I've titled this "Part 1" because I just know that there will be many adventures in Spanglish for this intrepid explorer.. I am learning quickly, very quickly, and am able to understand an awful lot of Spanish which is encouraging, but sadly, unable to communicate back in Spanish, so am having these mildly frustrating but otherwise entertaining psuedo-conversations with the natives. Absolutely undeterred, I head out each day into the wide world and choose a completely different path out of our neighbourhood, seeing if I can expand my mental map of Madrid, and colour it in glorious detail now that I seem to have the bones laid down. By "colour it" I mean "choose a different road and hope to hell I still have good bird-brain because I have no bloody gps on my phone here and I still cannot read road signs or ask for directions from the locals". It appears to be working. Four blocks East, then two blocks North, there is an absolutely divine smelling bread shop, that I have been resisting for two weeks. Opposite it, half a block further North, is a greengrocer, who closes for siesta (will NOT be caught out by that again..). Keep going another two blocks, and you hit Parque del Retiro - or simply "El Retiro". So I did just that - winded my way East/North/East until eventually I saw the Eastern gates marking the entrance to El Retiro.. and I knew from our walk on the weekend, that the Argentinian restaurant boyfriend had taken me to was close-by.
My first lesson in Spanglish, was ordering lunch at the delightful Trenque-Lauquen. After assuring the waiter that it was indeed just me eating (why is this Universally such a hard concept to grasp??), and no, boyfriend was not joining us (he really is loved there), I somehow managed to order a still mineral water instead of a sparkling one - but hey, who cares, it was bloody hot - and three empanadas. Empanadas here are large, very large, and three is a meal. The espinaca (spinach, for those of you playing at home) emmanada was simply a culinary relevation. Very simple ingredients combined to make something that I cannot do justice with words.. but allow me to attempt to convey the experience.
Hot, buttery pastry held between two fingers (only heathens eat empanadas with cutlery BF assures me) that is heavier than it looks, for its size. I blow softly on the first bite, trying to release some of the heat trapped inside this pillow of pastry perfection; crisp, soft, slightly crumbling, leaving small wet marks of grease on my fingertips. The first bite is mostly the twisted, bunched ends of pastry, but even that elicits a small satisfied sigh from my lips. The next bite is more serious; I can see the deep, dark green of the spinach now not so much as hiding inside the pillow, but inviting me to get to know it better. A hit of nutmeg surprises me; the soft, yielding and almost reminiscent of rubber texture of the feta-esque cheese inside adds a layer of textural contrast, and when I find the sweetness of golden raisins married with the gentle bitterness of the spinach, I am officially in heaven. Soon, I discover it really is too hot to eat like this, so I reluctantly put this marvel of food back on my plate, and resort to the very uncouth use of a knife and fork. I make short work of the rest of my espinaca empanada, and its two friends: carne & aceitunas, and queso & cebolla. Very happy, slightly full but not uncomfortably so, I embark upon the Spanglish dance of requesting the bill, and assuring my eager-to-please waiter that I do not need dessert. It is at this point he gives me a message for BF in Spanish which I quickly text across to him before I forget. Apparently it was something lovely, because I get an enthusiastic "thanks to the waiter!" back. Sadly, I cannot remember what was said, and after prompting my beloved, neither can he. Some things will remain a mystery I suppose.
Another walk through El Retiro; grass and leaves alike dappled with the energising afternoon sun, a bird dancing on the almond-coloured sand pathway, daring me to take its photo. I happily oblige, fairly confident the photo will not turn out at all, as I haven't brought my DSL, but am rather using my iPhone which is not so great for action shots. I do love this bird though, and he has become my Tennessee cardinal; my elusive colourful bird who taunts me every other day, flaunting his bright sapphire feathers at me, teasing me with flitting close and then far, never stopping long enough for me to get a decent shot. I haven't seen this bird outside of Madrid and I am quite curious as to what he is, so I will perhaps do some research, squinting at the shoddy photos I have, and come up with a species to satisfy my avian curiosity.
The mission for today, however, is Museo del Prado; one of Europe's premier and oldest art museums. There are two collections on display today - the permanent collection, featuring artists such as Rembrandt, Poussin, Goya; and the temporary exhibitions, one of which is a tribute to El Greco, and includes his works but also works of other artists inspired by him. Picasso, for example.
