All Fall Down: A bike racer’s crash in Madrid

Bike racing is a great sport. Just riding your bike is such a great feeling and sensation. However it comes with a few drawbacks (I don’t consider the tan-lines a drawback for the record), one of which is the inevitable crash. You avoid them like the plague, and when they happen you lose a lot of skin but generally you are ok and are back out on the bike two days later, after a little pain and bandaging yourself up . At least these were my thoughts about crashing BEFORE yesterday. As I ambled down a little descent in Casa de Campo yesterday and banked into a turn at about 30 mph, all the while failing to notice the gravel in the corner, I was just feeling wonderful things about being on a bike. However as the slide began, and the ground got closer and closer as it rushed up to meet me, yes, I think that was when it all turned south a bit. So after falling and scraping my hip knee and both elbows pretty badly, the whole of Casa de Campo society came to my assistance: two cyclists, a runner, and a prostitute. “YOU NEED TO BE CAREFUL IN THAT TURN”….yes, thank you for your advice, I think I’m quite aware of that now. I limped my way out of the road, inspected myself and despite their protests I said “I’m going home.”

I arrive home to the realization that I have no bandages, no hydrogen peroxide, and no water (of all days for them to shut off the water in my building, it had to be today). So I call the program assistant at school to tell her I have fallen on my bike and need to know the words for bandages, Neosporin, Advil, the usual. My hip hurts a lot, it was quite difficult to walk but I was fairly confident it was not broken, seeing as I could support my weight on it. Anyways, this all ends with being sent to a doctor, who was very grumpy with me. Imagine a rather portly grumpy old man with a grumbly Spanish accent saying, you should be at a hospital, not here. So thus I wind up at the Hospital General Universitario Gregorio Marañón, where the day's real adventure begins.

As the taxi pulls up to the emergency room entrance there is a swarm of people outside. I think to myself “if this is the line…I think I’m just going to crawl to a nice spot on the curb and give up.” But no. Spain has a large gypsy population. And when one gypsy gets hurt, every single family member comes to the hospital. Grandma, grandpa, mom, dad, aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, brother, sister, cousins twice removed, you get the idea. Since only one is allowed in the hospital with the injured Gitano, the rest make this lovely welcoming committee out side the hospital. I make my way into the busy waiting room where there is another welcoming committee of sick people. Mmmm, the wonders of the inner city hospital. Sitting in the lovely waiting room a man asks me if I’ve had a motorcycle accident, I think to myself, “do I look THAT bad?” Anyways, after about an hour of waiting, I get called in to “Box de Triaje 2.” Box doesn’t mean anything in Spanish, so I was literally called into triage box 2, which was kind of a funny linguistic thing to me. You don’t have to be amused by it. They send me to Trauma, again, I feel like I must look a lot worse than I feel.

Walking into the Trauma ward at Gregorio Marañón is a little like walking into a nursing home mixed with a homeless shelter. Add a little rush hour train station, and you can imagine the combination of old men and women, smelly people, and general population hobbling around. Some can barely walk, as they hobble around sans wheelchairs that would be provided in the private hospitals. Gabriela, the program assistant who was absolutely amazing in helping me get what I needed, had to help one woman WALK to the x-ray room because no hospital employee was there to assist her. As I stand waiting to get my hip x-rayed, people are wheeled by. Some come by, wheeled by hospital personnel, looking half dead, or maybe fully there, it was a tough call on some of them. The emergency room was pervaded by this warm humidity that added to the somewhat chaotic atmosphere of the place. A man came by on a stretcher accompanied by about 6 members of the Guardia Civil, who knows what he did. A woman hobbled about from place to place, and explained that she had been there for four hours after a traffic accident, and had been sent all over the hospital and wasn’t exactly sure where she was supposed to be.

After my x-ray, 3 hours after my arrival at the hospital, I am ushered into a room where a doctor pulls out the photos, and looks at my hip. I look up at the board and along the bottom of the x-ray are the following words: Hassig, Owwen Lee, *23/02/1987, Mujer. Now. Let’s analyze a little bit. Problem number one: My name is Owen, not Owwen. Problem number two: Mujer means woman. I’m fairly certain I’m not one, and when I laughingly point this out to the doctor, he gave a wry smile that sort of said “we can’t be perfect.” So here I am facing the insurance coverage nightmare as I will later have to try to convince them that this IS actually me. But we’ll see how that plays out soon. So, as I suspected, Hip not broken. Just nice missing patches of skin there, on both elbows, my knee, and my wrist. Part of my expectation is that this lovely young man will clean these wounds out and patch them up with the supplies I lack in the apartment. But no such luck, he slaps some bandages on them and sends me on my way with a prescription for some pain killers.

