In which Our Hero enjoys a capital day.
Dipping churros into chocolate, I could feel the blood throbbing in my left knee.
After walking 26,986 steps (13.34 miles) on a mostly-still-broken foot, inside a surgical boot that was actively coming apart, it was time for new shoes.
Most people don’t put hundreds of miles on their surgical boots.
Most people don’t buy a second surgical boot so both feet will be even.
Most people don’t sprint through Dallas/Fort Worth Airport in surgical boots when the announcement says they have three minutes to board, even though their ticket insists they really have eighteen.
I am not most people.
We landed in Madrid at 5:45 a.m.
By 6:45 a.m., we were failing to locate our Uber and choosing the subway instead.
Our exit train from Madrid left at 4:45 p.m.
Ten hours in Spain’s capital.
After eight of them, my feet were finished. The boot—kept out of an abundance of caution—was now increasing my risk. Three weeks ago, I’d been cleared to wear normal shoes. I hadn’t. I’d stuck with the boot.
Safety, it turns out, has an expiration date.
I spotted a discount shoe store.
Since I return to France on Friday, I only needed shoes that would last five days.
The clerk showed me a pair of decent-looking sneakers: twenty euros. I tried them on. He only had the left shoe in size 44 and the right shoe in 45. The clerk agrees to a discount, and apologizes he cannot give us a greater one. After all, what shoe store only sells mismatched shoes?
Little does he know, my right foot is the broken one. Mismatched shoes is actually a plus!
I ate a second ham croissant. It rivaled the ones I’ve had in France. (It wasn’t a croissant in the way they make them there. But it was delicious.)
We strolled through Madrid’s central plaza.
We passed photos of gored bullfighters and Jimmy Carter.
I learned I could buy an apartment of the same cost and size as my future one in this square. I concluded I’d rather have mine.
Why do people prefer the artsy second city?
Melbourne over Sydney.
Barcelona over Madrid.
In both, I have a strong preference. In both, it’s the business hub.
I prefer places where real people are real. Where life isn’t a reflection or performance of itself. And in Madrid, the live music is more prevalent than in Barcelona.
Ten hours.
Too-big, mismatched shoes.
Clown.
[Get the title? Squeaking? Like clown shoes? How they squeak?
Tough crowd.]
Julian Wise 