My cousin Vicky and her friend Chloe arrived that evening. Vicky and I had just found out we weren’t going to see each other for another two months so we’d taken matters into our own hands. Just a couple of days later, she and Chloe had booked their tickets for that same weekend and were coming out until Tuesday for a spontaneous few days in the sun.
Their flight arrived at 8.30, so when it was approaching 9.30 and I still hadn’t heard from them, I began to really worry. It turned out Vicky hadn’t written my Spanish number down so I had to ring to check they were alive. They pulled up in the taxi ten minutes later. It was really strange and really exciting to have my cousin here in Spain after six months of not seeing her. When we saw each other we ran to meet each other, and there was so much to catch up on all the words came out at once.
As if it wasn’t amazing enough to have my little cousin here, she and Chloe had brought me a gorgeous bottle of sparkly pink vodka (she knows me well) and Malibu and Smirnoff for our nights out. After we’d caught up on all the most exciting news, I showed them the house and told them to make themselves at home.
By the time the girls had got showered and ready, it was 10.30 when we finally left the house. Maria from work had texted me to say she was going out with all her friends from university, inviting us to come too, so we met her at Sol metro station. We were almost an hour later than we’d originally said, but she didn’t seem to mind at all.
One of her friends, Japi (pronounced, for those who don’t know, as “Happy” which is beyond adorable), was waiting with her, and after the obligatory introductions we made our way to the park for the botellón. I’d forgotten to warn Vicky and Chloe about the whole “two kisses” thing, so they were taken a little by surprise - something not helped by the fact Japi didn’t seem to speak much English. Nevertheless, knowing how friendly and bubbly Vicky and Chloe were, and that other people would know English, I was sure they wouldn’t have any problem getting chatting to people.
It was only when we got to the park that Maria announced that all her friends were guys. We then had to go through the whole rigmarole of kissing about fifteen guys on each cheek, which is where you begin to think that this particular form of etiquette can get a little inconvenient. After the initial awkwardness, however, we soon got talking to people - and, as predicted, Vicky and Chloe found some people eager to try out their English.
Incidentally, I should perhaps mention the cultural aspect of this botellón, as it was in the park where the famous Templo de Debod (Temple of Debod) is situated. The temple was built in Egypt in 200BC and donated to Spain in 1960 following the construction of the Great Dam of Aswan and the threat this posed to several archeological sites. So, we were actually doing some cultural site-seeing as well as drinking in the park.
At some time in the early hours of the morning we decided to move on to some clubs - at which point the three of us had to trust the others entirely to find a good place. We went into one and straight back out again, before finding a club where you got entry, drink and shot for eight Euros, which is really good for Madrid. We had an amazing night and were some of the last to leave.
The next day we didn’t get up until nearly midday, when we crawled to the shop to grab ingredients for brunch and dinner. It was after 1.30 when we got on the metro and made our way to Plaza Mayor. There, we found a Llaollao (Smöoy’s competitor), which Vicky and Chloe were amazed at, so we stopped for a frozen yoghurt.
We then had a browse around the shops in the area, including a cute little jewellery shop selling handmade accessories from Gran Canaria. The assistant, although she didn’t speak much English, was really chatty to me and, in the end, gave us all free flower hair accessories and little pots of ice cream. Because the others bought bracelets, they got a free broach too, which they gave to me.
After our little wander, we crossed the square to the Tourist Information Centre, where we got maps and advice on how to spend the weekend. As it was now mid-afternoon, we decided just to have a bit of a look around rather than doing anything major, since the huge Gay Pride parade started at 6.
When we were left the Tourist Information, we spotted some Segways - and suddenly, all plans were dropped to go on a Segway quest. We went back into Tourist Information to ask, but even with it marked on the map we couldn’t seem to find the Segway rental centre - probably because, when it comes to reading maps, I am practically illiterate. On the plus side, on our search we did come across the Palacio Real and the Catedral de Santa María la Real de la Almudena, which were beautiful.
After we’d stopped and asked several thousand clueless/foreign people for directions, we finally found the rental place, only to discover that it only offered official Segway tours, which had to be pre-booked and cost 40 Euros for an hour. By this time we needed to be making our way to Atocha for the Gay Pride Parade.
It was still blisteringly hot, and when we’d stopped for snacks at McDonald’s we found ourselves a shady spot on the grass to wait for the parade to start. At just after 6, everyone started to move so we changed our spot to nearer the road. Typically (classic Spain), we were waiting for over an hour before the parade actually kicked off. On the plus side, during the wait there had been some of the most entertaining people-watching I’ve ever experienced.
It was as if, for this one festival, all judgment had been cast away and everyone could just express themselves - whether that be men in drag, women with shaved heads, fairy wings, or the tiniest man-shorts you’ve ever seen - and it all felt so refreshing and carefree. By the time the parade actually began, the streets were so packed we could barely move, and the atmosphere was electric. When the parade began, the police had to drive through with a barrier rope to push us all back so the parade could actually get through.
When the first group of dancers and floats came down the road, the crowd went mental. I’d never known an atmosphere like it, not even at the parades in Murcia. Suddenly, the biggest flag I’d ever seen was being passed over our heads along the length of the parade - the Gay Pride flag, which we all had to grab and pass on. At one point I was wondering when it was ever going to end and seriously contemplating making an escape. I have the occasional odd moment with enclosed spaces and lots of people, and this didn’t seem a particularly opportune moment to have a panic attack.
