Madrid
Elegant, handsome, atmospheric… without wishing to boil a culturally diverse nation down to a handful of
adjectives, this is Madrid in a nutshell.
It’s late December, a balmy 9 degrees C. in central Spain; a welcome change for myself and Georgina - my
girlfriend and long-term travelling companion – coming from northern Europe where its creeping towards the
minus 2s and 3s, thus ensuring that we stick out like a sore thumb among our bronzed Iberian counterparts. As
we aimlessly try to negotiate directions to our guest house, we encounter the most clear-cut indication yet of
the city’s liberal credentials; one particular building with the words ‘Sex Center’ emblazoned along its front,
accompanied by silhouetted dancers, and a neon lit entrance. Georgina is immediately appalled by what she
sees:
“That is disgusting. Absolutely DISGUSTING - they’ve spelt ‘centre’ the American way!” Olé!
Our guest-house is a cozy family-run joint called Hostal Bruña (Calle Moratin 50, 28014 Madrid), a third floor
apartment block situated near Retiro Park, one of the city’s most beautiful spots. We’re shown into our room
by an affable older gentleman (the grandfather of said family, perhaps) and, after a quick nosey around, decide
to stay.
Later we head out for our evening constitutional. Gastronomically, the Spanish mainland is a larder of fine
produce, fuelling a burgeoning continental café culture, where lighting up with friends while enjoying a drink
and tapas is an engrained part of daily life. Tapas, literally translated as ‘lid’, can be best described as bite-sized
samplers of Spanish cuisine, the secret being to seek out and sample each bar’s speciality one-by-one, pub
crawl fashion, accompanying each dish with a half-pint of draft beer or a glass of Rioja while you’re at it, and
continuing on this cycle into the wee hours.
“To go to bed early in Madrid marks you as a little queer. For a long time friends will feel a little uncomfortable
about it” - Ernest “Ernesto” Hemingway
Suffice to say we opted to
be the ‘queer’ ones on
this particular outing.
(Pictured left –
traditional tapas bar)
As we stroll past the local
eateries, each one busier
than the last, we
approach a promising
looking place and,
peering inside spot a
couple of vacant tables.
Then out of nowhere an
eager, possibly German,
promotions girl thrusts
flyers upon us promising
10% discount on our final
bill. I opt for wafer-thin smoked salmon on a thick slice of toast with capers; Georgina has a vegetarian
alternative featuring eggplant and grilled goat’s cheese.
Total cost: 6 Euros.
After a restful sleep that night, we decide to take a walking tour of the city, as recommended in our travel
guide, in order to get our bearings. Firstly, we make a stop at the Mercado de San Miguel (below left), a lively
gourmet marketplace swarming with tourists and locals alike, all vying for the best chesses, hams, wines, and
seafood the region has to offer. We browse briefly; eyeing up the platters of queso manchego, Serrano ham,
olives and chorizo, before deeming it premature to indulge in anything a mere twenty minutes after breakfast.
(Pictured left: Mercado de San Miguel)
After a short look-see at the Royal Palace
of Madrid, with queues of tourists
snaking around its enormous outer walls,
we move onto the Plaza Mayor (below
right), a cobbled courtyard the size of a
football field, bordered by balconied
apartments and older buildings; their
facades adorned with colourful allegoric
murals. The square is a buzz of activity:
street entertainers, Christian tour groups,
painted mime artists, German adventure
trekkers with rucksacks bigger than five-
year-olds. There are also old antique
pharmacies/apothecaries - their walls
lined with glass containers - traditional
shops and bakeries packed with breads,
sweet cakes and pastries, and a grand
equestrian statue of Prince Felipe III to
round it all off.
Feeling peckish, we duck into a café to try
the famous Chocolaté con churros, a
popular breakfast item among many
Spaniards. The basic idea is pastry dough,
fed through a star tipped
pastry bag to form a long,
twisty doughnutty stick, which
is then deep fried, sprinkled
with sugar and served with
hot, thick chocolate sauce (for
dunking). This can be served
alongside Café con leché
(coffee with milk), much
favoured by many madrileños
(Madrid residents) as part of a
healthy ... sorry, scratch that ...
sturdy breakfast. Bien gusto!
