Madrid and the Forceful Wind

The morning came as fast as expected, and I was up at the break of dawn. The smell of coffee poured in under my bedroom door. My room was still dark, and the full size bed I had slept on was surprisingly comfortable. When you are sleep deprived, even the floor seems cozy, with a blanket. I threw on my clothes, and headed out into the kitchen to find my old neighbor with a towel on her freshly washed hair sipping her coffee at the kitchen table.

She poured me a cup of coffee while asking me if there was anything in particular I wanted to see. Her boyfriend slept in most days following night shifts, so I figured I would explore the city alone. After several recommendations and general directions, I set out the front door of her building into the early Madrid morning. Early mornings tend to be my favorite time to become acquainted with foreign places because I can put together the vital processes needed to help keep the city running. The market on the corner was organizing the color, fresh produce as the garbage truck picked up the previous day’s trash. Dogs were being walked by people of all ages, as I caught a glimpse of an older crowd sipping coffee through a cafe window.

As I stood on the corner eating a croissant and sipping my coffee, I sat on the curb and sparked my morning smoke. I felt an energy, almost wind-like, at my back. I turned around to see if anything tangible was behind me, and to no surprise, there wasn’t. With each passing drag of my cigarette, the wind seemed to be blowing. Just to make sure I was real, I looked into the street trees to check if the leaves were indeed blowing in the wind. They were still.

“We’ve got our eyes on him!”, I heard.

I felt the need to move, as to avoid detection. Standing up, the wind seemed to push me on my way. The architecture in Madrid was beautiful. I stumbled across the most beautiful city park. It was the most manicured, well kept landscape I had yet to see in Europe. The landscaping crew was busy weeding and pruning, so like any tourist would do (sarcasm), I decided to start weeding the garden beds next to the ones they were working on. At first they gave me stares of death, but soon, they realized I was trying my best to contribute to their task, and brought me a black plastic garbage bag.

In my head, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Mind you, everything I did, I was doing it because my every move was being surveilled. This was clearly going to appeal to the celebrities and higher ups who were checking to see if I cared to give back to others. 30 minutes passed, and my hands were black. How strange it must of been for people walking through the park to see a tall, bearded man, in street clothes, weeding next to uniformed gardeners, filling a black plastic bag, just like them.

The wind started to blow again. Time to go! I thanked the crew, as I grabbed my garbage bag full of debris, and placed it on their garden car. Next I picked up my backpack and made my way through the park. Old men played Pétanque, a form of lawn bowling, or bocce ball, and I watched briefly, trying to figure out the game’s logistics. Quickly though, I noticed an older man in dark sunglasses on a bench nearby. Alarmed it was an undercover agent, I fled. Running this time, I made my way out of the park and back into the early morning streets.

Drugs and mental illness are never a good combination, but at the time, smoking weed was a craving I had to fulfill. I lit a joint that my old neighbor’s boyfriend had given me the night before, and smoked half. High again, the voices began.

“We don’t know who this guy is. Apparently he’s an American millionaire. He’s got a yacht, helicopter, and paints, but we can’t seem to figure out exactly who he is. Manuel Dos is what he calls himself.”

“Manuel Dos?”, another asked.

If secret agents believed I was a rich, American painter, then I had to go to the museum to impress the art establishment. To the Reina Sofia I went, now with a confidence in my step, as the invisible wind led the way. For some reason, this wind brought me to places I had meant to go, so I began to follow it’s direction the longer I was in Madrid. Being the first day, nothing bad had happened yet, so I was optimistic for my time there. If only those agents would stop talking about me.

The Reina Sofia was directly in front of me. I checked my bag after paying the admission fee, and into the museum I went. It was my belief that I had gained a photographic memory since Hong Kong, and that any painting I saw, I could paint, but better.

“I could paint that!”, I laughed, as I walked past a Joan Miró painting.

“That too!”, I continued, passing a Dalí.

I began tracing the paintings defined lines with my finger. This continued silently as a conversation in my head until I walked into the room with Pablo Picasso’s "Guernica”. This painting depicts the bombing of a Spanish town and is one of the most powerful and influential anti-war paintings in the history of art. The painting had shown itself to me many times in books, but to stand face to face with it filled me with so many emotions. Mainly, I felt frustration and anger. The fear on the figure’s faces, and anguish in the brush strokes made my blood boil. After standing in front of it for 15 minutes, almost to the point of tears, I raced towards the baggage claim, retrieved my bag, and exited the museum.

Visibly frustrated I’m sure to others, I made my way to the grassy hillside on the museum’s perimeter, where people of all ages picnicked, read books, smoked cigarettes, sketched, and enjoyed the sunshine. As I sat down and began to draw, two girls approached me. They were exchange students from Northern Africa, and they spoke more languages than I.

“What are you drawing?”, they asked in perfect English.

Showing them my sketchbook, they were complimenting my work. Generously, I tore them out two drawings I had made in Hong Kong, and wrote them a note. Without really conversing much, I handed them the personalized sketches, and was off. This time, balancing on the foot high iron garden bed perimeter fencing. Perfect balance was another quality I had gained since Hong Kong. How wonderful life had become. Tourists and residents seemed amused, and that was all I needed.

As lunchtime approached, I made my way back to my friend’s apartment, and although she was gone to work, her boyfriend was on the deck, smoking. Smiling, he asked me where I had been, and after boasting about the museum, he offered me the joint. We finished the joint together. Once again, I heard them.

“We’ve got our eyes on this guy. He’s a real weird guy. A total weirdo. He claims to be some famous painter.”

How could I hear these guys without ever catching sight of them? I began to look everywhere. The boyfriend of my old neighbor asked if I was alright, and I reassured him I was. Not being able to spot any of these agents, however, made me fixated on the surveillance cameras EVERYWHERE I went. Any building that had a camera I began to notice. I remember thinking that no camera was hidden from my eyes, and so I began to shoot them with my fingers.

Camera on the government buildings! 1,2,3,4,5. Pow, pow, pow, pow, pow! I shot them over and over with my fingers as though my fingers were a gun. No one could fool me, not even the agents. As secretive as these guys may be, I was smarter, and I had the celebrities and President on my side. The war was just beginning, and I had set out to win.

Oh, that’s right, I was still sitting on the chair across from my old neighbor’s boyfriend.

“Let’s walk around. I’ve lived here for a while, and I have plenty of cool places to show you! Beer for the road?”

“Yes, please!”