They call themselves gatos – cats. If you’re a gato you’re a true Madrilenian. Three generations at least. The people of Madrid are proud of this moniker, and rightfully so. But the sad truth is gatos are increasingly rare in this city of extranjeros – a word that literally means ‘strangers’, but is used to describe a foreigner, a traveller, a tourist. Someone – almost, but not really – like me.
There are different theories about where the name comes from. The most common story says it originates from the Reconquista, over a thousand years ago, when a Christian soldier skilfully climbed the walls of the then-Moorish city and helped turn the tide of the battle.
It’s a fine story. But I prefer the other. It says that the name comes from a time a few hundred years later, during the Middle Ages, when the city of Madrid was divided in two. There was the old “respectable” – (rich) – part. Ensconced in high walls and deep Catholic morality, this half of society was made of merchants, priests, noblemen and women, etc, etc.
Then there was the other half. The poor half. Which was made up of basically everybody else. From your everyday peasant farm workers to your more stereotypical outsiders: the gitanos – gipsies, the travellers, the sex workers, and everyone else.
And that’s how it was. The rich lived within the walls, and the poor lived without them.
The only problem? Boredom. With their old-world rules and stuffy Catholic ways, it was boring inside the walls.
Meanwhile outside, the multicultural society naturally bred a more vibrant culture. And they knew how to party.
And so, the story goes, the young Madrilenians of high and mid-society developed a tradition of scaling the walls at night to party with the poor folk. Casting aside their fancy clothes and fancy ways, they’d dance the night away with people of every ilk. Then, at dawn, they would climb back over the medieval walls, to sleep until late into the afternoon, like cats.
That’s the story, and it illustrates perfectly the modern Madrilenian style; because if there’s one thing they love in this city, it’s la fiesta – the party.
It’s been six months since we moved in to old town, central Madid, and I can’t remember a single week when they weren’t having some kind of festival, or preparing for one.
Which is not to say they lean into debauchery or drunkenness. Not at all. The Spanish have been partying for so many centuries now there’s almost no difference between a drunken Spaniard and a sober one.
For me, this is one of the most refreshing differences between the average Norther European (such as the English, and by extension, the American) and the Mediterranean. The first will suffer through their working week in a state of frustration and emotional constipation. Then, when the weekend comes, it all comes out. Like savage diarrhoea. All countries, and the Spanish in particular, know that are few things worse than a drunken Englishman.
Speaking of the English, you can’t miss them. They’re everywhere here. Them and the Americans. They come over for cushy auxiliar jobs, teaching English to belligerent Spanish teenagers for 16 hours a week in exchange for moderately-hefty pay.
On the outside, it looks like a sweet deal, and maybe it is. The Spanish youth get to learn English, something the government has been desperate to promote for years in order to prepare the next generation for the international job market. And young English/American/Australian/ Irish 20-somethings get to lounge in the sun drinking tinto de verano and idealistically reading Hemmingway.
In many ways, it’s a fucking dream. But every dream has a downside.
In this case, it’s the slow death of a sense of place, of culture, and unique Spanish-ness. It’s the loss of famous landmarks to greedy developers, hoping to cash in on the foreign dollar. It’s the arrival and dominance of massive corporations like McDonalds and Starbucks, who muscle out more local shops on the highstreets.
It’s the gentrification of neighbourhoods. The fact that most locals now can’t afford a flat in the centre due to the astronomical rise in rents over the past few years (almost 80% in a decade).
You can see the signs of it everywhere. You can read the discontent on the walls. Go Home Guiris – is a frequently spotted slogan. Guiris is the rude version of extranjero. It basically means ignorant foreigner. The FuckAirBnb movement is also growing stronger every year – and with good reason. In some areas, one in five properties is an Airbnb.
In other words, the gatos are not happy. And I agree with them. Even though I’m part of the problem.
Not that I’m strictly English. I was born and raised in Spain under the skies of Andalucía. And yet, due to my English/Irish parents, I can’t say I’m strictly Spanish either. I belong, like an ever-growing number of millennials and Gen Zs, to the ‘third-culture generation’. A name for those born between nationalities.
I’m actually quite proud of belonging to this odd club of no-nationality misfits, and I believe strongly that it gives you a closer connection to all peoples, not just the ones who look like you, or sing your particular anthem. But none of this stops me from feeling a little guilty when I see the signs scrawled on the walls. The placards and protests, demanding Spanish Homes for Spanish People.
I mention this to Diego, bone fide gato, friend and neighbour, and he shakes his head vigorously.
“But you live here,” he says. “You shop at the market. You go to the local gym and dance club. You put money and energy directly back into the community. It’s not people like you we’re against. It’s the others. The weekend-tourists and the hen/stag-nights that mess up the town. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying Madrid. Why wouldn’t you? Madrid is Madrid!” He waves a hand theatrically at the elaborate stone buildings and the sun-filled plaza.
I appreciate his generosity but I’m not convinced, though I agree with at least the second half of his statement. Madrid is Madrid. And it is beautiful.
It’s difficult to know where to begin when describing the charm of this place. But it’s easy to understand why writers and painters – and extranjeros of every kind – have been coming here since forever, following the sun, the song, and the fiesta.
While out strolling one day, I walk past a Cubist mural, painted on a house where Picasso once lived. There are bars and restaurants all over the place that boast of being where so-and-so drank, from the King to Hemmingway and everyone in between. There’s a bookshop around every corner, and church around the next.
From our flowered balcony, we watch our neighbour in the building opposite, who seems to be running a home-tattoo parlour. Almost every evening we see her inking strangers in her living room. It’s a daily reminder of the good-natured, slightly random bohemianism that seems to permeate this place. And of course, this time of year the sky is full of swifts, freshly arrived from Africa. Yet another example of extranjeros enjoying Madrid hospitality.
Then there are the dogs. I’ve lived in large cities before, and there’s always a dearth of dogs. Sure, plenty of people have small rat-like things. But as far as I’m concerned, those aren’t real animals – just fashion accessories with teeth. Whether it’s because of space or a general fear of wild and untidy things, large cities tend to be unfriendly toward dogs.
Not so in Madrid. These streets are chock-a-block with canines of every kind. And I don’t mean handbag dogs: I mean real dogs, full of messy verbs. Fluffy, lolloping, droopy eared and bursting with uncontainable joy. It’s become one of my favourite pastimes in this city, to sit in the plaza and flirt with passing hounds – maybe steal a pat or two.
But the dog metaphor goes deeper. Diego tells me it’s a symptom of the modern Madrid.
“When I was a boy, everybody had big families. I’m talking five or six children, at least. It was just the way it was. Now, it’s rare to find a family with more than one child. More often, they have a dog instead.”
I wonder if this is because they can’t afford large apartments. Because all the guiris have them. Perhaps the dog population has increased in perfect balance with the increase in extranjeros? I don’t know.
All I know is that Madrid is the city of bars, bookshops and basilicas, where the gatos watch the dogs with narrowed eyes. And for better or worse, it’s the place I now call home.
Yes, I am part of the problem. Yes, it’s complicated. But I believe there is a balance between belonging and stealing from a place.
And I look forward to finding that balance.