from Madrid: getting started

Have you noticed that trips, even well planned, too well planned trips often start off with a bit of a rock and tumble? It’s as if you needed a test: prove that you’re worthy. Prove that you can smile at the little annoyances!

We are in Madrid. I’m not a huge fan of the city, but it’s not really the fault of Madrid. I have a history of false starts here. Nearly all past visits have had a tinge of the unfortunate. Indeed, the very first time I took my daughters to Europe, we landed first in Madrid. My youngest, then five, ate a Spanish burger and got violently ill for the next 48 hours. Welcome to Europe. Thanks, Nebraska Cafeteria.

Ed says – you can’t be happy. You don’t like Madrid. I respond – I am super happy to be here. Happiness is complicated.

The flight into the city is beautiful. You don’t quite think of mountains when you think of Madrid and yet, they are not that far from the plain in Spain where, in fact, there is at present no rain.





The bus into the city is cheap (but crowded!), the walk from the stop is quite majestic and not too long...


 


...the hotel, the Regina, seems fine, too.

I booked a Christmas special rate. You receive welcoming treats as part of the package. A bottle of Cava, fruits, sweets. [Actually, a superb deal. In addition to Cava and goodies, you get a full breakfast buffet, free Internet, etc etc. All for 105 E. Pretty much what you expect to pay for Econolodge in Escanaba, except it’s Madrid and it’s not Econolodge.]


There aren’t treats in the room when we arrive and we feel obliged to wait for them. You don’t want to disappoint the gift giver and not be there when it’s delivered.

Stupid idea. The gift giver forgot and we waste an hour of sunshine waiting for a Cava that neither of us at the moment is even inclined to drink.

Next testy element: in my zealous over-prepared approach to travel, I become convinced that we should have in hand tickets for tomorrow’s train to Seville. The Internet ought to help with this, but I got burnt purchasing rail tickets for the Polish trains online, only to find them one third less at the ticket agent’s at the station. But in our one afternoon and evening in Madirid, do we really want to loop away from the sights, down toward the station? No. I say we go to the nearby department store, El Corte Ingles, where a friendly agent can and will sell us rail seats.

Off we go into a chilly forty degree sunshine, toward Plaza Mayor.

Oh my, where did all the people come from? The entire country of Spain has emptied her population onto the historic center of Madrid.  Of course. It’s a holiday week-end and people are out and about in the way that they always will be, if given lovely and welcoming communal spaces where they can congregate.

There must have been a thousand street vendors and performers, pandering mostly to kids, but not only.





The pedestrian-only squares are cluttered with booths – left over holiday markets, but selling really just about anything. Very popular are these wigs. People appear to be wearing them to make a New Year’s statement.





We make (push?) our way through crowds of sales shoppers at the El Corte Ingles...





...then wait for a good while at the travel desk, only to be told at the last minute that there will be a 10% fee to purchase tickets there. Us? Pay and an extra 10 Euro? Forget it. Off we go to the train station, pausing briefly at the Mayor, just for a glance, up at the burnt orange, balconied buildings...





...and all around, where street theater and street sales dominate the vast rectangular space.









In the end, it’s good to get away from the central city crowds. We follow a commercial road toward the station and it isn’t an especially beautiful street, but if you look this way and that, you’ll be pleasantly surprised with vignettes of a quieter Madrid.





...all against a late afternoon brilliant blue sky.






I’ve been going on the transatlantic flight breakfast and I say to Ed that it’s time for me to pause at a counter for a shot and a bite.





Perfect. A macchiato and a cookie.





By the time we buy our tickets, it is nearly 6. The sun has disappeared, faded away. It’s still around forty, but I’m glad I have my jacket. A sunless forty can feel nippy. We walk up the wide, tree lined Paseo del Prado...


 


...not really intending to stop at the museum on this brief run through Madrid, but we see a line, a very long line and any Pole my age will get in line if she sees one, asking only after what it’s for. Except this one’s obvious. The Prado has free entry in the weekday evening hours (6 -8). How utterly lovely! Our fortunes have spun around and the rest of the evening is one foggy blissful dream.





It’s about a half hour wait as the line moves slowly, what with security check and crowd control measures, but oh, is it worth it! I’d just been reading the latest New Yorker on the plane – with a review of "Velazquez and the Surrender of Breda," and now here I am standing before that very painting and Las Maninas too (this was taken before I was told that photography was not permitted. Who knew. No signs.)...





Velazquez, Goya, El Greco, Rubens, room after room of great masters.

And now we are really spent. Ed’s threatening to fall asleep on the spot and I have to admit, I’ve pushed us around just a tad too much on too little rest and protein. We make our way toward the center again and at the first crowded tapas bar/restaurant, we pause. Delicious mussels and a heavenly salad, dripping with this year's fruity olive oil...





...and now we’re feeling jovial indeed, but you can’t just stop at one tapas place. We pass another, raucous, crowded corner bar and eatery...


 


...with a big paella pot on the counter.
What kind? Ed asks
Chicken and seafood.





We eat this as well and now we are satiated, walking, tottering from tiredness and good eating, making our way back to the hotel, past holiday lights and holiday crowds, on a good roll now, happy indeed.