Except the chop of the helicopter circling in the blue sky, Retiro Park in Madrid exhibited all signs of normalcy. Groups of friends laughed, pairs of teenagers passionately pecked in the open grass, and dogs ran from tree to tree, as always, sniffing out their territory.
Down the hill, past the open-air book stalls and bikers, hoards of people gathered, until their bodies amasssed to one large clump extending farther than my eye could see. Only a police officer on a motor bike putted through, slowly. Their chant was the same I had heard the night before, "¡Huelga, huelga general!" Strike, the general strike! The aim--labor reforms for Spain's population, mainly the young and educated, waiting for their luck to swing or the government to take action in their favor.
In Spain's largest cities, protesters had taken to the streets, in the process, stickering their message, "No consumas, Cerrado, Huelga General" (Don't buy, Closed, the General Strike!) everywhere, storefront windows, advertisements, and one unlucky Porsche parked in front of the Ritz. "Ladrones" was spray painted on bank windows (robbers), asesinos (murderers) to McDonalds and Starbucks, and the anarchy A to any surface that would catch a by-passer's attention. Trash cans exploded with mini bombs placed inside and one large dumpster was set aflame near Puerta de Sol.
Thousands marched and with their strength of numbers, confidence oozed, it was mob mentality. Various leaders would storm into a storefront to force the business, big or small, to lock their doors and shut down. The threat: spray paint, damaged products and huelga (strike) stickers, on every surface. Each time it was the same, similar to an orchestrated routine. After the span of five minutes a clanking shield finally came down. Another store closed and with it the chorus of whistles, shouts and shrieks from the crowd, approval.
Allison and I found the group mid-march Wednesday evening. The official kick-off was 10 p.m. that night, La Puerta de Sol was filled with protesters swinging their official red flags and boasting slogans scribbled on posters, "No pan. No paz." No bread. No peace. It was reminscient of a 21st century French Revolution with iPhones, Youtube videos in the making and T.V. crews gathering on the fringes. Like the media, Allison and I hung back, we didn't know what the grand plan was, but if it included something violent, we didn't want to be in the heart of it. We had jobs, after all.
As young Americans, we were unaccustomed to authorized nationwide strikes. We had missed the strikes calling out the 1%. Only videos via the web kept us informed enough to know they had happened and then just as quickly, ended. Our generation didn't have the same strength,"Power of the People".
Despite the numbers, Spain's leader and President, Rajoy, had already announced no change would happen, but for those sanctioned 24 hours you can protest all you want. In effect, Madrid, the busy captial city and heart of Spain, was shut down. Public transport was essentially unusable, except minimun services. Flights into Spain were cancelled.
In the calm after the passing wave of strikers, a group of privileged elite crept out of their hiding places of their well-secured apartments to go and party. One girl gasped with great surprise, "Qué pasa?" (What's happening?)
It was this that shocked me more than anything else that day.
Down the hill, past the open-air book stalls and bikers, hoards of people gathered, until their bodies amasssed to one large clump extending farther than my eye could see. Only a police officer on a motor bike putted through, slowly. Their chant was the same I had heard the night before, "¡Huelga, huelga general!" Strike, the general strike! The aim--labor reforms for Spain's population, mainly the young and educated, waiting for their luck to swing or the government to take action in their favor.
In Spain's largest cities, protesters had taken to the streets, in the process, stickering their message, "No consumas, Cerrado, Huelga General" (Don't buy, Closed, the General Strike!) everywhere, storefront windows, advertisements, and one unlucky Porsche parked in front of the Ritz. "Ladrones" was spray painted on bank windows (robbers), asesinos (murderers) to McDonalds and Starbucks, and the anarchy A to any surface that would catch a by-passer's attention. Trash cans exploded with mini bombs placed inside and one large dumpster was set aflame near Puerta de Sol.
Thousands marched and with their strength of numbers, confidence oozed, it was mob mentality. Various leaders would storm into a storefront to force the business, big or small, to lock their doors and shut down. The threat: spray paint, damaged products and huelga (strike) stickers, on every surface. Each time it was the same, similar to an orchestrated routine. After the span of five minutes a clanking shield finally came down. Another store closed and with it the chorus of whistles, shouts and shrieks from the crowd, approval.
Allison and I found the group mid-march Wednesday evening. The official kick-off was 10 p.m. that night, La Puerta de Sol was filled with protesters swinging their official red flags and boasting slogans scribbled on posters, "No pan. No paz." No bread. No peace. It was reminscient of a 21st century French Revolution with iPhones, Youtube videos in the making and T.V. crews gathering on the fringes. Like the media, Allison and I hung back, we didn't know what the grand plan was, but if it included something violent, we didn't want to be in the heart of it. We had jobs, after all.
As young Americans, we were unaccustomed to authorized nationwide strikes. We had missed the strikes calling out the 1%. Only videos via the web kept us informed enough to know they had happened and then just as quickly, ended. Our generation didn't have the same strength,"Power of the People".
Despite the numbers, Spain's leader and President, Rajoy, had already announced no change would happen, but for those sanctioned 24 hours you can protest all you want. In effect, Madrid, the busy captial city and heart of Spain, was shut down. Public transport was essentially unusable, except minimun services. Flights into Spain were cancelled.
In the calm after the passing wave of strikers, a group of privileged elite crept out of their hiding places of their well-secured apartments to go and party. One girl gasped with great surprise, "Qué pasa?" (What's happening?)
It was this that shocked me more than anything else that day.
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