Waiting, waiting
It's the day my daughter has been waiting for ever since a possible European tour was announced. We are finally in Madrid, about to attend the concert of her dreams. She has been worried for a couple of years that the band would be too old to return on tour. Those worries had been dispelled the moment she held the tickets in her hand. (For which she showed up at the store where they were to be sold at six in the morning the day they went on sale.) She said she was prepared to go anywhere in Spain to see them. Of course, the logistics are up to me.
We arrive a day early and the morning finds us wandering through the Rastro, the famous Sunday flea market in Madrid. The sun is starting to warm up, even though it's only ten in the morning. On the off chance, I decide to buy a couple of hats. Just in case we have to wait in the sun. I should also have bought a good, opaque umbrella and sunscreen. Especially the sunscreen.
It's two o'clock. We've eaten and made a couple of sandwiches and also brought a couple of water bottles. No problem. We arrive at the stadium and search for the gates we have to wait at. My misgivings start to arise. On this side the sun is beating down. We're next to a major street that skirts the river Manzanares and the asphalt is hand-in-hand with the sun and producing heat. We arrive at one of the gates, but the line is full and they're sending new arrivals down to the next gate. There we line up in one of the barriers, second in line to enter. There's no shade. Cruel, cruel municipal government that didn't have the heart to plant trees along the sidewalk. My skin feels like it's being flagellated with red hot pins.
I leave the line and go to buy more water and a sports drink to avoid dehydration. The lady of the stand I go to is amazed at my pinkness. I have only been there for half an hour and already my skin is saying no. I go back. My daughter leaves the line from time to time and goes to a bar where she stands in the shade and wets her head in the sink of the lady's room. She brings back more water. Water not only goes down our throats, it also goes on our heads and on our clothes. It quickly evaporates, leaving a fleeting sense of freshness. A very few times a small cloud covers the sun. At those moments everyone shouts, "Olé!" People come and go in the line and some bring back light blankets. The people in the next line have had an umbrella until the blanket. They spread it out, tie the four corners to the barriers and gather underneath. I can't stand it. I lean down and ask if they need the umbrella. They graciously lend it to me and my daughter and I hunker underneath as if it were raining pitchforks. Those people also kindly lend us sunscreen, though it's a little bit too late, especially for my face.
I understand what a lost wanderer in the Sahara feels. I feel a make or break moment approaching when at six they open the gate doors. Everyone jumps around like fire ants, picking up everything and putting stuff away, opening backpacks for the inspection and tossing away trash. I feel like a bride-to-be waiting in line for Filene's Basement to open its doors for the yearly wedding dress sale. Or like the shoppers on the first day of sales at Harrod's, getting ready to assault the place. They start to let us through and now no one is tired. We're through the gates and we run down the stadium to the stage, racing each other.
We've made it! Front and center! For about a half hour. People continue arriving and we can barely move. The concert begins at ten; we still have over three hours to wait. We've been standing most of the afternoon (the sidewalk was too hot) and it's hot with so many people crowding together. My daughter starts to feel anxiety. We move away from the center to one side. We're still in front, though, so we have a good vantage point. Here to the side there is less density and we can sit on the ground and rest. At least the sun is now behind the structure of the stadium and we can recuperate from it. Though my face looks and feels like a boiled lobster.
Ten o'clock comes. The opening act has already played and everyone is primed. The stage lights go on, a video comes on the large screens on either side and at the back of the stage. The group comes on and everyone goes insane, including my daughter. There is no tiredness now. Heatstroke is forgotten and everyone rocks. Euphoria rules. As the almost full moon rises placid above the full stadium the place is jumping, literally. We rock and roll for two hours until the last song, the cannon shots, and the fireworks. Then the stage goes dark and the lights come on and people slowly head for the gates. We're surrounded by large crowds as we walk up the streets toward our rented room. Now fatigue sets in. We walk like automatons. We're exhausted. But it was worth it.
We arrive a day early and the morning finds us wandering through the Rastro, the famous Sunday flea market in Madrid. The sun is starting to warm up, even though it's only ten in the morning. On the off chance, I decide to buy a couple of hats. Just in case we have to wait in the sun. I should also have bought a good, opaque umbrella and sunscreen. Especially the sunscreen.
It's two o'clock. We've eaten and made a couple of sandwiches and also brought a couple of water bottles. No problem. We arrive at the stadium and search for the gates we have to wait at. My misgivings start to arise. On this side the sun is beating down. We're next to a major street that skirts the river Manzanares and the asphalt is hand-in-hand with the sun and producing heat. We arrive at one of the gates, but the line is full and they're sending new arrivals down to the next gate. There we line up in one of the barriers, second in line to enter. There's no shade. Cruel, cruel municipal government that didn't have the heart to plant trees along the sidewalk. My skin feels like it's being flagellated with red hot pins.
I leave the line and go to buy more water and a sports drink to avoid dehydration. The lady of the stand I go to is amazed at my pinkness. I have only been there for half an hour and already my skin is saying no. I go back. My daughter leaves the line from time to time and goes to a bar where she stands in the shade and wets her head in the sink of the lady's room. She brings back more water. Water not only goes down our throats, it also goes on our heads and on our clothes. It quickly evaporates, leaving a fleeting sense of freshness. A very few times a small cloud covers the sun. At those moments everyone shouts, "Olé!" People come and go in the line and some bring back light blankets. The people in the next line have had an umbrella until the blanket. They spread it out, tie the four corners to the barriers and gather underneath. I can't stand it. I lean down and ask if they need the umbrella. They graciously lend it to me and my daughter and I hunker underneath as if it were raining pitchforks. Those people also kindly lend us sunscreen, though it's a little bit too late, especially for my face.
I understand what a lost wanderer in the Sahara feels. I feel a make or break moment approaching when at six they open the gate doors. Everyone jumps around like fire ants, picking up everything and putting stuff away, opening backpacks for the inspection and tossing away trash. I feel like a bride-to-be waiting in line for Filene's Basement to open its doors for the yearly wedding dress sale. Or like the shoppers on the first day of sales at Harrod's, getting ready to assault the place. They start to let us through and now no one is tired. We're through the gates and we run down the stadium to the stage, racing each other.
We've made it! Front and center! For about a half hour. People continue arriving and we can barely move. The concert begins at ten; we still have over three hours to wait. We've been standing most of the afternoon (the sidewalk was too hot) and it's hot with so many people crowding together. My daughter starts to feel anxiety. We move away from the center to one side. We're still in front, though, so we have a good vantage point. Here to the side there is less density and we can sit on the ground and rest. At least the sun is now behind the structure of the stadium and we can recuperate from it. Though my face looks and feels like a boiled lobster.
Ten o'clock comes. The opening act has already played and everyone is primed. The stage lights go on, a video comes on the large screens on either side and at the back of the stage. The group comes on and everyone goes insane, including my daughter. There is no tiredness now. Heatstroke is forgotten and everyone rocks. Euphoria rules. As the almost full moon rises placid above the full stadium the place is jumping, literally. We rock and roll for two hours until the last song, the cannon shots, and the fireworks. Then the stage goes dark and the lights come on and people slowly head for the gates. We're surrounded by large crowds as we walk up the streets toward our rented room. Now fatigue sets in. We walk like automatons. We're exhausted. But it was worth it.
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