Morning after: I go to the pharmacy, looking for bandages and hydrogen peroxide after waking up to the realization that the areas surrounding these cuts are still covered in Casa De Campo dirt. Thanks doc. I go acquire the prescription and some five meter long bandages for a total of 6 Euros. Let’s hear it for the lack of a pharmaceutical lobby; at least Spanish healthcare has that going for them. I come back, and realize that I’ve no Neosporin and head back to the pharmacy, a different one this time that is a little closer to my house. After asking the lovely young woman behind the counter for some antibiotic cream, she says, “Well, you can have that, but Betadine is better.” Betadine is essentially iodine, and I’d be hard pressed to find someone who has put that on a cut in the U.S. in 15 years. She’s quite insistent upon it though. I insist that all I really need is the antibiotic cream, but she remains quite insistent, and finally, just so I can have the cream I agree to buy the betadine as well, which she instructs me to put on before I put the antibiotic cream. Nearly 24 hours later I am nice and cleaned up, sans Betadine, and just a wee bit sore.

Thus concludes my adventure through a European healthcare system. One that I had hoped to avoid, but what can you do. Now armed with my hard fought for bandages and Neosporin (I think I’ll leave the betadine outside the pharmacy before I leave) I am off to Paris, Vienna, Innsbruck, and Milan with Heather for our Spring Break week. It can’t be soon enough and hopefully I will get some lovely pictures to grace you with and a few fun posts. Until Then!!!

Owen

Andalucia...a week later

Hi Everybody!!!

I'm slow at updating the blog, it happens. I'm sorry for the delay, but as I sit here waiting for my hair to dry before I go try to get a haircut (scary, REALLY scary, if you saw how people's hair looks here you'd understand), I thought to myself "what a great time to update the blog." I've been back in Madrid since Sunday, but before that I spent the week in Andalucia, the region of Southern spain, which was the last stronghold of the Muslims in Spain before they were kicked out by Spain's beloved Catholic Monarchs, Ferdinand & Isabella, discoverers of the new world, and persecutors of millions. But lets keep cynicism out of this, because lets face it, I kind of want to move to Andalucia, Its the kind of thing where you think "well why did I decide to study in Madrid?"

Driving south from Madrid, you push outside of the light industry, and heavy, which surrounds the city, its gross, REALLY gross actually, but what can you do? Presently you come into these beautiful rolling green hills, and actually here my recollection of the journey stops. The bus left at 730 meaning I had to leave my apartment at 630, so I fell asleep. However I'm sure there were many lovely things to be seen in that hour and a half, that maybe I will go try to see some other time and tell you about. I woke up, and was in the middle of the biggest flat plain I have ever seen. Just off in the distance you could barely start to see the hills, but this was just a flat, treeless expanse of green, it was kind of amazing to behold. Spain doesn't have a lot of middle ground I've discovered from riding, its either pancake flat, or you are climbing for 5k. No little rolling hills, just big ones. Anyways, this was all part of the drive to Andalucia, eventually you see these enormous hills rising up to meet you, and you are in the Sierra Morena, a small mountain range with these craggy rock outcroppings, its one of the most majestic things I have ever seen. This is the gateway to Andalucia, an hours drive through the olive tree dotted hills brings you to Cordoba.
Cordoba is a small city, and its claim to fame is La Mezquita. La Mezquita, were it still a mosque, would be one of the 3 largest in the world. However like all things good and Muslim, it needed a little Catholicism after 1492, and thus a Cathedral was built in the middle of the mosque. So here you are standing next to the alter of a 16th century cathedral, looking off into the seemingly endless arches of the 10th century mosque. It is really quite a juxtaposition, and a very breathtaking place. It also introduced me to one of my favorite parts of Andalucia, the fact that there are just orange trees lining the city streets. Now, just because they are there doesn't mean you should eat them, they are very sour and are used for making marmalade, not your afternoon snack, I had a friend decide to experiment, and have an "I immediately regret my decision" moment. Poor Peter.

Then we took the road to Granada, which is the site of the Alhambra, the home of the last Caliphate in Spain, which was sent packing in 1492. As you drive into Granada you can see the Sierra Nevada towering over the city, they are ENORMOUS mountains, and I'm happy to report the Sierra Nevada (translated meaning: snow covered mountains) still have their nieve (snow), and have not fallen victim to the same trend as the Snows of Kilimanjaro. Anyways, Granada is amazing. I wish I had had my bike to go tackle said mountains, but it was still amazing. Narrow alleys are lined with little markets, manned by the massive gypsy population of the city. Some of them try to read your palm, they force it upon you...and then demand payment. Its more of a service you didn't know you wanted, but you got, and they think you should realize that you desperately needed it. The other side of gypsy culture is going to see a Flamenco performance. You can go up into the old Muslim district the Albacin, and go to a place called Sacromonte, where you can see a flamenco performance in a cave like room, very narrow, where the dancers actually bump into you you are so close. I had seen flamenco from farther away before, but when you are that close, you can really feel the passion, really see the pain, and the sort of tortured way the dance has about it. Its really something you should do sometime.