(Pictured right – Georgina in
the Plaza Major central
square)
That evening we visit
the magnificent Museo
del Prado art museum,
which houses
collections of paintings
by many of Spain’s
finest artists. Most
notably, the exhibition
displays Francisco Goya,
19th century romantic
painter and printmaker
in all his glory with over
one hundred paintings
by the artist; charting
work from his early
years as court painter to
the Spanish Crown to a
later collection
depicting his descent
into a much darker,
more dramatic realm of
fantasy and nightmare -
a series of works known as the Black Paintings (Pinturas Negras).
Goya’s work came further to light at the famous church of San Francisco El Grande (pictured left) in the La
Latina district, a basilica with a Sistine Chapel-esque interior, and, just as Michelangelo decorated that
particular chapel ceiling, Goya had a hand in this one. Other major masterpieces of which we took great
interest were those by Velázquez, an artist of many works of historical and cultural significance during his time,
and El Greco, who contributed many dramatic religious renditions and portraits.
Continuing with the sightseeing, we took a stroll along the main drag, Gran Via, Madrid’s answer to, say, Bond
Street or Sauchiehall Street. In the years leading up to WWII, the nationalist forces of the authoritarian General
Franco laid siege to the city, shelling and bombarding many of its main streets and thoroughfares. Gran Via,
the height of modernity in the twenties and thirties, suffered most attacks, prompting the locals to rename it
“Howitzer Alley” as artillery shells rained down from Franco’s forces. Once appointed as leader, or
generalissimo (or indeed self-appointed “head of state for life” as one law decreed), his regime proved to be
one of suppression and coercion. Franco was a malicious leader who treated opposition supporters brutally;
advocating forced labour and concentration camps for dissenters. All things considered, he makes even Kim
Jong Il seem well-adjusted. (Pictured below: aerial view looking east from the Royal Palace)
Having had my fill of culture, art and literature for now, I persuade G to accompany me to the Real Madrid
stadium, the Santiago Bernebeu (pictured below), located a short metro ride away in northern Madrid. Arriving
at the 70,000 plus all seater stadium we take the self-guided tour, at a respectable 15 Euros per person, giving
you an all-access pass (pretty much) into the bowels of the stadium (the trophy room, dressing room, press
area and down to the touchline and subs bench).
We’re then ushered into the club shop, a multi-level shopping area overflowing with club merchandise, where,
in fact, you get the feeling that it’s not really Real Madrid FC at all; more ‘the Cristiano Ronaldo Show.’
Fair enough. But it’s late and we ought to be getting back. Now where is that Exit sign…. Anybody? Nope!
Apparently when you’re inside, they like to confuse you with misleading signage and escalators, hoping that
you eventually give up trying to find the way out and, out of panic, splash out on a signed ball or a shirt with
Benzema’s name on it. Not at that price. Honestly, it makes Ikea look well organized.
(Pictured left: Georgina, fielding
questions for José, who called in sick
today)
Four hours later, we’re back on the metro and on the way back to our friendly guest house. We make a
scheduled stop, where two identical Spanish teenagers hop aboard the carriage sporting the same leather
jacket, long Velcro boots and giant blonde quiffs gelled to within an inch of its life.
Without missing a beat, Georgina quips, “Look! It’s Jeduardo” (The sane ones amongst you may not get this
one).
Our last day, and we have a couple of hours to kill before our metro back to the airport. After breakfast
featuring Tortilla Español (I’m not translating, If you don’t know: Google it!) and café con leché, we decide that
a stroll through leafy Retiro Park, the “lungs of Madrid”, is the plan of action. Situated adjacent to the Del
Prado, it’s a very pretty setting: a boating lake, a bandstand, striking sculptures and monuments, and lots of
fresh air.
(Pictured left: Retiro Park)
With ten Euros remaining
of spending money
burning a hole in my
pocket, I decided to splash
out on some cheap tat and
souvenirs for relatives;
thus reducing me to five
Euros, enough perhaps for
some bottled water at the
airport departure gate… if
it’s half price.
With our trip drawing to a
close, it’s fair to say that
we’ve been fortunate to
see much of the city’s
great sites on a somewhat
fleeting visit.
By the same token, however, I would speculate that I’ve barely scratched the surface of such a remarkable
place; painting a proper picture of Madrid, I imagine, would require a much larger canvas and some very, very
bright paint.
….Adios amigos!
