How did I forget to mention the most interesting part of our Asian cabinmate on the trenhotel? When we walked into El Sobrino de Botín there she was, chatting away with someone in a rapid language I could not possibly understand with smiles and drinks abounding. SB stopped in the doorway, pulled me aside, and whispered, “Is that her?”
It was strange to see someone we had only encountered as silent laughing and speaking so animatedly. Then again, I’ve discovered that perceptions in general are quite different in Spain. For example, I am of average height in this country, whereas in the US I am daily made fun of for my lack of stature. Another example: the other night as SB and were walking back to our hotel I saw an attractive young girl leaning against the wall in an extremely short, tight dress. After we passed her I wondered aloud, “A prostitute?”
SB looked back. “Nah,” she said, shaking her head. “People just dress like that here.”
Half a block later I saw another young girl leaning against the wall in a similarly provocative outfit, only this one was particularly unattractive. “I think they’re prostitutes,” I repeated to SB.
We studied the walk in front of us and decided that yes, there was a line of prostitutes standing in the shadows, even along the wall of McDonald’s, which seems to me the most depressing place to decide to pay for sex (excepting maybe a Burger King, since they don’t even have free Wifi). After that we started searching for them at night. They’re really all over the city, and are most recognizable not by their outfits but by the fact that they stand idly by a wall flicking a cigarette between their fingers. Sometimes a normal girl stands against the wall between two prostitutes, but you can usually tell the difference because the normal girl will be on the phone, usually screaming at her boyfriend or telling her mom that she’s just going to the movies with some friends. Also the normal girl always has a purse, and the prostitutes seem to miraculously carry money, phone, lipgloss, ID (maybe not ID, I suppose), and condoms in some easily imaginable location barely covered by the scanty cloth pasted suggestively to a few random areas of skin. Really I’m more impressed by these prostitutes than anything else, because they also appear to stand for hours in heels longer than the length of my forearm.
I hope they get paid well. I was thinking about this as we walked through the Mercado de San Miguel, where among the fresh fruit and hanging legs of pork and intricately designed mini cakes we stopped for a bit of caviar. This sounds more lavish than it really was: an ample amount of caviar was spread onto a small piece of crunchy bread tapas-style and each piece was sold for 1 Euro. Though I realize that 1 Euro equates to roughly $5, the caviar still was lumped on the bread so that a hefty mound accumulated on top, and I felt I was getting much more than my Euro’s worth. I wondered, do prostitutes come to the Mercado de San Miguel during the day and eat 1 Euro caviar tapas? Or do they spend all their money on nicer shoes so that they are more comfortable when standing up? I asked SB and she made a face and said, “Who cares?”
This was actually a valid point. I am not in the habit of wondering such things about people of other professions. However, though I have seen only few prostitutes in my time, these seemed better groomed and more secure than the ones I’ve encountered in the US or Africa. Most of the ones here in Madrid are even attractive and almost indistinguishable from the other girls around. This makes me wonder about their lives – are they choosing to be prostitutes? If so, why? And is prostitution legal in Spain?
This is just one example of how traveling opens your mind.