ONWARDS TO SEVILLA!!

Sevilla is my favorite city in Spain. Hands down. No Contest, this city puts all the other cities on the planet to shame. Rich sunny skies, except for when I was there, orange trees on the streets (I was there for the harvest), little cafe's, winding streets, white houses, beautiful patios, the list goes on, if you want a more comprehensive one, email me and I'll try, but I think most of you are probably already bored with this post by now. Hmmmm, I'm going to pull a trick out of marketing and draw your attention back in with a sweet picture
This is La Giralda, formerly a minaret on a mosque, used to call the Muslims of Sevilla to prayer, now the belltower of the largest cathedral in Spain. There are a series of ramps going up the inside. The man who used to issue the call to prayer rode a donkey up it, but in modern times it evolved into a man and his vespa. I mean, whats a little spin on tradition right? I feel like that keeps in line with my travels in Europe thus far, for further information, look back at my series of posts involving Coolio and Venice Carnevale. Anyways, this is my artsy shot of la Giralda, from the Barrio Santa Cruz, the old Jewish District. It was formerly called the Juderia, but when the Catholics came back, the name clearly couldn't stay, so it was called the Barrrio of the Holy Cross. Anyways, this is just one of the most phenomenal places. The narrow winding streets open up to little cafes, in these tiny orange tree lined plazas. I just loved the atmosphere of the city, which is more of a little town feeling, just very slow and lazy, in true Spanish style (and I thought siesta was a bad thing in Madrid!!!). I loved it there. I got to spend several days, one of which was my birthday, ambling the streets, just loving every minute of it. You should really try to make it to Sevilla, its just a magnificent place, I know I plan on returning.

So now we need to discuss the trip home on the public bus.
I know buses have something of a reputation in the U.S., a trip on the greyhound is not a particularly desirable thing, and the rumors of the unsavory nature of the passengers spread afar. However, I'd never done it before. The train from Sevilla was about 56 euros and 2.5 hours, the bus, 18 and 6. So the bus is the better deal by far, and it allows the purchase of many more pastries. So I do it, with my two friends. I arrive at the bus station to find THIS waiting for me:
The Spaniards have evidently not gotten the message that this color scheme died in the early 90s, and have continued its lovely existence in the form of SOCIBUS. Don't ask me why its named as it is, its a very social experience for many I'm sure. For me, it was...I don't really have words. As the bus prepares to leave, the seat next to me looks like it will be vacant, this is nice, I can spread out, breathe, have some fun. Nope. Not in the cards, as the doors close a man bounds into the bus, and by bounds I mean he drunkenly shuffles, and then our eyes meet. A sinking feeling grabs my heart as I look at the seat next to me, I look back at him, he's seen it.
He pulls himself down the aisle, making his way steadily towards creating my personal hell. He collapses into the seat next to me, and mumbles. I'm not really sure he was speaking Spanish. He smells of the whisky he's been ingesting, and his clothes are visibly dirty.We leave the station, all the while my heart sinking rapidly through the acknowledgment of how lovely these six hours will be. He speaks. I don't understand, or even HEAR him at first, but he's motioning at his cell phone, and trying to get me to do something. Finally, I just say, speak louder I can't hear you. He wants me to help him unlock his phone, which he probably had bought stolen, or stolen himself, seeing as he had no knowledge of how to unlock the thing. So anyways, now, my plans for a nap are dashed, as I begin clutching my belongings close to my chest, waiting for the slightest movement to send me into the fetal position, clinging on to my iPod for dear life. By and by, as I read the inspirational words of Barack Obama in "The Audacity of Hope," I smell something. I look down, and the man's shoes are off, further investigation of the scent, which is reminiscent of wet dog combined with moldy cheese, reveals that the source of this malodorous revelation, is in fact the man's feet. So here I am, trying not to asphyxiate, while I prevent the stealing of my things, for six hours. I've since decided that I could have lived without those 40 euros that the train would have cost me, and resolved never to travel on a bus again. 6 hours later, I got off of the bus in Madrid, having had plenty of time to reflect on my poor decision, and really solidified this belief. So thus the trip ended in disaster, and for those of you who have persevered to the end of this long post, and I could go on believe me, I hope this little anecdote has served to entertain you at my expense, as well as teach you a little lesson about why buses are a crime against humanity, or at least clean people.

Until Later
Owen

p.s. Look for pictures from the trip in the next couple of days