I do love a good art gallery. I spent hours walking the quiet halls, climbing the old winding staircases and discovering what felt like hidden chambers tucked away inside bigger rooms. The El Greco exhibition was spectacular, his work made my heart fill with feelings of awe, joy, sadness and amazement. If you are unfamiliar with The Adoration of the Name of Jesus, or An Old Gentleman, or Lady in a Fur Wrap; I suggest you make yourself familiar, if and when possible. The talent, the precision, the passion, the ability to tell as story through brushstroke and manipulation of colour and texture is amazing. I don't normally wax lyrical about art, I think a great deal of it is a great deal of wankery.. but some art is just so captivating it truly deserves a mention. At any rate, after I had spent a good hour in the El Greco exhibition alone, absorbing all the works inspired by Jesus Christ and the events surrounding his life, I was probably full-up on what I have dubbed "Jesus art". Sadly, the Prado had different ideas for me. Full you say? Oh no! You can see more! More! MORE! MOOORRREE!!
I ended up leaving the Prado after another hour, because I simply could not survive any more paintings of Jesus on the cross, Jesus' ascension, Jesus being received by God and cherubs and angels and other creepy child-like entities. It seemed everywhere I turned there was JC, looking mournfully at me with bloody wounds to his scrawny pasty body. It began to completely overshadow the experience of the art for me, so I stepped out into the stunning gardens outside, took a few deep breaths of fresh late-summer air, and began the long walk home.
More sunshine, more small children smiling up at me, more little dogs trotting along the footpath, more fast-spoken Spanish, a left, a few rights, and I was home again.
M x
Friday, September 19, 2014
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Day One of Solo Madrid
Now that the weekend is over, and my beloved has gone back to work, I find myself with at least eight hours a day in which to explore Madrid solo. I think we all know I'm good at solo travel; so this is hardly a problem. Where to start, is more the problem. I have my usual Lonely Planet guide to the city, and Trip Advisor has lots of suggestions for me as well. I decide that walking is my best bet, and head off in a vague direction of North-West. I have tried explaining to my boyfriend that I have an excellent sense of direction; we'll see, shall we? Soon I am deep in the Retiro barrio (neighbourhood), and feeling reasonably confident that I am heading in the right direction, I continue pounding pavement, until eventually - yes! I see Parque del Retiro - the beautifully landscaped inner-city park he took me to the day prior, to look at the rose gardens. Such a romantic. The map of our neighbourhood is coming together in my head nicely, and feeling confident, I spend some time wandering through Retiro park. It is just so beautiful, with the autumn colours beginning to creep into the otherwise lush and dense foliage luxuriously lining hundreds of trees. The sand pathways are a subtle contrast to the brilliance of the blue sky, the soothing greenery and the black lacework of the metal fences and lamp posts that line the park's paths. Birds live here, happily and plentifully, and my heart soars to hear their singing; it is at this moment that I know I will spend a lot of time in Parque del Retiro.
I spend probably a good forty-five minutes wandering through the park, using my bird-brain to guide me to the centre of Madrid. I saw some beautiful statues atop buildings yesterday that I really want to capture decent photographs of, and the afternoon sun was doing them no justice yesterday, so armed with my beloved Nikon, I keep winding my way West until eventually I see Puerta de Alcalá; one of the gates of Madrid. It is a landmark; a shining beacon telling me I am indeed going the right way and my sense of direction is working fine. Filled with a deep happiness and satisfaction at making it this far (I mean come on, let's face it - I don't read Spanish very well, and I don't even know what the places I want to get to are called at this point so it's not like I can stop and ask for directions), I continue past the beautiful monument that used to be part of an extensive city wall system, built in 1778. I'm deep in downtown territory now, and am rewarded with more and more historical buildings kept in mint condition, until I reach the piece de résistance - the Plaza de Cibeles. I cannot begin to tell you how beautiful it is; the fountain in the centre of the roundabout, the white buildings surrounding it on three sides, the quaint and terribly private park on the other. I stop for a few moments to take it in, to absorb its beauty, and finally to take a few photos that I know will do it no justice, but hopefully will at least be refreshers for my memory in months to come.
I walk another half an hour, and am suddenly acutely aware that I haven't eaten anything at all today, and it is easily 1pm. I am filled with a sense of purpose; I must find the Mercardo san Miguel, and I simply must eat as much tapas there as I can possibly manage. West! West! Keep moving west! I arrive at the Mercardo and am overwhelmed by choice. I know I have to try new things, but the gulas and croquetas are on my "must eat again" list.. and so I do. I eat and eat until I can no longer; stuffed olives, cured meats, cheese, beautifully presented tapas for as little as 1 Euro. Finally, I have had my fill, met two French tourists and decide it would be a good idea to walk off the near-overindulgence of lunch. I spend my afternoon walking downtown Madrid and smiling; smiling at the other tourists, smiling at the locals going about their business, smiling at the beautiful blue sky and the warmth of summer's last days on my skin. I see all the litter, the homeless, the filth and grunge and grit in the historical streets, but I see the beauty, the hope of newly constructed buildings, the smiles on the many latino faces that I go past. Madrid is beginning to feel quite comfortable to me, and I've only been here a handful of days. A sign of good things to come.
