Don´t Talk to Strangers...

I walked over to Reina Sofia yesterday.  Along the way a grandfatherly sort of man said something from across the street. ¨¿Que?¨ I replied and he walked over and said a bunch of stuff in Spanish.  Now I, only comprehending about third word, told him that I only spoke a little bit of Spanish and a lot of ¨No comprende.¨ passed my lips.  I finally identified one word as being ¨guapa¨ asked what that was and he did that lip smacking thing that I thought was a French mannerism.  Then he tried to convince me to come along for a cafe and when I said no tried to kiss me and grab my ass and hustle me off to god only knows where.  Now, those of you who know how completely oblivious I am to flirtation of any sort are probably rolling on the floor laughing.  So, the moral of the story is, even if he looks like grandpa, that doesn´t mean he´s gonna act like grandpa.

Only the bonus side, I discovered if the whole traveler/finance/business owner thing doesn´t work out, I have an alternate career option.  Old men stare at me.  Like stare at the girl walking by and run into the pole right in front of you staring.  I have to admit I´ve been having violent fantasies involving pepper spray, elbows, knees and maybe a veterinarian.

Of course, the story doesn´t start there.  On the flight from Eugene to Denver, I was sitting next to a man who kept telling me how cute I was in one breath and about his wife in the next.  Then when we were deplaning he told me he was really going to miss me.  I mean, seriously? We sat next to each other for 2 hours while I alternated between wanting to smack him and give him a lecture on manners as he said crude comments about the pilot and the flight attendent sitting across the aisle. 

Since the staring is really starting to freak me out, I decided to acquire a few items to help me blend in better.  Everybody wears scarves and coats, even when it´s 75 degrees out.  They´re impervious to the warmth apparently.  So today I headed to the Sunday street fair, El Rastro, and bought a long sweater thing, a scarf and a front carry purse so I don´t have to lug around my backpack in front anymore.

Why carry my backpack in front?  Madrid has a pervasive infestation of pickpockets.  When I was hiking over to the Parque del Retiro on Friday, a guy was walking along behind me.  I was trucking and he kept getting closer, so I swung my pack around grabbed my gum.  Lo and behold, he stalks off in the opposite direction.  These poor pickpockets.  They have no idea about my bubble and my desire to smack anyone coming into it.  Back to violent fantasies, I thought about booby trapping my back pack with needles and safety pins and cutting out euro size paper and writing ¨Shame on you!¨ in Spanish.  I mean, preying on innocent lost tourists?  They need a lesson in right and wrong.

While the pickpockets are plentiful, the Policia are everywhere.  I´ve seen more public servants in Madrid that anywhere in my life.  There are police, street cleaners and other public servants are constantly working to keep the city safe and clean.  And the Policia ride horses, Raza Pura Española (Andalusians), by the look of them.  I´ve never been into uniforms, but what girl could resist that?  I want to take a set home and keep them forever and ever...

Well once again there are people waiting to use the computer, so I must be off...