During one of the amazing lunches at our Madrid boarding house, Pedro and Alvaro struck up a conversation with a pair of Spaniards seated across the table. The friendly pair had been working in Madrid for some months and knew the city well. As I mentioned in my last post, Pedro had the better English, but it was Alvaro who starred in Spanish. Portuguese and Spanish share a huge number of cognates so speakers of one country can converse reasonably well with those from the other, but pronunciation and rhythm vary considerably between the languages. Alvaro’s vowels, his inflections, his fluidity, perfectly mimicked the Spanish speakers, but Pedro’s words at times seemed off kilter, and his hesitations were obvious.

 These differences were particularly noticeable when a hot topic suddenly widened their eyes and revved voices to a higher pitch, Alvaro nodding enthusiastically and Pedro, after a slight pause, following. When the laughter ended and things finally calmed down, Pedro relayed the gist of the conversation to Bruce and me. The Spaniards had described a Madrid tradition, one in which visitors in the city are invited by local residents for an evening tour of the local wine shops.

 The basics were simple. Tours would begin at the nearest wine shop, where all would enjoy a small glass of wine before moving on to the next shop for another glass; participants would continue this routine until every wine shop in Madrid had been patronized. The laughter apparently had erupted when Pedro voiced what was obvious. Wine shops are ubiquitous in Madrid, so no tour could ever be completed. Participants would be blotted out after their first a half dozen shops. After this gaiety the duo had invited Alvaro and Pedro for a tour that very evening, and us too, if we wanted to join in. Bruce and I threw our thumbs up.

The Tour Begins

Late that evening, well after darkness fell, the six of us set out on what would become a most formidable evening. We walked no more than a long city block before coming to our first wine shop. It was small, no larger than an average hotel room, with a bar along one end, bottles layered behind it, dozen of patrons imbibing, and peanut shells covering the floor.

 My few days in Madrid had made clear how inexpensive everything was for Bruce and me, but I still felt a pleasant thrill of incredulity when Pedro explained that a small glass of house wine, red or white, was being sold for the equivalent of two cents per glass. We all chose red and talked and sipped as we cracked peanuts and scattered the shells across the floor. After a suitable time we paid up and moved on to our second wine shop.

 We caught our rhythm, idling for about twenty minutes in each shop, allowing time enough to eye the customers, compare our two-cent reds to those of the last shop, add to the floor’s collection of peanut shells, and softly mumble the small talk one slips into with new acquaintances. By shop number three Bruce and I had begun to wonder how long we would last. The clock above a huge black wine bottle indicated it was 10:35, still a good hour before Madrid’s real night life would begin.

As midnight neared, our group stood quite jolly in our fifth wine shop. Our zeal for progress had been slowed by foresight, not to mention the necessity to maintain our senses. At that stage we were only mildly buzzed. Each of the small glasses we had downed over a couple of hours contained roughly two ounces of wine, or perhaps a bit more, so our total consumption was only about 10-12 ounces of wine, its absorption being modestly delayed by handfuls of macerated peanut particles.

At this juncture our local hosts unexpectedly begged off, explaining they were due for work early in the morning, but urging us to continue our celebration by visiting a cabaret. They recommending a popular one and provided directions to it.

We sent them off with our thanks and enthusiastically made our way to the swanky place they had recommended. We easily caught a table, for we were among the earliest arrivals. The lighting was dim, the waiters in tuxedos, the music with steady beat. After we were seated, Alvaro suggested we try a favorite libation of his. We placed the order. As we checked out our surroundings, Pedro asked our waiter to take a photo.

Left to right we are: Pedro, Bruce, Ken, and Alvaro, newly arrived at the cabaret

Our drinks arrived, we clinked glasses in honor of our friendship. One instant later, smiling girls appeared at our table, happy Spanish in their voices. I said, “Good evening,” and one of the girls said “Goood eev-neeng,” and plunked herself on my lap, squirming a bit as she settled in. I took her little quivers as a sign she was quite excited about practicing her English. Within moments a fat bottle of cold bubbly appeared. How nice of them! I thought. I took the bottle to be Champagne, but it likely was a local cava. Glasses were filled. Toasts followed.

I can’t swear how many B-girls were actually at our table, they kept flitting from lap to lap, squirming enthusiastically, but the number three shimmers in memory. They had this funny habit of stirring their drinks with their fingers, swirling vigorously so that bubbles erupted and most of the precious liquid gushed out onto the table. I thought it a horrible waste but was having too much fun to object. And I knew the floor show was about to begin.

Intermission

Whew! I meant to finish this story here, but this is getting long and the gurus of blogging warn against wearing out your readers. Most suggest that something like 750 words work best for a single post. I’m now nearly at 1,000, and I still have more crucial events to cover, so I’ll stop here and let us catch our breath. Admittedly, I’m putting off telling of my time in jail, but I don’t want any of you to sleep through that episode. I’ll reveal all in a post within the next few days. Cross my heart!

In the meantime, if you haven’t already done so, please sign up to receive an email notification each time I post something new. That way you’ll be among the first to see me behind bars. I’ve checked out the process by entering my own email address, and it works great. Having said that, I know that a good number of you have tried to sign up but somehow didn’t receive the confirmatory email necessary to click on to activate the process. Then, when you tried again, you got a message telling you to return the non-existent email sent the first time (but I think a plan B was suggested). Bummer!!! I’m looking into that.