Living in my little cocoon, I hadn’t been paying any real attention to what was going on in Spain. I knew that, along with Portugal, Ireland, Italy, and Greece, Spain is one of the European Union’s PIIGS. I knew that the Spanish government had been pushing austerity measures as they looked to get their debt under control. But, what did that really mean to me? Our stock market is up, I’ve got a job, and all seems well in our little world in Dayton, MD. How could that European malaise really impact me and, more specifically, my perfectly planned vacation?
We got to Madrid on time. As soon as we landed, though, you could tell something was up. It took over 5 minutes at the gate before the ground crew came through the jetway to open the door. There was absolutely no movement on the tarmac, with no baggage attendants anywhere in sight. We congratulated ourselves on having only carry-on baggage and headed through customs. That, too, was a breeze. We had a bit of a debate about whether to take the metro or a taxi. Seeing a long line of taxis at the arrival zone, we opted for a cab. Once again, that worked out perfectly. Nick handled the translation services for us and, in no time at all, we were within sight of Atocha Rail Station.
That’s when the fun began. There’s a huge traffic circle just outside the station entrance. Traffic was at a standstill. The circle had been taken over by hundreds of protesters on bikes. Round and round the circle they rode, blowing whistles, humming on kazoos, and chanting “Huelga! Huelga! Huelga!” If you don’t know what that means, check your Spanish-English dictionary.
After a few minutes, the local police stepped in to break up the bicyclists. Our cabbie darted through a gap in the traffic and deposited us at the train station. We found it nearly deserted. The strike had shut down all high-speed train traffic throughout Spain. There would be no trains to Seville for us today.
It was 8:45AM. We were 4,000 miles away from home, operating on no sleep, in a strange city, with nowhere to go. It was going to be a banner day.
Over 9 hours later, I’m sitting in a 70 Euro a night dorm-style hotel room in Madrid typing this. We got lucky and found two rooms only a 10-minute walk from the train station. They’re a bit scary but it beats the street or the train station. We’ve managed to get tickets to Seville on a 6:25AM train tomorrow morning (the woman at the customer service desk who helped us this afternoon had the patience of a saint; I would have bolted my position in minutes). That’s an early departure time but I’m not complaining.
Right now, literally thousands of people are streaming by our window, chanting, shouting, blowing whistles, playing trumpets, and banging drums. I see Che Guevara t-shirts and signs that read "I Am A Marxist." They're all on their way to the government complex to stage a mass protest. Police sirens are screaming continuously. It’s quite a scene.
I can only imagine what the boys are thinking. It’s either “Wow, Spain is pretty cool” or “Wow, please don’t ever take me to Spain again.” I’m sure it’s not something in the middle.
