Lost and Found: Nebraska

There is a chain of restaurants in Spain named 'Nebraska.' No joke. It's... well, imagine an upgraded Denny's. I thought it, on seeing one not far from my hostal, a one-off: an otherwise average Spanish bar that lured Americans in with its familiar name. Nope! It's a chain, as common in Madrid as Starbucks. This is to say, they're both awful. The menú did not include pictures of its offerings, but the paper place mats did indeed show all the 'postres caseros' in their coloured glory. I ate lunch at a Nebraska today, purely out of exhaustion. I'd become lost -- again -- after leaving the Universidad Complutense. I made a right instead of a left, wandering into a golf and tennis complex. What I'd expected was the military and government area called La Moncloa. Pretty obvious on seeing the huge wall, gate, and 'solo miembros' sign that I was lost. With aching feet, I walked for an hour re-tracing my erroneous steps but instead made a huge circle around a lovely park.

Let me stop for a moment and share my theory on why I repeatedly get lost in Madrid. First, I'm an American man who refuses to ask directions (regardless of the language). Second, Madrid does not label all of its street names. The city centre streets are named but it's the exclusion to the rule. The places I get lost are precisely those areas lacking street name signs. What saves me is a mixture of old and new technology: the random bus route maps and the iPhone's compass.

Back to the story: by the time I found La Moncloa, I wanted to eat or die. Preferably, sit down. Walking along the Calle Princessa, I saw an Indian restaurant atop a hill. Indian food really drew me, so I walked up a flight of stairs toward the restaurant. I opened the doors, where just inside two guys in waiter attire looked up at me and said "cerramos (we're closed)." Oh. Okay, that sucks. Back on the street I saw a Thai restaurant. This also drew me inside, where a waiter barely 18 said "cerramos en quince minutos (we close in fifteen minutes)." Back on the street, I fumed. What the hell? Walking ever close to the Plaza de España, I remembered with all the drama of a Homer Simpson forehead slap that I had run face-first into the Spanish siesta. Restaurants and bars all over the city would be either closed or doing so soon -- at 430p. I entirely forgot about this quintessentially Spanish custom. Hence, my entering with aching feet into the Nebraska. Chain restaurants in Spain do not follow the siesta because they're usually owned by multinational companies. Thanks multinational company!

(ps, i'm writing this from a Starbucks: the only place I can get reliable internet access.)