naked roommate

It started with boxers. If you're playing strip poker, and you start in boxers, well, it'll be a short game. Madrid in the summer is like playing strip poker, all the time. It's hot. Not New York hot, where you feel like the air is crushing you and everyone and everything are stickier than the counters of cheap diners. It's nice "dry" heat...all the time, mere inches (or dare I say, centimeters) from the sun. Looking at the weather has begun to get a little boring. Day after day of sun and 90+ degree heat stretched as far as the eye can see. It looks like a menu featuring only sunny-side up eggs. This heat wave known as "summer in Spain" might explain lack of clothes in the streets, at the pools, or in my apartment. People deal with the heat in their own ways. Most leave. To beat the heat, my roommate has gone commando. It's not really a new development. On the first day that I moved in, I walked into the kitchen to see him standing at the sink in boxers. All hairy, and thirty-plus, a sight usually reserved for the Jersey shore, not my kitchen. I should have realized that on day 1, when someone is comfortable enough to walk around in just boxers, clothes have been shelved. At first, I just figured he didn't realize I had moved in. I did my little apology (Lo siento!) with the polite averted glance, problem solved. Then I realized it was all the time. After a few awkward encounters, I got used to it. What else should I do? I mean, a pleasant sight, not really. But hey. It's hot, it's his apartment, he's comfortable, I'm American and therefore uncomfortable and awkward with nudity. Which explains my reaction to him chilling in his room, in the nude, door open. The first time this happened, my reaction was "Is he naked!?!?!?!" Because, somehow, it was not completely and totally clear to me. For motives I cannot recall, I started a conversation with him. Mistake. I looked at the floor, the door frame, the window, my feet, the ceiling. At this point, he probably thinks I have restless eye syndrome. Or at least awkward American syndrome. Symptons include nervous giggling, aversion to direct gazes, wearing clothes, and a higher than normal discomfort level with European shamelessness. It's not a life-threatening condition, but high levels of nudity should be avoided until the symptons are under control.

los viejos

Los viejos, otherwise known as old men, are thriving here in Madrid. The old man community has made me feel very welcome, as they clearly recognize one of their own among them (i.e. me being a grandpa). But i want to give special attention to two old men who have gone above and beyond others in making me feel especially, uh, welcome. First, there's Alfonso, a charming regular at my friend's cafeteria (it's like a bar...but as they are everywhere here, it might be better to picture them like Spanish diners). While at first a little shy, he quickly warmed right up to me, and our first conversation went something like this (this is a translation. i sound better in english):
Me: Yeah, I've been here about a week. This heat is killing me though.
Alfonso: You're really beautiful, no? What are you doing here with Leo?
Me: uh...thanks? By the way, where is Leo?

While my "conversation" with Alfonso was the usual awkward old-man encounter (but in Spanish!!!), Fernando was something special. Clearly charmed by his question, "Are you a foreigner?," I was persuaded to stay and chat with him a few minutes. In this half-hour period, in which I drank for free, at 4 pm on a Sunday afternoon, Fernando told me that Spain's history was the most interesting history in the world. Not his opinion, but an actual fact. Also, did you know that the best parts of the US were founded by the Spanish? California, the richest part of the US, founded by the Spanish. Miami, the most important tourist destination, founded by the Spanish. Texas, the biggest state in so many ways, founded by the Spanish. (Fact-checking has never been my strong point). And let's not even talk about Spanish food. Since all Americans subsist on a diet of solely hamburgers, how we could possibly understand the depth and complexity of French fries topped with a fried egg? And while I declined an invitation to go clubbing with him, I did learn a lot about Spain, and I also drank for free. So, here's to you, old men. Thanks again, for making me feel welcome in a slightly uncomfortable, musty sort of way.

laundry.

my washing machine is smaller than any i have ever seen, like most things in europe. the countries are small, the coffees are small, the cars are small and the old women here barely come up to my waist. i suppose that makes it energy efficient, since it probably uses less water and electricity; a polar bear is saved every time i wash my socks. it would be, rather, if i knew how to use it in the proper way, one that didn't involve domestic abuse and death threats. it wasn't always like this. at the beginning, things were happier. there was mutual understanding, an easy forgiveness, a steady camaraderie between the two of us. the washing machine was patient with my frequent miscommunication, awkward dial turning, and sometimes forceful button pushing. it ignored my mutterings, steadily swirling my clothes in a mix of soap and water. doing laundry was simple then, in that time of innocence. things began to sour however, as the honeymoon stage quickly wore off, and our differences– american vs. european, english vs. spanish, human vs. machine– pulled us apart like stockings with a run. first, although the dial would turn to a finished position, clicking coolly into place, the door refused to open. no amount of tugging, pounding, swearing, or pleading could convince it that yes, the clothes are clean, and yes, i would like to hang them on my clothesline (another european charm). and so began the four hour washing cycle. turning the dial started the cycle again, forcing my clothes round and round, until at some point i could open the door. this brought with it another unforeseen problem: soaking wet clothes. not damp, like they should be. really, i could both remove my laundry and shower simultaneously. perhaps this is another, less obvious energy-saving tactic in which two polar bears, not one, could be saved simply by washing clothes. way to go, europe. having already showered, i decided to wring out my clothes over the garden three floors below my window. sadly, numerous socks were dropped, forcing impromptu rescue missions, and yes, dirty socks. which had to be washed. again. given my now-cold relationship with my washing machine, my mom suggested hand-washing. my roommate (apartment-mate?) just hand-washed some of her clothes this morning...in the bidet. there you have it. the bidet: not just for genital cleaning, also a great place to wash your delicates!