The Goodbye Party Was A Riot

I did not take this or take out my phone, but some Italian newspaper had evidence.

**The following is a blog without photos. Reader discretion advised.**

The plan was to walk from our flat in Argüelles to the tapas festival in Lavapiés, and then to obviously eat tapas and listen to outdoor live music. 

Evidently the anti-riot police didn't understand that we were trying to say goodbye to our roommate, who was moving on to Ireland the next day, nor the hordes of black-mask separatist protestors running through the center of Madrid. 

And so here we found ourselves, five minutes away from our destination and in the middle of helicopters and rubber bullet shots and pepper spray. Myself and two young Mexican friends, who could have easily been mistaken for any of the university-aged barricade builders, tried our best to walk quickly and move away from the melee. It was dark, and shops were quickly pulling down their shutters as tourists waddled frantically like ducks laden with shopping bags. Every corner we turned attempting to get out of the way, we ran into more running masked kids, more police running with batons. 

Privilege check: I wasn't scared for myself. No one is going to question me, or tackle me, or probably even yell at me. I'm a blonde woman in a country that favors homogenous Eurocentric looks and culture. I was dressed nicely. But I was terrified for the two young guys in my company because I have seen what happens without thinking to young men of color in any dark, frantic situation involving police. 

That being said, it wasn't quite like Downtown Oakland on a particularly heavy day of the Black Lives Matters movement. At the end of the day, there were mostly just trash cans all over the ground (which is a pity because Madrid could use more public garbages.) But it was loud, and there was shouting and confusion and I've never quite been trapped in the middle of something like that, unintentionally, simply trying to get my tapa-on before. 

After some more-or-less successful dodging and weaving around the center of the city, we finally arrived in Lavapiés, which was everything it promised it would be: people out in the streets eating food and drinking beer, a live Cuban band and everyone laughing and dancing - for about the first 15 minutes. And then, the rain came. 

Because this is Spain, and in Spain everything seems surprising to everyone, no matter how long a tradition or process has existed, no one was prepared for the heavy deluge that just happened to kick off in the middle of a nighttime street festival. Every bar in the area became immediately stuffed like a piquillo pepper, suffocatingly with only enough room for someone in the front to maybe pass you back a drink, which you could hold over your head because you can't put your arms down at your sides. 

It rained, and rained, and rained. We tried to change bars and ended up in another bar equally as full, steamy and spilling out into the street (but at least there was good music?) Our poor departing roommate, not used to crowds or riots or steamy stuffed bars, opted to head home early. A few of us stayed longer; I had brought an umbrella, for the win.