Huelga General 29 S.

I kept seeing this around Madrid and Cordoba, and I wondered who is this General who has grown such an incredible grassroots organization.  What kind of man must he be to garner the attention of graffiti artists all over Spain?  Mind you, I speak almost NO Spanish (and those of you who do are LOL, literally, right now).  It’s an embarrassment with a last name like Portales and a first name of Fonda, which everyone understands in Spain as a place you eat at or sleep at. 

It finally clicks with me in the streets of Cordoba that this means General Strike, which implies that all workers should strike NOT just public transportation and other government workers.  It was announced in the paper, as strikes are here.  I wonder how I am going to get out of Cordoba, or Spain for that matter.  Then I am informed that it is only a one-day strike—Wednesday the 29^th.  Thursday should be fine.  And it was.  A bit more busy at the train station but otherwise fine. 

That kind of efficiency is brilliant. 

So on the day of the strike, most of Cordoba has shut down.  A few restaurants for tourists are open, a few shops for locals keep their doors open, but otherwise the city if fairly quiet (it is usually pretty quiet from what I surmise).  The Streets of Cordoba are charmingly winding, and after three days, I felt like I had my sense of direction and felt comfortable with the lay of the land.  Or so I thought.

I decided to follow a bunch of protestors; what I realized about 20 minutes in, and a bit too late to just turn around, was that the rally was over and the protestors were going home.  And protestors of Spanish governmental budget cuts do not live in or near the tourist area I had become so comfortable with.  I was completely lost and I was the other end of the city.  Every corner seemed to turn me in the opposite direction to the one I wanted to take.  I walk for about an hour and a half (most places take about five minutes to walk to in the old town).  If only there were landmarks!  It occurs to me that there are landmarks; I just don’t know them because I don’t live here.  I finally sit in this beautiful park that I think is Plaza de Colon.  As I am thinking this, a leaf falls on me, like a flutter that affirms my sense of direction (I have no sense of direction).  I decide that this is a moment of synchronicity and that I am close to home.  Walking in the direction I THINK I should be headed, I get home in five minutes.