The Bullfighters’ Tailor

On this day we rented a car and drove to this place on the outskirts of Madrid so that YP could buy a matador outfit.

You heard right.

At first he thought he could get one in the city, but it turned out that place didn’t sell whole outfits. So it was off to this other place, which wasn’t far from El Escorial, the “historical residence of the King of Spain,” according to Wikipedia. We figured if the matador outfit place turned out to be a bust, we’d have another thing to see.

The place wasn’t easy to find. We got lost a couple of times but eventually ended up where we thought his place should be. But all we saw were little apartment buildings and office parks, very much a suburb.

Finally, YP found someone who pointed us in the general direction. Unfortunately, there was no sign, at least not that we realized at first.

It turns out that graffiti likeness is the tailor, Justo Algaba, himself, and the building behind it, number 23, is where his store is. But like I said, we didn’t know that at the time. All we saw was that the gate to the (empty) parking lot was closed. I thought YP would want to scale the fence. Luckily he found a buzzer and kept trying numbers until someone answered.

“I was looking for Senor Justo Algaba?” he said.

After a brief pause, a deep male voice answered,”Vale” (which basically means “Okay” or “Fine), and, to my amazement, the gate opened.

Because it was siesta time, the building was almost empty, but an older gentleman on the second floor spotted us on the stairs and waved us up.

Senor Algaba’s “store” certainly didn’t look like one. There was a mural of matadors —

— a bull’s head —

— and a display case with outfits, but that was all.

Later YP Ptold me that Senor Algaba took one look at him and came out with an outfit (second-hand) that fit almost perfectly.

While the WF got fitted with a vest, jacket, pants, shirt, socks, hat, and shoes (it’s a complicated outfit), I relaxed on the couch under the bull’s head and read. I was glad I had brought my book.

YP also later told me that the tailor has been in business for the past 40 years, and has outfitted in addition to famous matadors, the likes of Sylvester Stallone and Latoya Jackson. However, like I said, his store was very modest. Someone else might have photos of themselves with various celebrities, but he did not.

He was also insistent that everything about YP’s outfit be just right. YP said something about using his own shirt and socks, and the tailor replied, “No, no, no.” YP knew it wasn’t because he wanted to sell him more stuff; he just wanted it to be perfect.

And while I didn’t understand a word he said, I could tell he was very gentlemanly. When he pointed out the restroom for me, he sort of escorted me in the right direction.

After we were done, YP had me take a photo of him and the tailor, and it was totally cute.

Afterward, Senor Algaba said, “Very good, very handsome.” YP said, no you look handsome, and the tailor said no you, and they went back and forth like that for quite some time.

Senor Algaba wanted to fix a small tear in the pants, and offered to drop off the outfit at the store in Madrid for YP to pick up later in the week. He also suggested that instead of spending hours in a restaurant that we get sandwiches and stuff from the vending machine downstairs, which, in our starved state, was fine by us.

My sandwich — a croissant “mixto,” ham and cheese on a croissant — was actually pretty good. We ate in the car and then were off to El Escorial.

I was very tired but I really enjoyed this. It reminded me of Versailles (except much less crowded) with rooms set up like how they were in the past, paintings, sculptures, and a crypt (you know we love a good crypt).

The drive back to the city was less smooth than the drive out. The GPS was fucked up and we kept getting lost. On top of that both our phones were running out of battery.

To make a long story short, after much effort we figured out rental car return was in the general parking lot.

We were so exhausted, we ended up just eating in the train station.

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