Day Thirteen

Today I wrote about one thousand words, around 950, to be exact, which is not enough, but at least means I am not obligated toward self-flagellation. But I must write more.

I went to El Parque de Retiro in the afternoon, which was one of the most beautiful parks that I ever been in, an absolutely sprawling place, big enough that there are long stretches in which there are no humans to be found, and so it is possible for one to be alone there. There is also a feral cat colony there, although feral is perhaps too strong a word. They are a bunch of very clumsy and skittish park cats. There is also a small colony of peacocks, and an abundance of crows, or at least I think they are crows. Whatever they are, I became enamored with them in a way that is impossible to feel about the crows in the US, which are pretty much universally viewed as awful pests. I think the reason is because these Spanish crows are solitary animals, whereas the crows in New York travel in murders. This reflects a very common observation, I think, which is that there is something noble about the solitary individual, and something nasty about crowds.

I made the horrible mistake of going out to a pub crawl with the hostel-mates. Sadly, I do not think I like the people I share my living space with. I discovered that the hapless New Zealander, the big NBA lover whose passport was stolen, is for some reason hated by everybody at the hostel, and that they mock him cruelly whenever he is not around. But why? There is something about him that makes him easy to hate, although I cannot identify what that quality is. In any case, I feel as though I am back in freshman year of college, with the cliques and the bullies and all, and it is not a good feeling. There is nothing I despise more than bullies. But then I do not like the big New Zealander very much either.

I ended up walking back early from the pub crawl by myself, and on my way I was approached by one of the whores on La Calle de Mordena, and I spoke to her briefly. There is an abundance of whores in Madrid, and a few of them are actually beautiful, although this whore was not beautiful. I told her I could not accept her services, and when she asked why I told her it was because I was poor. I said it with a smile, and she told me that I was crazy, that it was crazy to smile about being poor, and I told her that she was mistaken, and then I told her good night.

What in the world am I doing talking to whores? My mind has been poisoned by too many Dostoeyevsky novels. It's an incredible wonder that I haven't been robbed.