Stairway To the Desert

Whether or not something was wrong had not yet been decided in my own head. My college neighbor’s boyfriend led me out of the apartment and to the corner store to buy a snack for the road. The shop owner stood behind thick plastic bins from floor to ceiling, and at first, I didn’t even notice an employee present. She stood behind the counter, which was only about 2 feet wide, and the same size as the bins surrounding it. Hundreds of bins in a store no more than 15 x 15 feet; full of foreign candy, chips, crackers and toys. Every color in the spectrum could be seen on the wrappers, and I ended up leaving with a handful of bubble gum for less than a dollar.

At the time, one memory that stands out vividly is the need to constantly have something to satisfy my attention. A fixation of manual stimulation. Whether I was smoking, eating, balancing, conversing in my head, sketching, listening to music in my headphones, or having an occasional actual conversation, the ability to sit still in silence seemed impossible.

“I’ll take you to a playground close by, and then to a giant fountain. Very cool!”, her boyfriend said.

We stopped at the playground for a short while. There we didn’t enjoy any of the swings, merry go rounds, or even monkey bars, but rather sat on separate teeter totters, on the ground, with the empty end high in the air. I remember thinking that her boyfriend might be a part of the conspiracy to take me down. The Spanish government held Picasso in the highest regards, and with a new American artist in town, I must be stopped. Was I paranoid more so than normal after smoking weed because it was laced? It very well could be. From that moment on, it was hard to fully trust the boyfriend of my old neighbor, even though in my head I had to try my hardest to conceal I was on to him.

Her boyfriend was a very nice guy. He spoke great English and seemed to be a hard working, free spirit. His smile made me feel comfortable, and the effort he made to genuinely be my tour guide had not gone unnoticed, but the unsettling feeling I had most likely impeded our opportunity to truly connect as people.

We made it to the Cibeles Fountain, one of the most beautiful water features I had ever seen. Located in the center of one of the biggest parks in Madrid, the detail and mastery behind the sculptures and columns of the fountain blew me away. Paddle boats with couples enjoying the summer sun, slowly moved through the center of it, and large crowds of spectators watched from the perimeter. Immigrants hustled sun glasses, water, sun screen, dvd’s, and even constructed balloon swords and hats for the young children. Musicians played their instruments, and the courageous tourists even roller-bladed through the park.

The chance to balance on the stone railing on the fountains edge could not be avoided, and before I knew it, was tip toeing the line of stupidity and embarrassment, 4 feet above the ground, and 10 feet above the fountain’s pond, as families stared in wonderment at the nerve of a stupid American taking away from the natural beauty of the fountain. Luckily, I avoided falling into the water and causing a spectacle, but could not pass at feeding the geese, who seemed to be fans of the small packets of seeds, which were being sold nearby. I purchased a bag, and began tossing them into the fountain. A father and his young daughter smiled, as we all gave the geese their fill.

Feeling exhausted, my neighbor’s boyfriend and I sat at a park cafe and paid too much for a sandwich and water. I sketched in my own world, and as the check came, the waitress commented on my work.

“Artist?”

It always made me feel accomplished, even if someone simply acknowledged my presence. Tearing the sketch from my black leather bound sketch-pad, I wrote a “Gracias” note on the back of the sketch and left it on the table under our payment. Good deeds would definitely pay off in the end, and most definitely appeal to the agents wondering whether or not I was a stand up guy, or not.

The two of us made our way back through the city to his apartment, and when we returned, my old neighbor greeted us with a smile as we walked through the door.

“Have fun?”

“It was a blast!”, I replied. “What’s our dinner plan?”

She told me that her other roommate would be joining the three of us for a later dinner in a trendy part of town. I guess late dinners were common in Spain, but to be honest, I was ready for bed. With all of these secret conversations I was having all day with agents, officials, and the occasional celebrity, it was hard to stay engaged in the conversations that were actually taking place. I remember the restaurant was dark, with bright low lighting on the bar, which was a bright teal color. Traditional Spanish artwork was painted on the walls. The bartender was staying busy cleaning glasses behind the bar, and even though four of us all sat at a table eating small plates before our main course arrived, I left to sit alone at the bar.

Something was off. I couldn’t stay engaged. My mind just seemed disconnected from real human interaction, and the voices in my head started to bother me. How could I make them stop? Politely I waited until everyone was finished with their meals, even though deep down I wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. Sleeping seemed to be the only way I could avoid the stress of every day life. It had only been a few days since arriving in Spain, but to me it seemed like at least a week. We all walked home. I smoked the whole way, semi drunk from the three beers I had chugged from the bucket of Coronas we had purchased at dinner. When we finally arrived back on Marquez de Zafra, I smoked a joint, and said goodnight to my old neighbor, her boyfriend, and their roommate.

