Memories from Padre Claret 15

For some reason, tonight I am feeling nostalgic. We were studying the Parisian Metro map in French class and it made me miss the Metro in Madrid. Luckily, youtube is amazing. I found clips of the Metro man saying, "Proxima estacion... ". I didn't think I would miss something as simple as that, which I heard almost every day. I never realized how beautiful the subway was.



The clip shows la linea 4. I lived at Alfonso XIII. Maps.google is pretty amazing, too. I was able to virtually walk the streets. I walked past the park I spent a bit of my youth running in. We used to go to the Retiro park to eat obleas. I saw the pharmacy with the big green cross and the garden with the snails we poked. I saw the VIPS restaurant where we ate pancakes and the second hand store where we bought VHSs. I saw the Sabeco super market where I bought bread every morning for 58 cents. I saw the church where we spent countless hours whispering in the pews and making paper aiplanes out of the pamphlets. I saw the apartment we had lived in since my birth (only in the summer for me). Victor the landlord, who we were afraid of but is now shorter than us, would yell because we put our fingerprints on the mirrors in the elevator. We liked to push all the buttons in the elevator and send Brian up alone. We also thought he’d enjoy being thrown from the top floor down all the stairs. He got his first bath as a consequence. I saw the terrace on the fourth floor, the one with the faded yellow blinds. I traveled into my memory to see that stack of newspapers Papa piled to the ceiling, insisting he would need them one day. I saw the old brown chairs that were falling apart because we sat on them wrong, with the right arm crusty from my brother wiping his boogers on it. The wood on the floor, stained and old, in a crisscross pattern. The rows of VHS movies to which we knew all the lines in spanish. The balcony with the cat stickers on the glass, we put them up and couldn't get them down. The 3 noodles stuck to the bumpy ceiling (it was my method of making sure they were cooked). The orange striped awning, which made my hands smell like metal when I rolled it down. The thermometer in degrees Celcius. The dusty bricks. The chandelier that Papa knocked his head on but that I couldn’t reach. The old tablecloth with years of stains on it, always covered with breadcrumbs. Years of eating exactly one cup of Cola Cao and toast with marmelada and mantequilla. The black dresser with the eagle heads and candelabrum. The white kitchen which was usually not very clean. The wet mop that I made my brother dance with once. The old-fashioned coffee maker that Papa used every morning. The stove that only turned on with a lighter. The container of stale candy we refused to throw out. Endless jars of Nutella and Cola Cao. The refrigerator with the handle falling off. Filled with banana and strawberry yogurts despite the fact that Papa hated them. There was an ince cube tray in the freezer which I would snack on in those terribly hot days. The big green door with brass knobs and 4A written on it. The pictures of girls dancing on the wall. The wooden door with the screen. The bathroom with the painted ceiling chipped. The pile of Papa’s clothes in the butt rinse. The yellow heater which made odd gurgling sounds. The bottle of hairspray that my mom left and which Papa hadn’t wanted to part with. The cabinet with 3 mirrors, filled with junk. The little whole Papa uncovered to try to rescue my Polly Pocket that had taken a bath in the sink and slipped. Papa’s study… so overstuffed with CDs and magazines that I had to pretend to be a ballerina on tiptoes when I walked in. The pigeons that would sit on his window sill. The loud crunching sound of plastic when I knocked over his CDs. The rows of old books, with a section devoted to Hitchcock. The picture of him with his mother when he was a boy. My room. The room where the few dramatic moments of my young life took place. The old bed with the debilitated pillow that we loved. Where Papa woke us with kisses and freshly squeezed orange juice when we had to go to school. The pile of books that fell when I stretched my feet out. The closet that wouldn’t open but contained all of our toys. Where I also hung my plaid skirt school uniform. The collection of porcelain dolls that I got from the magazine stand. The blocks of wood that could be pulled up to reveal dust and my paper money. My pig, Segovia, holding all my pesetas. The dark corridor to Papa’s room. The exercising bike he never used. The other balcony from which Alberto squirted innocent people. The cross hanging above his bed. The beige leather chair from the last century. The lamp with bulbs hanging upside down. The closet with Abuelo’s old suits. The giant bed over which I tripped, broke my arm, and laid on for an hour in agony. Papa told us stories of Brian’s adventures with pirates, cowboys, and eskimos on that bed. Bedtime stories. Which I sorely miss. In retrospect, I never really appreciated it until I was gone. It was just another place I went. It was just another summer house. Only now do I realize how much of a home it was.

Memories from Padre Claret 15