Chapter 3: A Walk in the Park

We quickly settled in to a one-room efficiency near Plaza de Antón Martín, a V-shaped plaza near Atocha, one of Madrid’s major streets. The area is named after the sixteenth-century founder of a charity hospital, which seemed fitting. Until the plane landed, we were uncertain that we would even make it to Spain. Thoughts of medieval Europe and pandemic containment measures were ever on our minds.

The day after our arrival, we covered over 10 miles on foot, looking for a rental apartment and scoping out food markets. The contrasts with New York City are stark. Not a roach was seen. Not a closet presented as a “bedroom” was offered. Compared to New York City, this was a walk in the park. Although now retired, we might be able to live in an apartment in Madrid larger than the 465 square feet we shared in New York.

Our first haul of food and supplies provided similar relief. We spent less than $55 on what would have cost us three times as much in the States. It was another pleasant revelation, and we were already beginning to adjust to our new life.

The following morning, having now completed the essential items on our To Do List, we decided to take a walk to beautiful Retiro Park. It was a gorgeous day, and we marveled at how clean and crisp the air felt in our lungs. But the streets were deserted. The National Library of Spain, which we passed along the way, was closed. This made our nerd hearts sink. Under the circumstances, the wrought-iron fence and gates, which had previously struck us as ornamental and pleasing to the eye, now seemed forbidding. We encountered a closed gate, but made our way around to find another that was still open. We proceeded along Cuesta de Moyano — a pedestrian footpath lined with wooden bookstalls, reminiscent of those along the banks of the Seine in Paris — yet all but two were latched closed.

Retiro Park is more garden than park, and we did our best to appreciate all the beauty it has to offer. But whether park or garden, it is a public space, and without the usual crowds of people, the experience was disquieting . . . and foreshadowed what was to come. This was to be our last walk in the park for the foreseeable future.

That evening, the government announced imposition of the State of Alarm under the Spanish Constitution. The encerrado and confinamiento were upon us.

©2020 Kay Diaz

Chapter 2: Arrival

Flying past the Sierra de Guadarrama mountain range into the City of Madrid, peering through the oval airplane window, one is struck by the vast countryside; this is not your Midwest bright green-and-yellow grid. This quilt is composed of dark green and rusty brick-colored triangles. My bone deep love for this shade of red — based on years of rolling out, playing, and teaching on clay tennis courts in my youth — is tempered in this setting by fears of what it signifies: deforestation and soil erosion. This is something I must look into.

Now, however, I am focused on the plots below punctuated with oak trees, the tops of which, from this aerial view, remind me of the umbrella pines I am more familiar with in Italy. The branches of these trees, however, start further down on the trunk and extend more irregularly at the top. Though they are a deep green, my mind drifts to the suddenly prevalent microscopic images of the orange coronavirus spores reaching outward.

I look out the window again. The oaks are precisely planted and spaced over broad swaths of land. Hatch marks and dots on a giant old-timey comic strip come to mind. Then, Roy Lichtenstein pops into my head — his “Drowning Girl” pop art: “I don’t care! I’d rather sink -- than call Brad for help.” We, however, preferred to land safely and were relieved that our pilot — whatever his name — appeared to be doing just that.

When we exited the gate at Madrid-Barajas Airport, we knew we were in a different world — a very civilized world in which the definition of public good does not include government authorities granting franchises to private companies that then charge exorbitant prices: the baggage carts were FREE!

©2020 Kay Diaz

Chapter 1: Departure

“Expired,” read the LCD reader on the credit card slot on the luggage-cart dispensing-machine at Newark International Airport — and my heart raced. I had just spent $6 to rent a lousy, ankle-bruising cart, and now my credit card was no good? In twelve years together, flying to a dozen countries, Kate and I had never checked a single bag. But here we were, with all of the belongings we deemed necessary to get by for a couple of years, crammed into three large suitcases, a carry-on wheelie-bag, and two glorified, over-sized gym bags. Now, with our bodies only recently patched together by our chiropractor/physical therapist in a triage of adjustments, transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulations (look it up), exercises, and a vibrating machine that looks like it could drill through sheet-rock, we were ready for our journey to Madrid. Problem was, we only had four arms and four legs between us.

Lug, drag, kick, shuffle . . . . lug, drag, kick, shuffle . . . . We had no idea if skycaps still operated curbside. I hadn’t checked curbside with a skycap, since I was a privileged child traveling with my parents; it was a time when I wore a dress and my brothers wore jackets and ties to fly.

The metal cart clanked off the rack. I took a second look at the LCD reader, which I now saw read, “time expired.” I took a deep breath. The LCD cleared. Deciding to tempt fate, I inserted the card again. This time, I was quick to do a deep-knee bend and yank the cart off the rack.

Now, I could do a side-by-side sway, amble, smile. . . . sway, amble, smile . . . toward my wife. Balancing two carts, arms outstretched wider than the pecs machine at the gym that my doctor told me not ever to use again. My smile faded when I saw Kate pointing over her right shoulder: equidistant from where the taxi had dropped us off, but in the other direction down the walkway, was a skycap station. We could have just dragged the bags there, and checked our luggage.

©2020 Kay Diaz