Why Freud Would Love Madrid

I've been in Madrid for almost a month now and I'm beginning to notice that Spain has some serious mummy issues. If any city were to be diagnosed with an oedipus complex, it would be Madrid. There seems to be a deep fascination with breasts and lactation in this city, more so than any other place I've visited. (Side note, Vietnam has a serious case of penis envy).

I first began to notice this oedipal trend during a visit to the world-famous Prado Museum. There seemed to be a fair bit of artwork inspired by breast-milk. For example, this painting depicts a statue of Mary squirting her breast milk into the mouth of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux to prove to him that she is his spiritual mother. Still better than bubbling, am I right?

Alonso Cano, The Miraculous Lactation of Saint Bernard

This painting was enough to give me pause, but not enough to convince me that Spain has an outstanding fascination with lactation. Then I stumbled across another painting by Rubens titled The Origin of the Milky Way. In this painting, Hercules is suckling at the teat of Juno astride a chariot - and yes, I feel really gross for using the word teat - but Hercules bites the nipple and Juno pulls away, spurting her milk out into the universe and creating the Milky Way. All this time, I thought 'milky way' was just a cute name for a galaxy but apparently it is mythological lactate. Think about this the next time you eat a Milky Way chocolate bar, I dare you.

Rubens, The Origin of the Milky Way

Of course, this is fine art, you can't diagnose an entire city with the oedipus complex because of a few paintings based on mythology and religion. I was amused by these painting, but not alarmed. A couple of paintings doesn't mean anything, I thought. And then I remembered that the type of cheese most widely eaten in Spain is packaged in the shape of a boob with a nipple. It is called 'Tetilla cheese' which translates as 'small breast.' Furthermore, Tetilla cheese is colloquially referred to as 'tit cheese.' Tit cheese. I mean, I must be on to something here, right? 

This is some real Dolly Parton style cheese

I thought I was going crazy. I was seeing breasts everywhere - which was new for me. I literally hadn't been this concerned with breasts since I myself was being breastfed. Perhaps I was the one with the oedipus complex and not Madrid? Breastfeeding is natural and beautiful, maybe I was being over-sensitive. 

And then I heard something that tipped me over the edge. Something that made this no longer a conspiracy or a coincidence, but an actual thing. Rumour has it, that there is an underground cafe in Madrid where you can order a coffee made with fresh breast milk. I'm sorry, I know I said in my previous post that I try and say 'yes' to everything while travelling, but there is no way in hell that I am ordering a Lactation Latte. One cappuccino please, hold the lactate, pro favor. 

It's official, if Madrid was a Game of Thrones character, it would be this kid: 

To the Moon Door! 

From bullfights to breast-milk, this country has sure kept things interesting. However, last weekend I was able to temporarily escape this Freudian wonderland and caught an overnight bus to Portugal. 

A word on overnight buses: they are terrible. That was three words. Maybe I need to source an editor for this thing, especially since I just spent 500 words talking about boobs... Anyway, the bus left at 11pm and I was already running on three hours sleep thanks to a classic Madrid mid-week rager, so I was ready for some sleep. Everyone on that bus was so inconsiderate. There were loud talkers, there was a guy shelling nuts, and the woman behind me played with a plastic bag for a solid fifteen minutes. I hated them all. Despite this, I managed to drop in and out of sleep. It wasn't until we had a pit-stop somewhere in the Spanish countryside that shit really went down. 

Towards the back of the bus, a couple was having a fight. I don't know what they were fighting about but the guy was crying and loudly screaming that he wanted to get off the bus. Then two policia boarded the bus and went to the back to sort it out. The police didn't seem to do much because this other traveller turned around and started ranting at the couple to sort out their problems because she had been listening to them fight for 60km and she was over it, officially. I didn't quite understand what was going on but I was loving every minute of it. The fighting couple stayed on the bus, the police left, and I live-tweeted the whole thing because the bus had wifi. Who could possibly sleep with all this low-stakes drama? 

The bus pulled into Lisbon just as the sun was rising and thus began a really long, exhausting, day of sightseeing, festival-going, and catching up with an old friend who had turned into a giant bearded hippie (love you, Tom). We went to the flea market, climbed to the top of the Pantheon, pounded some sangria with his sisters, and went to the beach, all before heading to the music festival. 

No lactating statues in sight 

We caught the most BO-ridden train ever to the festival, which was loaded with the Portuguese equivalent of bogans - and I am coining the phrase 'Pogans' in order to adequately describe them. However, when we got to the festival grounds the mood was awesome and I was really excited. But then Tom, perhaps because he looks like a giant bearded hippie, was refused entry because they said his festival bracelet appeared faulty. After about twenty minutes of arguing, with his sister this close to kicking the security guard in the balls, Tom managed to prove he had legally attended the previous two days of the festival by citing the prices of all the alcohol available on the grounds. That's my boy.

The giant hippie with his feisty sisters

We saw Bastille, Foster the People, Chet Faker, Jungle, and Nicolas Jaar, who were all amazing - I was just so tired. Exhausted. As it turns out, I might not be that well-suited to music festivals. I ended up falling asleep during Foster The People, while standing up in the middle of the mosh pit with a beer in my hand, which miraculously didn't spill. I'm not sure how it was physically possible to doze off but I ended up missing about half of the set. After sleeping through at least six songs, the band started playing the only one I knew - Pumped Up Kicks - and I regained consciousness.

If you look closely in this video, you can almost spot this weary traveller wake-up and rejoin the living with erratic dancing and out-of-tune screaming. Or you can at least get an idea of the crowd I managed to block out in order to have a siesta. You can take the boy out of Spain, but you can't take Spain out of the boy.