The warnings on the DFAT site, coded under the very parternal heading of 'SmartTraveller' advice, basically provides travellers with all sorts of warnings of what not to be doing, also rating countries on a 1-5 scale in relation to safety, the most extreme or 5 on the scale meaning that you should really, really, really write yourself a will before heading off, etc, etc. Most of the warnings are well over played and if everyone was to follow what the Department said, well, then you'd be concerned over your safety in Brisbane at Origin time. Why I bring this point up is something I'll discuss later.
Once my flight landed in Madrid I jumped into a cab and made it to Hostel Mistral, 32 Valverde. I chose this place because it was 5 mins walking distance from the apartment that I'd rented for the next few days in Caballero de Gracia. The Hostel was reasonable enough, very cheap and more than anything, extremely central. Until this point in my life I had never undertaken the hostel existence, and aside from it being an extremely cheap way to spend a few nights anywhere, you obviously get placed in close company with other people and don't really have any other option but to socialise. In my first 30 mins of arriving at Mistral I met Paul, a guy from California...I know, I know, a yank, we all hate them right? ...And really, who am I to judge, except for ALL THE TIME, but right from our first discussion we got along. He seemed like a pretty cool guy and hey, I know I'm a cool guy, so that was always going to work out.
After chatting with Paul for a while I decided to walk around a little in order to get my bearings. I'd been to Madrid before, a couple of years ago (2008) but had only stayed a couple of days. With that said, my sense of direction is pretty good and I always remember surroundings that I'd stumbled through previously. In the same fashion I was able to locate Puerto del Sol, essentially
the heart of the city, without too much difficulty, and then followed up by locking into Plaza Mayor in much the same fashion. I kind of strolled around for a few hours until I ran into Paul chomping down on some good 'ole Pollo y fritas on Calle Montera. Chatting with him for a few minutes we decided that we'd catch up at the hostel a little later and line up the 2nd round World Cup clash of USA v.Ghana.
Kick-off for the game was at 20:30, by which time we'd located an Irish bar to watch the game in. So there we were, a yank with a suitably patriotic shirt in tow, an Australian wearing his Socceroos jersey, in the centre of Spain, chatting with some Dutch guy regarding the outcome of a game that Ghana ended up winning - all supporting with several mojitos, the origins of which I'm not too familiar with. It was a hot and heaving crucible of international influence, only put to rest after 120 mins when Ghana scored in extra-time to win the clash and make it to the QF's, a showdown set with my buddies, Uruguay.
Several mojitos to the good we dropped back down into Puerta de Sol for some late evening bocodillo's before strolling back up Calle Montera in order to count the number of pro's working the beat on the thoroughfare. I think in the 5 mins it took us to walk up the street we counting close to twenty, most of whom looked like their best days were in the last millenium - no
judgement on my part, just calling it as I saw it at the time...
