SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22
Walking through Coslada, I wondered about the similarities between it and mid-sized and small towns in France, and those in the south like Marseille. Unlike the massive community development where we were staying, Coslada feels stuck, poor. Do its occupants feel neglected, estranged from the inhabitants of Madrid? Are infrastructures crumbling, transportation options limited? Do residents here struggle to keep food on their tables? By the time we arrived in Spain, the yellow vest protests had begun, most taking place in Madrid and Barcelona.
COSLADA AND SMALL TOWNS IN FRANCE
Coslada, a small city of 80,000 residents, shows signs of decline. Graffiti covers walls. Many buildings are in disrepair. There are no upscale restaurants. The symmetrically designed, fascist-style park is unkempt, lacking trees and ground cover. Few people walk the streets.
Coslada stands in contrast to the suburb where we are staying. Though physically further from Madrid than Coslada, it is considered part of Madrid. This developing exurban city holds a sense of promise, youthfulness, Courvoisier’s idealism. Buildings are near, but not quite, luxury. The architecture is clean and contemporary; buildings laid out around large central courtyards, with pools and playgrounds, balconies facing inward. Construction began before the 2008 building market bubble collapsed. Ten years later, only a few buildings completed, but the plans are extensive, an entire city with parks, restaurants, shops, many apartment complexes, eight-lane streets. Barren fields lay in wait, benches in islands between the street lanes look outward to dreams yet to be realized. No cars crowd the roundabouts or pass by the streetlights at night. It’s estimated that the project won’t be finished for another ten years. The idea is to create a blooming in this desert, a greening both figuratively, literally and financially. But will the Spanish economy sustain it?
After our walk through the park, we stopped at one of a line of restaurants nearby and ate in another simple eatery with tablecloths and elderly patrons.
THE BIG EVENT OF THE DAY!
The event of the day…picking up Hazel. A shift was coming. Used to being on our own, and able to lazily gaze outward, observe the world around us, that gaze would soon turn inward, to three of us, our odd, small family.
It was dark when we drove to the airport; unfortunate since I’m virtually night blind. The traffic was intense; Spanish drivers dart and speed. In my freaked out, nervous state, I made lots of wrong turns, all of which meant we arrived at the airport 30 minutes later than we should have.
Huffing from our run into the terminal, we couldn’t find Hazel anywhere. The corridors were jammed with people. We rushed up and down them in a panic until finally we found her, standing next to an information desk, looking totally discombobulated. Her hair was dishevelled, shirt untucked, bags fallen by her side. She’d been travelling a long time. She left NYC twelve hours before and had a long lay-over in Paris. Her early morning departure from her home in Long Island, stressed her so much that she forgot to wear a bra. Very out of character for Ms. Hazel who is 80 years old, and quite proper.
HAZEL IS HERE
As we drove through the empty multi-lane streets, the only car lit by the streetlights, and entered the underground garage, it was deep into the night. The holiday had begun. Hazel was with us!
