In the pre-dusk daylight, the ancient streets were warm and appealing.
Small hills covered in cobblestone, saffron buildings on either side. A
very different experience from my first time in Madrid when the rain
soaked through my water resistant zebra striped jacket, into my shirt
and even bra. I had been determined to visit Chueca to see the gay
nightlife, not realizing how lost I would become in the tiny dark
streets, nor how confusing the choices would be. Was every tapas bar
gay? Were there safe places to visit and those I should avoid? I
couldn't make sense of it with the dark dripping water making my hair
stick to the side of my face as I tired, in vain, to see over the tops
of my foggy glasses. Nor was I expecting it when a dark-haired man
peeled himself away from a wall where he had been hidden like a
chameleon.
He spoke to me in Spanish, and when I replied in English, switched languages. He wanted to know where I was going, if I was married, if I needed company. I said no a few times, walked away, brushed him off and kept looking for somewhere to eat. The best bars were probably the ones that I couldn't see inside with dark heavy doors and tiny brick lined windows. I wasn't feeling quite that adventurous, especially without command of Spanish, so I finally slipped into a black and red restaurant, dripping puddles onto the floor and the glass table top as I sat down, drying my head awkwardly on a paper napkin.
The menu was familiar but bizarre, Asian/Italian fusion. So against type being served among the tiny tight streets of the ancient Spanish city. I was glad. I had already eaten too much jamón , too many heavy egg tortillas and red, near raw meats, over salted and bloody. Noodles and a mixed drink in the yellow light of a small restaurant were warming, familiar, almost comforting.
Oddly, another woman was dining alone next to me, and speaking heavy Irish-accented English. I introduced myself, glad for the company in this strange netherworld. Her tale was as odd as she - a filmmaker and former lawyer who had recently finished a piece she was marketing to film festivals. She was in Madrid for a huge technology conference being held at some big sports pavilion where there were tents set up in rows for the attendees. She was one of very few woman, there on her last Euros, hoping for a check to arrive soon that would get her back to Ireland. We talked over our meals - about her film, about queer life in the US and Ireland, my family, her girlfriend. Not quite what I expected out of my first trip to Chueca, but an interesting travel experience nonetheless.
I left after dessert, having promised to watch her film clip and send it on to a friend who was a programmer for Frameline, SF's queer film festival. I was relieved to be going back to a hotel and not to a row of precision erected tents and techies.
The next day when I barely got out of Europe due to the Icelandic volcano, I thought about my new Irish acquaintance a lot. She had barely enough money to get from the restaurant back to the conference. I couldn't imagine she'd have found a way out of Spain and back home. She might have been stranded for weeks without money or a place to stay while I was safely tucked into a long coach class flight home next to a member of The Church of Latter Day Saints, who offered me a copy of his Book of Mormon mid-flight.
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