C’est La Vie et C’est Jolie (Part 1)

Winter is cruel in Madrid. The wind blowing against my face doesn’t let me breathe. I have to close my eyes from time to time. The gloves and scarf I’m wearing are not enough to protect me from the coldness I feel. Nonetheless, I am blown away by the romantic Parque del Retiro and El Palacio de Cristal. Having walked about an hour and some minutes and taken some pictures of La Puerta de Alcalá, I finally enter the park. Imposing yet calming it welcomes me as I pass the gate with two pillars, one in each side. Each pillar triumphantly supports a monumental horse and its soldier. And as I looked at them, they silently tell me the place I am entering is sacred. So, what I am about to experience at the park is something it will stay in such a revered and quiet place. I keep walking. My feet touch the cold graveled path that leads to the center of the park. I look around and notice many couples seating on cold yet welcoming benches, and the sculptures surrounding the place are mute witnesses of what those couples reveal to each other: the first “I love you,” the romantic proposal, the saddening and heart-sinking “we need a break,” and the endearing “I’m interested in you, want to be more than friends?” And all these people look elegant as they sit and talk to each other, as they hold hands and look into the other’s eyes. They are Madrileños, and just as the city, they are elegant and proper. I keep walking to where the Palacio de Cristal is. I entered into the woods and the coldness is bitterer. But my hands are sweaty and my legs are frozen. It is not because of the coldness but for the nervousness and intriguing feeling running through my body. He said he’d be here by the lake in front of the palace. I see only a dad with his son feeding the ducks and swans. An old lady with a young companion holding her arm approaches. I stop walking so that the old lady and her guide can pass. They don’t look at me to say hi because that’s the norm in Madrid: mind your own business. I look around very carefully and can’t see him. It’s five o’clock. I know that because I asked the dad feeding the ducks and swans. Then it occurs to me. He’s from Madrid; punctuality is not one of his virtues. So, I decide to walk around and admire the palace and its beauty. I notice it is a small and simple palace, but beauty relies many times on simplicity and vice versa. I probably spend fifteen minutes admiring such a simple and beautiful palace when I realize I have forgotten the reason that brought me to this place. However, he is not here yet. My nervousness is more noticeable as my hands keep sweating and my stomach starts hurting. The cold wind does not bother me anymore. Where is he? I hate myself for not having a cell phone with me. But tutoring two people thrice a week on American English and its grammar rules barely lets me pay the rent and eat twice a day. So, there is no way I can call him… I mean, I can go outside the park and find a public phone, but what if he shows up and doesn’t see me around. He’d think I flaked and leave! This is really frustrating. OK. I need to calm down. It’s not the end of the world. I need to breathe and keep walking around the palace. How tranquil this place is! No wonder it’s called the park of the retirement. It can take you away from all the busy life happening in Madrid. It can help you forget all the issues and worries that overwhelm the soul. I think I have been waiting almost an hour, and he hasn’t shown up. What time is it? Who can I ask? Suddenly, the old lady and her companion pass by. I stop them and ask them in proper Spanish. They both look at me and notice I am a foreigner. “Que son las seis y cuarto,” the old lady’s companion tells me and keeps walking holding the lady’s arm. It’s six fifteen already. Over an hour he is late! I don’t know what to do. The night starts falling on the park and the light posts begin to switch on. I guess I have to go. I don’t really know what could have happened to him. I hope he is OK. I feel anger, though. I think he dumped me. What a jerk! I hate him already! After all, he must’ve thought I wasn’t a good catch. He might have felt interested in me because of my accented English or perhaps because I am a tourist from the New World, and it is rare to find one of us in the Old World. Yeah, he just probably thought it was a waste of time meeting me at the park in a city where there are better looking people to date. I walk towards the exit of the park. I turn around and notice how the sculptures of naked Roman women stare at me. They are probably yelling “loser” at me. But that’s OK! I am a loser, and that will stay at the sacred park.