Madcap Mob Scenes

This is the story of two madcap mob scenes: one suburban, the other urban; one commercial, the other playful; one diurnal, the other nocturnal; one obligatory, the other … Oh hell, I could probably think of more contrasts, but it's 1:30pm, and I've only been awake for 2 hours, so I'll cut myself a break.

Yesterday we went to IKEA.  Now, a shopping errand is usually as blog-worthy as cutting one's fingernails, but those of you who have been to an IKEA can imagine the epic proportions of this particular sojourn.  We debated renting a car, because IKEA, inc., assumes you own one, and designs everything about your experience on the basis of that assumption.  Instead, we took the metro out to almost the end of the line to a suburb called Ensanche something-or-other, and walked the 5-10 minutes to the store.

A word about Spanish suburbs.  They are both like and unlike American ones.  "Unlike" in that they do not consist of single-family homes, but of huge apartment blocks.  "Like" in their general dehumanization.  This place was clearly designed to be walkable, but no one was walking.  An occasional family with a stroller appeared to remind us that this was not an empty movie set.  "Like," too, in they are the place to find shopping malls and big-box retail.  You'll be happy to know that we found we have access, not only to a Starbucks, but to a TGI Fridays.  I can sense your collective sigh of relief, readers.  Where would we be without ready access to a TGI Fridays?  Good thing we're not in Cambodia.  I hear they only have Bennigans there.

Incorrigible in our newly-minted urban hipsterness, we WALKED from the metro to IKEA, only to be sucked into the gaping maw of this enormous Swedish retail establishment.  We were quickly accosted by a young woman who wanted us to sign up for an IKEA Family card, which we did, although we were entirely unaware of the benefits because she recited her canned speech so damn fast.  We were then ushered into the Exhibition space.  You see, I have never been to an IKEA, despite the fact that one is available only an hour from where I grew up. The stores actually have a designated route through them.  You gape at exhibition spaces, where all the beautiful furniture is assembled and sharply accessorized, then you go downstairs, still following the designated route, first through the spaces with the accessories and then through the warehouse with the boxes of unassembled furniture.

Half of Spain is following the same route, debating the same throw cushions and dishware.  The prices are astonishingly cheap, which is why everyone is there, but you soon arrive at the creepy realization that literally hundreds – no, thousands – of people are going to live in spaces decorated exactly like yours.  Right now, I know that throughout Central Spain, there are people sitting at a table exactly like mine, drinking out of a glass exactly like mine.  (The entire apartment, we realized, is furnished with the cheapest possible furniture form IKEA) I wonder if they are also blogging about the experience.  Perhaps they are even wondering, like I am, if someone else is blogging about IKEA.  But perhaps, they are also looking around at all the stuff they got for next to nothing and, like me, are finding that possibility a lot less creepy.

So, we took a cab to the metro, metro to the city, cab to the house, and plopped down exhausted.  Zoë was down for the count, but the Kid and I eventually recovered enough to participate in another madcap mob scene, La noche en blanco.  This is something that many European capitals have, a night where they turn the city over to the arts and to fun.  Not that Madrid doesn't do that all the time, but it does so more intensely on this particular night, and everything is free of charge.  Art exhibits.  Concerts.  Installations.  Outdoor dance parties.  This year's theme was "¡Hagan Juejo!" or "Play!" and the point was to turn the city into a giant playground with installations that would involve heavy participation from members of the crowd.  This was wildly successful, as you will see.

We kissed Zoë good night (She's coming down with my stomach bug - I am revising my self-diagnosis of food poisoning – while I am on the mend.  The Kid, as usual, is unaffected.) and headed out to the city.  Downtown was cordoned off to vehicular traffic, and the streets were soon packed with people enjoying the night.  We hit the Plaza Lavapiés, where a totally incoherent art installation provided metal things for people to bang on.  The Kid's inner percussionist came out with great glee.  We hit the Plaza Tirso de Molina, where someone was ranting about state secrets.

Crappy iPhone pic of faux Ghandi at Sol

Along the way, we hit a small plaza whose name we didn't know and played games with this random group of West Africans.  No one really understood the rules, just that they involved everyone having a number and having to run to grab a hat when your number was called.  The organizers were constantly discussing the rules in their own language, but clearly did not have enough Spanish to explain them to everyone.  This made the whole thing hilarious.

We hit the Puerta del Sol, with its usual complement of people pretending to be statues, as well as an enormous photography installation that was being filmed by TVE, Spanish PBS.  Then the Gran Vía, which had been converted into an enormous playground with swing sets and see-saws made out of tires. Then the Casa del libro, where a jazz quartet was playing.  The Kid browsed comic books as we listened.  The Kid was not alone.  There were plenty of families out, with kids of all ages, because that's how Spain is.

Crappy iphone pic of the battle

Finally, way up to the north of downtown, the plaza with the beach balls.  Early in the night, they had released thousands of beach balls into the plaza to see what people would do with them.  What ensued was Lord of the Flies.  Young men, many of whom may very well have been intoxicated, were clustered on either side of a barrier hurling beach balls at each other with as much force as the could muster.  Occasionally, one side or the other would spontaneously organize into a combined volley, propelled along with screams and cheers.  The game had clearly been going on for ages, with people dropping out and in as they could, and a crowd of thousands gathered around watching.  The Kid and I descended into the mosh pit and grabbed all the beach balls we could, started hurling them at whomever we saw.  I got a bit fearful for the safety of my glasses, and extricated myself, but the Kid refused to leave.  He moved up right to the barrier, where he could bombard and be bombarded at the closest possible range.  It was nothing but a welter of body parts and beach balls in perpetual motion, constantly refreshed by the arrival of new bodies, and the infusion of more beach balls.



Eventually the Kid came out of the mob, complaining that he had gotten hit in both eyes, and that they stung.  No freakin' duh!  We walked home, tired as hell, the Kid a bit whiny, through Chueca, the gay neighborhood.  I did not point out the store that advertised "Leather accessories."

1am.  Home.  Embarrassingly early by Spanish standards, but, after all, it was our 2nd mob scene of the day.
1:30am.  Showered and in bed.  The heavy indoor shutters blocking the noise of the mob outside perfectly.