A hook-up in Madrid
We recently checked into a VRBO for an eight-night stay in Barrio de Las Letras in Madrid, a neighborhood that was home to some great 17th-century writers. It’s on the ground floor (literally, not Europe’s confusing version of the first floor which is actually the second floor). The first night we crawled into bed around 11 and went to sleep. For us, 11 is ridiculously late and for Spaniards’ it is ridiculously early, about the time they are starting their second course at dinner. But we were tired and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
That is until about 1 am when we were woken up by some noise coming from the apartment next door.
Two people arrived, turned on some music, and were having a lively conversation.
I guess the walls are pretty thin–the equivalent of a day-old newspaper because I could almost follow the conversation if only my Spanish was a little better and if the Madrileños would slow down their rapid-fire speech.
The amiable chatting went on for about a half-hour. It was just loud enough to keep us awake and I was tempted to jump out of bed and fish around in my backpack for those emergency earplugs that I carry in case I’m seated on a plane next to a one-year-old baby whose teeth are coming in and is screaming loud enough to shatter the airplane window glass.
In this case, the animated discussion grew so loud that I wished I actually had those earphones that the guys on the runway use when they are guiding a plane into the gate.
As I rose up, the chattering suddenly stopped and seconds later a heavy panting—clearly a female—started. It was rhythmic, not slowing or growing faster, not reaching a crescendo – just constant heavy breathing and loud sighing that obviously went along at the same pace as her partner’s activities.
There was no pounding on the wall (thank God, she could have put her fist through it straight into our bedroom) or squeaky bedsprings. No sounds of wet kissing or amorous whispering (Ah, mi vida, mi amore, te quiero). There was not even the sound of clothing being shed (did they come from the disco naked?) or the hopping of one barefoot on the wood floor as he tried to disengage himself from his unruly pant leg. Nothing but the sudden shift of conversation to lone panting.
And then after five minutes (I had abandoned the earplug idea, obviously) it just suddenly stopped.
And, perhaps two or three seconds later, the conversation continued just like before.
I yelled out “8.2” because, although brief, I thought it was a spirited performance.
But Sue, always the tougher critic, yelled “6.2, lack of foreplay.”
Ahh, dating these days. No drawn-out expensive dinners, exploring each other’s interests, grazing of the shoulders while walking down a quiet city street, breathing each other’s unique bouquet.
Instead, you install the dating app, swipe left until someone appeals to you, swipe right, and meet for the first time. Just like that. So that is apparently what is known as a “hook up.”
In a world of 1-hour Amazon deliveries, video on demand, and 15-minute grocery deliveries I guess instant gratification is a given. I mean, life is short, isn’t it?