Jazz and Barfing in Madrid
(originally appeared in culturecloud)

I spent the year following college in Madrid, living with two American friends in awful apartment in the dismal modern neighborhood of Prosperidad. Through the receptionist at the language school through which we taught English, we met a circle of friends revolving around a minor noble named Ramòn, who was the Marques de la Castellana (but still drove a two-door Seat, the Spanish version of a Fiat — affectionately nicknamed "una lata," a tin can). They could be a lot of fun to hang out with, although they were hard-core Franco fans; by coincidence, during the dictator's reign, Ramòn's father had run Telefonica, the national phone monopoly, where I now spent the first two hours of each day learning Spanish from my putative English students.

Although our neighborhood was utterly lacking in charm, and its local color consisted entirely of gypsies and assorted lowlifes breaking into parked cars and menacing the rare fair-haired American who crossed their path, it happened to sit adjacent to the National Auditorium of Spain, a beautiful, recently-opened concert hall said to have the best acoustics on the Continent. During the Madrid Jazz Festival, it was to host Miles Davis, the Modern Jazz Quartet, and other greats. Hoping to impress our fancy friends with our cultured ways, we invited a few of them to join us for the Wynton Marsalis concert. We put on our most stylish clothes, did our best to dress up our miserable home, and welcomed them over for cocktails, which they drank with typical Madrileño gusto. By the time we got to the show, we were all three sheets to the wind ... and the evening was young.

The Jazz Festival was sponsored by Fortuna, by far the most popular blonde cigarette (as opposed to Ducados, the darker tobacco favored by crusty old men and bitter auto mechanics). All through the auditorium's spacious lobby, Fortuna girls distributed complimentary five-packs, which we greedily stuffed in our pockets; only weeks into our stay, money was already running short, and the Ramòn clique was anything but a cheap date. I can't remember who the opening act was, but before long, we were back outside for intermission, gathering in a circle around the corner for the kind of smoke frowned on inside the building. Although I'd dabbled in cigarettes for popularity's sake over the past few years, my lungs were unaccustomed to the heavy, filterless blend of tobacco and hashish that now made the rounds. In retrospect, a cool glass of water would have been a smarter throat-soothing strategy than the stiff whiskey-and-sodas I threw back in rapid succession.

I think I made it through Wynton's first piece, and possibly the second, but I distinctly recall that it was mid-song when I lurched to my feet and plowed my way across feet and laps to the impossibly distant aisle, spun wildly through the exit into the hallway, and collapsed in a heap. A clutch of distressingly beautiful Spanish girls giggled as mini-packs of Fortunas flew from my pockets and scattered across the floor. Smiling with what I hoped was Cary Grant-like insouciance, I managed to regain my footing and staggered to the restroom. On the far side was a fully-enclosed stall with a full-sized door, and it was here that I anchored myself to a cool porcelain toilet and prayed for the world to stop spinning, the distant sound of too-cool jazz faintly echoing in my ears.

It was dark when I regained consciousness. Inside-of-a-whale dark. After a moment's disorientation, my fingers fumbled to the stall door and opened it to find still more darkness. A dim strip of light led me to another door, beyond which I made a troubling discovery: the concert was over. The lights were dimmed, and the hall was completely empty. Well, it could be worse ... and soon was. Every exit was locked; I was trapped inside.

I wandered the hall for a while, trying doors and cursing my luck, my head still spinning and my stomach likewise. Almost at the point of curling up to sleep, my prayers were finally answered: a security guard appeared outside a glass door. I motioned him over, and he unlocked the door. Meeting his puzzled expression with a devil-may-care wave of thanks, I hustled into the night and through the menacing streets of Prosperidad.

As I painfully negotiated the entry of my key into the lock, I was horrified to hear voices inside our apartment. They were all still there — Ramòn, his fancy friends, and my roommates. In the moment before opening the door, I conjured a glib phrase or two — something about the lovely evening we'd had together, and my regrets for not now joining them for a nightcap. Oh, how they laughed. I can't imagine why they insisted on making sure I was all right in the bathroom; the sounds of my violent sickness should have resolved any uncertainty. I don't know how much longer they stayed, but they were gone by the time I awoke in the morning, my body stiffly contorted along the side of the bathtub.

This was a long time ago, mind you — more than seventeen years, surely beyond any statute of limitations for bad decisions and public humiliation.

You'd think that would make a difference.