Mad In Madrid

Day Twelve: Santa Fe to Madrid and back

Our day began with a breakfast party. A&A's friend Katie (all Katie's are good bakers, declares Alix) came over and we had homemade popovers with special La Madera apricot butter. We all basked in the sun and in the shade of the cherry tree in the courtyard. It was a lovely morning.

We headed over to a coffee shop on Baca Street called Counter Culture to do our internetting stuff. Though we had a beautiful plate of heuvos rancheros, and a cinnamon bun the size of a chihuahua, I was getting cranky. The Pirate could sense it, so we packed up Mariposa (who was being a shit, buy the way. He wouldn't get online at A&A's and the word processing program I've been using for 11 days is now frozen) and got on the road. Riding R. Girl usually makes me feel better.

We are taking a mad ride to Madrid. First, it's pronounced Maa-drid. Second, a “mad ride to Madrid” is a term and activity coined by the one and only Stephen Beili. When I was last in Madrid, it was dreamy; small, rough around the edges, galleries with actual art and the feeling of an outpost. Unfortunately, in 15 years Madrid has been Gatlinburg'd. What's that you ask? Perhaps you will know some of the synonyms: Chimney Rock'd or Myrtle Beach-y? Anyway, seeing the town this way sent me into full blown Crankasaurus Rex status.

We parked and went to a restaurant called “The Hollar”. It was at “The Hollar” that the Pirate suggested I just let the venom flow for a little while until I felt better. Here's the resulting rant: So, the back of the menu in this place, “The Hollar”, informs the patron that “a Hollar” is southern vernacular for “a hollow”, and this this is an appropriate name for this establishment because the chef is a native southerner...from Florida. OK, back yer truck up buddy. Florida, geographically speaking, is obviously south, but it's not suh-thun. Unless you are a character in The Yearling or over 90 years old, if you are from Florida, you are not suh-thun. This is not to say that you don't have value, or that you are insignificant, only that you're confused and not intitled to calling your self southern. Plus, where the hell are there any “hollars” in Florida?

And here are some discripters on the outside of the shops, I assume meant to entice: “curious thangs” and “very cool stuff”. One store just flat out calls itself “Heaven”. Oh my god.

I continued ranting all throughout this ridiculous “artist town”. Feeling much better, we got on R. Girl and made a hasty escape back to Santa Fe. It is with great disappointment and sadness that The Pirate and The Mermaid must issue an official “no tits” ranking to Madrid. Thinking of going? Skip it.

The evening redeemed itself with a cookout in the courtyard with A&A and their neighbor. We laughed and drank beer and ate corn on the cob, brats, kraut and grilled onions.

I know this is a cranky entry ya'll. Sorry.

The Mermaid