I Didn't Eat Any of the Pastries in This Video

FILMADRID: Days 3

An eclair would be nice, before I have to leave. Also, churros with chocolate is a supposedly Madrid thing to do at breakfast; I must insist on that.

After staying up until 5am, buzzing from all the drinks and photographs I took on Day 2, I literally slept for all of Day 3, only getting up late in the afternoon to head to El Retiro Park to try to find the huge book fair I had been hearing about. It was pretty half-assed and not well-planned on my part. And yet again, I got lost wandering around my neighborhood, thinking I could wing it and find my way easily. No such luck. I couldn’t remember the ornate Spanish street names worth shit.

But I eventually found my way to El Retiro Park on the subway (which I am pretty good at using). I am trying to go the whole trip without hailing a taxi or an Uber.

The gates of El Retiro welcomed me like a yawning mouth, yet another one swallowed. This is the manicured park of Madrid, not like the wild, vast Casa de Campo. No, El Retiro is the one that is most often compared to Central Park in NYC. And it is an apt comparison.

Ok, Philip. You want to test fate? You think you can just wander around and find what you’re looking for without planning and research?

So far? Yes.

Here I am posing with the sexiest bookstore in Gainesville, Florida emblazoned on myself, and a cool mural.

But back to El Retiro!

I started to get a little hopeless. Admittedly, it was what a screenwriter might call an “all is lost” moment. This park is five times bigger than Central Park and there are no signs anywhere. How will I ever find this book fair?

I should also mention that I am a master of self-sabotage in all forms, and that extends very mightily towards not asking for help when I need it. I can be desperately lost in a strange, unfamiliar city and my life can depend on asking for directions… and I still won’t! Eventually, it all works out.

A beautiful, bespectacled woman suddenly approaches me, snapping me out of my inner monologue. She begins to speak and I immediately say, “Habla ingles?”

She asked me the same question and we talked over each other for a cute moment.

Bottom line, she was speaking English because she was seeking endorsements for some pseudo-Scientology end of days book she has in her hand. It was written by a “Nobel Prize Winner” who was standing off to side, watching this highway accident. She kept trying to get me to buy the book and when I kept refusing, her last desperate act was to have me pose holding the book next to the author while she snapped a photo. What was the purpose? I don’t care.

Ultimately, she asked if I had an Instagram account. I lied and said I didn’t. But I was smart enough to ask this English speaker where the book fair was.

I bought a book by Pasolini.

Dinner that night was pulpo a la gallega (octopus with potatoes)

I watched a good film by my new German friends Paul and Willy in the Cine Doré and got to meet a wonderful person named Gabriela who listened to my relationship woes and offered sensible advice. She has an excellent command of English because she learned the language in California instead of the U.K. like a crazy person.

Here she is asking a question, post-screening:

Then it was on to Casa de Campo for a very exciting live flamenco demonstration against a video projection of a documentary about the dance’s application to Spanish political history.

We ate warm empanadas and I remarked the trees looked like Africa. I didn’t understand the words, but the image of Franco in his tomb resonated with me and got me thinking wishfully about my government back in the States. And then I was up late again…