Anyway, we watched the parade for around an hour before deciding we’d better head back if we wanted to make it out to the celebrations in Chueca that evening. We got ready, cooked and ate at break-neck speed and managed to get to Plaza Callao by just before 11, drinks in hand. The night unfolded in a similar blur; we met so many people - gay, bisexual, lesbian, straight, it didn’t matter - danced with them, had photos with them, shared drinks with them - and it was one of the best nights of our lives.
Vicky and Chloe were in their element - despite the fact that, halfway through the night, we realised Vicky had been saying “salud” to everyone she’d bumped into, thinking it meant “sorry”. If anything, I think people either thought she was just a bit special or a little bit adorable. At any rate, we’d soon made our way around most of the groups in the packed square. If I’d thought the atmosphere at the parade had been incredible, this was something else. It was still unbelievably hot even into the early hours of the morning, and all anyone cared about was the music and having fun.
The only downside to the whole thing was the discovery halfway through the night that my purse had been stolen straight out of my bag. We tried to look for it but it was no use - I was sure it had been taken, and even in the unlikely event that it had just fallen out, I’d never find it amongst all these people. It had had nearly forty Euros in, as well as my driving license, English SIM card and student card; I was devastated. After realising I wasn’t going to get it back, I had two choices: I could either give up and go home, or I could try and forget it and not let it spoil what had otherwise been an amazing night. I thought about what would make me happier, and just like that, I put it to the back of my mind and went back to the party.
The next day I woke up to the bitter realisation of everything I’d lost the night before, but I knew I needed to pick myself up and make the most of the weekend - after all, it could have been worse. So, that afternoon we caught the metro to the centre and bought tickets for the two city tour buses. In all honesty it wasn’t the most interesting tour we’d ever been on - not helped by the fact that Chloe had a vomit-scare halfway through - but we had a laugh anyway just looking at the sites, chatting and playing games.
That evening was the closing night of Gay Pride, including a showing of The Rocky Horror Show in Plaza de la Reina. Rocky Horror is probably one of the best excuses to dress up like an idiot that there is, so we decided to go all out. We bought suspenders and tiny hot pants with the word ‘Madrid’ in block capitals on the back which we paired with crop tops and heels. Then, to finish the look, we wrote ‘I’m sexy and I know it’ in Sharpie on our arms, and ‘The Rocky Horror Show’ on our backs.
The looks we got on the way to the square were a picture. Down the packed streets, in the metro: I’m pretty sure they’d never seen such a disgraceful group of young women. We’d hoped that as we got closer to the square where the show was being put on, we’d see more people dressed up and be able to blend in more; no such luck. When we were a street away, we decided to pop into one of the bars for a drink and a bite to eat.
As we approached Plaza de la Reina, we were struck with a sudden pang of awful realisation; no one else was dressed up. So, apparently dressing up for The Rocky Horror Show is not a thing in Spain (something that would have been useful to know beforehand, really). We now had two choices: go back to the house as fast as we could and try to forget this had ever happened, or carry on as though we looked completely normal. We decided, even though it was probably the most embarrassing moment of our lives, that since everyone had already seen us looking this ridiculous, we might as well get to actually see the show.
We found a spot amongst the crowd where we could sit as discreetly as possible and managed to go fairly unnoticed throughout the show - apart from Vicky, who unfortunately caught the eye of a butch lesbian who then wouldn’t leave her alone. The lesbian didn’t seem to understand that we had just dressed up for fun, and kept demanding what Vicky’s ‘price’ was. Mortified, Vicky tried to explain, but there just seemed to be too much of a language barrier this time - and I was too far away and laughing too much to be of any use.
The show itself was good fun too; despite our apparent obsession with it, none of us had actually seen it before but we knew a lot of the songs. And the rest of the audience, although they clearly hadn’t got the memo about dressing up, knew the musical well enough to join in with the appropriate choruses of ‘puta’ and ‘gilipollas’. Apart from that, the songs were in (heavily accented) English and only the narration in Spanish, which obviously worked out better for me than the other two, but they enjoyed it anyway.
When the show was cut short due to the official closing of Gay Pride, there was outrage in the crowd, but the organiser explained that there was nothing to be done. With no further events on that evening, we made our way back to the house where, after scrubbing off the evidence of our epic sartorial slip, I admitted defeat and went to bed.
On Monday, after spending the whole night fluctuating between searing heat and freezing cold, I woke up with one of the most horrendous colds I’d had in a long time. Since I’m one of those people who has to be practically on their death beds to back out on any commitment, I dragged myself to the metro regardless and had the longest and most painful day at work possible. This wasn’t helped by the fact that, at some point in the afternoon, Jaime, the guy who is technically my superior in the department, walked behind me and asked casually what on earth I had on my back. I was mortified. Luckily, I managed to gloss over it quite well, by saying vaguely that we’d dressed up for Gay Pride - but that didn’t stop me feeling absolutely ridiculous for going around the office all day having traces of The Rocky Horror Show written all over my back.
That evening was the girls’ last one in Madrid, so regardless of how awful I felt, I wanted to take them somewhere nice to eat. We decided on the paella restaurant José had recommended to me, which was expensive but worth the money. For the good of everyone, I feel it’s best to leave out the details of what happened during the rest of that night and just say that it was a little bit mental.
On Tuesday, Vicky and Chloe had to get to the airport in the afternoon so we had to say our goodbyes in the morning before I went to work. When I got back that evening, I found the place immaculate, and a little note waiting for me on the kitchen table. They’d written to tell me again how grateful they were and that they’d had the best weekends of their lives. It had been pretty amazing for me too.
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