A wave of construction meets tourist season in Madrid, creating ripples of confusion among visitors and shrugs among the locals. The metro is always under construction, churning out broken elevators that turn commutes into workouts. My phone must have thought I was climbing tall hills every day I was there, for Madrid manages to be the highest altitude European capital.
Stations are split in half and construction blankets once busy metro lines with blue fences marked with the logo of the company Dragados. I attempt translation, for surely these dragons were the past participle of some verb that I could fish out of my mind. Dragons with large snouts that could pick up subway cars must lay just beyond the fenced area. Workers submerged in the guts of a broken escalator are no longer men, but centaurs with mechanical joints and metal hooves.
Each morning, I enter the metro at the Vicente Aleixandre station. In the middle of summer, the station lacks the echoes of the hubbub of university students headed to class or back into the city. Quaker parrots chirp overhead, relishing in the glow of the morning sun from their perches in pine trees. The university district always feels like a refuge, a far cry from the war ground it once was in 1936.
Colón is my regular destination in the middle of the Spanish empire, flaunting the largest yellow and red national flag in the country. I smirk at the thought that surely there are larger American flags. The statue of Christopher Columbus presides over the stately avenue, a constant reminder of the diaspora of which I too am a part. As a Mexican American scholar of Spanish literature and culture, I sit with the contractions of my heritage and history at the National Spanish Library.
Chueca is draped in the pageantry of rainbow capitalism, plastered in flags and advertisements. I hug the walls tightly for the platform is especially narrow, wedged in the middle of the city like a gay ornament for those who can afford the cost of living.
Gran Vía created quite of a stir, churning out an homage to the former glory days of 1920s Madrid. A century old, the metro station now welcomes commuters after several years offline. The imposing signage and elevator entrance hearkens back to well-dressed flaneurs of yesteryear while allowing more accessible access to the great way through the city.
Estación del Arte is closed through October, cutting off a crucial artery through the southern part of the city and gateway to the illustrious art museum. Without a functioning metro station at the Atocha railway station, the taxi queue snakes out the exit. Atocha already confuses enough passengers with its sign for the City of Barcelona, the perplexing street just outside the station.
The metro is always under construction and a constant barrage of reminders blares through each station to remind passengers about alternate routes. It is in these liminal spaces where I begin to think of the past versions of myself who walked through this city and the future versions of myself who will once again forget that line one stops at Sol and requires all passengers to transfer.