(c) 2021
It was a glorious Sunday afternoon. The streets were crowded. Michael and our good friend Steve were walking ahead of me as I slowly wandered past shop windows. I’d been looking forward to this little excursion. We were a block away from our destination,The Rastro, Madrid’s huge flea market.
Through the crowd I noticed two men walking toward me. An outstretched hand was holding something metal. We were so close to the market I thought they were selling watches or some such thing. With that thought I blissfully brushed past them.
Suddenly I felt the hard grab of hands on my arms. Startled, I was restrained. The men on either side were yelling, “Policia Policia” Stunned, I thought, “That was a badge not a watch!" I understood the word Policia but why was this happening? What did I do wrong?. Heart pounding, I was afraid.
“Pasaporta Pasaporta” the trench coated man yelled. I thought “This is the reason no one ever goes out without their passport” Hand shaking, I looked in my woven Greek bag. I looked past the newspaper clippings, letters, notebook, dictionary and the rest of my collection of “stuff”. I was so nervous. “Where is my passport?” I silently screamed. The policia were standing so close to me I could almost feel their breath. Desperate, I reached into my purse again and took out more stuff.
“Pasaporta Pasaporta” they continued to insist. I still couldn’t find my passport. That made me even more afraid. I thought, “Are they going to arrest me? Are they going to take me downtown. I’ve only heard terrible things about Spanish jails. Why is this happening?” Finally one of the policia looked me right in the eye and said with a thick Spanish accent, “No Rastro for you”. He turned me around and shakily I began to walk away.
“Michael, Steve! ” I thought. I quickly looked back and they were walking toward me. I came to find out they were going through the same interrogation. Michael, who spoke Spanish played the “dumb tourist, “Well isn’t the Rastro down there?” he said pointing. The conversation ended when they too were told, “No Rastro for you”.
When we met up I cried, “Michael, I couldn’t find my passport”. “Arlene” he said in a calming voice, “I was watching you. Your passport came up with a handful of stuff you dug out of your bag. The officer probably saw it and thought, “That’s good enough” and let you go”.
We were shaken. No words came out, just the uncomfortable look of the hunted. Our eyes darted about looking for the next attack. We moved through the crowded streets in silence, independently dealing with the frightening event we hoped was behind us. I hardly knew which direction we walked or where we were going. Finally Michael said, “Let’s stop in this cafe and collect ourselves. I need a drink.”
To feel safe we chose a table in the back of the cafe away from the front doors so as not to be seen from the street. We sat in the quiet catching our breath and calming our senses.
When the drinks arrived I broke the silence. “What just hapened? I said. Michael, the historian began, “Well, my guess is that there was a May Day demonstration in the Rastro. I think the policia picked us out of the crowd because we are obvious foreigners. Ah, potential trouble makers, agitators!” he said with a grin. “Michael, why did we go?" I lamented.
“Who knew this would happen? Today is May 2nd but I guess the whole weekend fell under the Primero de Mayo umbrella. Demonstrations like this can erupt anywhere in Spain. The Left was never completely crushed after the bloody Civil War. They just went underground and get stronger every year. Franco cancelled Primero de Mayo and replaced it with a celebration of "Day of the Laborer" on July 18th, his birthday! So when the Left continues to celebrate May 1st it’s like a major poke in the eye to Franco.”
Steve was a particularly guarded person. “I don’t think we should go home. What if they follow us. They will know where we live” he warned . “I know this sounds like an over reaction but let’s face it, in the middle of a crowd, we were just fingered by the police.” Michael and I looked at each other and reluctantly nodded in agreement.
Cautiously we left the cafe. For the rest of the day we moved through Madrid, constantly looking over our shoulder. It was about 6 o'clock. We felt pretty confident we were safe. It was time to say good-bye to Steve. "Are you OK?" I said. With a nod he said "Yes, I think so". We had a big group hug and Steve went on his way. I could see he was still kinda looking around as he made his way through the crowded street.
May Day Celebrations A Year Later: 1972
I opened the balcony doors and let in a little more light and a gentle breeze. “I just love this little balcony. It’s wide enough for 2 to stand and deep enough for a couple of plants.” I stepped pass the doors and into the warm comfort of the day. “We are so lucky. Up here on the 4th floor we have a wonderful view of our neighborhood.” I thought with a smile.
Suddenly, the silence was broken with the unmistakable roar of an approaching crowd. Within moments a group of 25 or 30 young demonstrators rushed up our street. The distant sound of helicopters got louder and louder. Up at the top of our street green military vehicles raced along the thoroughfare.
“Michael, come quick. Primero de Mayo has come to us.” I yelled. By the time Michael reached the balcony the sound of the helicopters was deafening. The students abruptly turned left at the next block and ran out of sight. The helicopters followed them and moments later it was almost quiet again.
Michael, my historian, reflected. “This is a classic “cat and mouse” game plan. The demonstrators stick to narrow streets where the army can’t drive the trucks that carry more soldiers. We can’t see it from here but I’ll bet the rebels block an intersection by picking up a little SEAT car and put it in the middle of road. This can really delay the chase. Then, I imagine, at some point, everyone will regroup and it starts again somewhere else until enough people are arrested. I’ve studied this but it’s amazing to actually see it happening right in front of us!”
I looked up and down the street. As I recall we were the only ones watching the demonstration. It’s possible it wasn't safe to hang out on the balcony, but we were too inexperienced to know.
While the Fascists still had lots of support, it was gratifying to know that “The Left” in Spain was still active and could amass significant displays of revolutionary zeal. I was smart enough to appreciate the situation but knew I couldn't participate. I had to remind myself “I'm a visitor in this country.”
It was peaceful again on our street. “Lunch?” I said with a smile. As we stepped inside and closed the balcony doors I whispered to Michael with a little hug, “I’m so glad we stayed home this year.”
Loved reading this!
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