Encounters

It’s why I love cities.  Every moment is a movie-scene – as profound or as shallow as you make it.  Add sun and it becomes extrovert and exotic.

I was deep under the streets on the moving walkway between Linea 10 and Linea 6, Metro Nuevos Ministerios, walking towards the violinist, when two men stopped me.  I thought they were Spanish at first, but they spoke in English.  Looking at them, I’d say Egyptian or Arabic, maybe Palestinian.  Both tall, they might have been brothers.  One was holding a mobile phone and looking at the Metro map.

They were trying to find Mar de Cristal station.  I guessed they’d come from Linea 8, which is closed for repairs.  I faced them, travelling backwards towards Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Spring.  We crowded around the mobile phone.  I soon realised they needed Linea 6 for two stops – same way as me – then change to 4, heading north towards Pinar de Chamartin.  “Just follow me.” I said and we walked off the end of the travellator, passing the violin player, saying hi.

Down on the platform, I explained the route again.  The men were looking a little bewildered, as you do on a strange metro system when things don’t go to plan.  “Two stops from here. Change at Avenida de America for Linea 4, brown line, direction Pinar de Chamartin”.  The men nodded, one repeated “Avenida de America”, perhaps rehearsing the sound.  I showed them Mar de Cristal again on the map, wished them luck and we shook hands.   I needed to walk to the far end of the platform.

At Avenida de America, I looked out of the window, hoping to see them.  I was distracted by someone speaking to me.  It was the tall, rangy man I’d noticed lolling across two seats as I got on.  He seemed drunk, sprawling, skin sweaty.  I didn’t understand what he’d said to me, so asked “Perdón?”  He asked if English was better.   I told him it was.

“Everybody is bored.” he said.  “Everyone on this train.  Look at them.”  He gestured around the carriage.  “All of this city, all these images and colours and everyone is bored.”

Looking more closely, I noticed his hair was long, but well cut.  His glasses were a designer style with banded colours on the arms.  I’d seen the same pair on someone else.  Not cheap.

I asked where he was from.  I thought maybe France from his accent.

“I’m from Cataluña.” he replied.  “Barcelona.  But most of my family live here.”

The train slowed for the next stop, Diego de León.  He stood up with some difficulty.

“Take care.” I said.

“I have to,” he replied, “my legs don’t work very well.”

As he stepped off the train, I noticed he had trouble coordinating.  I guessed it might be MS or something similar.  As the train pulled away, I fell into thinking about that first impression.

The local café was busy.  Only recently, I used to feel so intimidated I’d look through the window and walk on if it was full, rather than expose my awful Spanish.  This morning I just muttered “Perdón, puedo pasar?” and did the same as everyone else.  Is this what they mean by settling in?

One of the camareras looked over and called “Hola! Buenos dias, caballero!”  The Dominican girls and Pablo, the Chinese camarero, are quiet, gentle characters, always friendly.  I called hello back to her.  She’d already started on my order.   “Lo mismo de siempre?”  “Si, por favor.”

I waved to Pablo, working hard at the machine and waited just to one side of the counter.  Someone handed me a used tray to pass over heads.

The camarera asked me a question, which I guessed to be “Hot or cold milk?”

“Caliente!” I called back.

She gave me an amused smile and shook her head.  “Holiday?” she persevered.  “Mañana.”

“No.” I replied, apologising.  “Tengo que trabajar.  Solo una hora.  Es muy facil.”

She told me it was Father’s Day weekend.  We started a conversation in Spanglish.  She told me she has a son, aged eight.  I told her my kids are both in their thirties and I’m an abuelo: two grandchildren. 

She poured the hot milk into the coffee and brought the toasted barrita down from the grill.  Her friend brought the pain au chocolate from the window.   I handed my loyalty-card over for a final stamp.  She looked at it and nodded in satisfaction, singing “Uno con ochenta y cinco.”  I handed her a five euro note.

She passed the change to Pablo, who was heading back my way, and said something to him.  “Very good!” he grinned, imitating her voice, as he placed the coins down.

One of the window tables was vacant.

It was hard not to smile as I poured the sugar.  “Genial!”