-American FOOTBALL (the game played by the ATHLETE OF THE CENTURY, no… not Babe Ruth or MJ… but Pele .) The ball is allowed to touch every part of your body EXCEPT the hands (save for the keeper.) The only way to move the ball is mostly through your feet. Hence the name of the game: Football. So please, for love of the game… call it football.

 Although I am a Barcelona fan through heart and soul, it was a most beautiful of nights, Madrid won with four goals and the atmosphere was immensely riveting. It had one hundred times the effect of a very good movie, you NEVER know what to expect, NEVER know how it could end and the instant joy and screaming it out together with an entire stadium filled with 80.000 people in it. It was a night filled with collective euphoria. It is a thing of beauty. The entire city went nuts.

 

After all the city euphoria we went back to the stadium 5 o clock in the morning. I wanted to see how it felt when I was alone there. It was peaceful… much like heaven I imagine…

-To be continued…