As I lay in my dark guest room, a wind blew through the window, and I remember hearing a whisper.

“You must work! Give all of your paintings away. Someone will stand out to you tomorrow, and you must help them. You must”!

When morning arrived, I felt groggy. I needed coffee, and so I made my way out into the kitchen to prepare my morning cup. My old neighbor was off to work, and her boyfriend was still sleeping. Annoyingly, I knocked on his door. No answer. I asked several times if he wanted to go, to which he said, “Later!” It was a solo day in Madrid.

The wind I mentioned previously pushed me out the front door, and left up the street. Stumbling across a barber shop opening their metal grated garage style door, I knocked, as a woman in her 40’s took keys out of her front right pocket and unlocked the door. I said good morning in Spanish, and asked if she had time for a hair cut. She told me to return near closing time, which was at 6 pm.

“Thank you! I will see you tonight! Adios!”, I exclaimed as I ran to the metro stop down the street. With little money to spare, I purchased a fare and hopped the train, with no idea as to where I would end up. Sometimes these adventures led to pretty interesting outcomes, and judging by the beauty of the city, and the fact that agents were monitoring my every move, it may be a chance for me to relax, alone.

The Metro train left the stop and sped through the tunnel. I mustn’t look at anyone in the eye, as someone may recognize me, and today was a solo day. The day could be ruined with the company of someone I didn’t know, so I sketched for at least 30 minutes, before exiting the train. At the stop, I followed the small number of people, in the direction the majority of them were moving, as I figured they knew where they were going better than I. At the turnstile however, I realized that a fare was also needed to exit the station. Searching frantically through my pockets, my bag, my pockets again, no change! Nor was there money in my wallet. Before the last person exited the turnstile I asked for money to leave. Blankly staring at me, they exited with no response.

Sitting on the floor of the train station, I waited for the next train. The same small number of people, give or take 5, quickly moved towards the exit, all with the same blank stare. I needed to leave, but no one was around. As I peered across the way, I noticed a man in an orange construction vest walking towards a door, located at the base of a wide, cement staircase. I ran up the stairs, across the tracks, to the other platform, hoping to catch the worker before he disappeared. To my dismay, he opened the door as I shouted, but the door slammed shut. I was THE only person in sight.

A staircase about 12 feet in width and 20 stairs high lay directly in front of me. A “do no enter” sign was posted on the wall, and caution tape prohibited anyone from entering the stairs. With no other options, I decided to see where it led. As I ducked under the tape and began walking up the first, second, and third step, I was apprehensive. What if I was caught and arrested? Little did I actually care, so I continued, when I hit the top of the visible stairs and stood on the first landing, they took a sharp turn to the left.

“Alto! Alto!”, someone shouted. It was the man in the orange vest. He was waving his arms and standing at the base of the stairs, waiting for me to come down. Like nothing I had ever seen, the stairs rose another 20 steps, into a ceiling. Fearing of getting caught, I was running out of options! It was then I noticed a red button, about the same diameter as a baseball across the staircase landing. Unsure of what the sign above it read, I sprinted to the button and slammed my palm against it.

Immediately a station alarm began blaring throughout the tunnel. Up the stairs, the roof was raising on hydraulic lifts so that the exit of the stairs appeared. It was my only escape. I ran towards daylight as the man in the orange vest began running up the first flight of stairs after me. The exit hatch lifted at what seemed like a turtle pace. All I saw was blue. The most electric blue. One you see when the sea is near by and the water’s reflection from the sun illuminates your eyes. A single cirrus cloud dotted the sky. I made my way to the top of the stairs and BOOM! Daylight! Sand and sun with desert vegetation was all around.

As I sprinted out of the exit hatch into the desert, I avoided looking behind me in fear of slowing my pace. Before I knew it, was in the middle of nowhere. A desert of some sorts surrounded me. About 1,000 feet from the exit hatch was a chain link fence. As I neared the fence I finally turned around, expecting to see the man in the orange vest running after me. Hopping the fence in one fell swoop, the crotch of my jeans caught a chain link, and ripped before landing on the other side. The man in the orange vest must have pushed the button to close the hatch, and didn’t bother chasing after me any further than the stairs he already had.

Earlier I said it was going to be a solo day, and it didn’t get more solo than this.