M x
I spend probably a good forty-five minutes wandering through the park, using my bird-brain to guide me to the centre of Madrid. I saw some beautiful statues atop buildings yesterday that I really want to capture decent photographs of, and the afternoon sun was doing them no justice yesterday, so armed with my beloved Nikon, I keep winding my way West until eventually I see Puerta de Alcalá; one of the gates of Madrid. It is a landmark; a shining beacon telling me I am indeed going the right way and my sense of direction is working fine. Filled with a deep happiness and satisfaction at making it this far (I mean come on, let's face it - I don't read Spanish very well, and I don't even know what the places I want to get to are called at this point so it's not like I can stop and ask for directions), I continue past the beautiful monument that used to be part of an extensive city wall system, built in 1778. I'm deep in downtown territory now, and am rewarded with more and more historical buildings kept in mint condition, until I reach the piece de résistance - the Plaza de Cibeles. I cannot begin to tell you how beautiful it is; the fountain in the centre of the roundabout, the white buildings surrounding it on three sides, the quaint and terribly private park on the other. I stop for a few moments to take it in, to absorb its beauty, and finally to take a few photos that I know will do it no justice, but hopefully will at least be refreshers for my memory in months to come.
I walk another half an hour, and am suddenly acutely aware that I haven't eaten anything at all today, and it is easily 1pm. I am filled with a sense of purpose; I must find the Mercardo san Miguel, and I simply must eat as much tapas there as I can possibly manage. West! West! Keep moving west! I arrive at the Mercardo and am overwhelmed by choice. I know I have to try new things, but the gulas and croquetas are on my "must eat again" list.. and so I do. I eat and eat until I can no longer; stuffed olives, cured meats, cheese, beautifully presented tapas for as little as 1 Euro. Finally, I have had my fill, met two French tourists and decide it would be a good idea to walk off the near-overindulgence of lunch. I spend my afternoon walking downtown Madrid and smiling; smiling at the other tourists, smiling at the locals going about their business, smiling at the beautiful blue sky and the warmth of summer's last days on my skin. I see all the litter, the homeless, the filth and grunge and grit in the historical streets, but I see the beauty, the hope of newly constructed buildings, the smiles on the many latino faces that I go past. Madrid is beginning to feel quite comfortable to me, and I've only been here a handful of days. A sign of good things to come.
M x
Madrid... Latinos... Latin America... America?
So I'm in Madrid, Spain. I figure if you squint hard enough and extrapolate like I did in the title of this blog, it's passable to include it in my America travel diary. I have to admit, it is very, very odd being on holidays in a country that isn't the USA, and even more odd to be on holidays with my boyfriend. Not that he's on holidays; he lives here. But, after the past however long of travelling solo, and spending all my free time and money exploring the USA.. it's a bit of a culture shock. Sure, the language is different (unless you're talking So Cal, in which case you'd be used to hearing Spanish) but it's more than that.. it's a whole world apart from the Southern Hospitality I've been used to the last few years. Spaniards are strange, but wonderful. Siesta does my head in like you wouldn't believe, and it seems to be the time every single day where I decide I need something from the shops, only to find out yet again that most shops are closed mid-afternoon.
I debated writing a blog for this trip, because strictly speaking, I'm not here on holidays. Yes, sure I'm in a different country and I'm not working and I'm exploring the city and sightseeing - so it is a holiday - but that's not the purpose of my being here. I'm here to meet and spend time with the man I met months ago online, and figure out if we work as a couple, and whether we can visualise a life together. The answer, thus far, dear readers - is yes. I could spend the entire blog waxing lyrical about how wonderful he is, how in love I am, how he's everything I never even knew I wanted in a partner.. but I imagine that'd get tiresome pretty quickly, and given the purpose of my blogs is to remind me of my travels I think I should stay on-point. I can't see me forgetting how smitten I am any time soon!
Madrid - weekend #!. Emirates loses my bags. Somewhere in Dubai, apparently. OK, not a problem. I'm just so happy to arrive alive and to finally be able to put my arms around said amazing man, that I don't much care my presents for him or my beloved camera are MIA. We went shopping, at El Corte Ingles, a major department store to the North-West of his apartment. Had a lovely time shopping for essentials (think underwear, clothes, perfume etc) and just grinning like fools at each other. Listening to Spaniards roll their "r's" and speak with a warmth and openness that is typically European was both a culture shock and a delight to witness. Tapas, or Pinchos, for lunch. I let him choose everything. Dish after dish of delicious and very different to my usual white man food arrives. I eat slowly; he pops the whole thing in his mouth and it's done in one or two bites. Lots of people watching. Lots of smiling. I notice that the girls here are slight of build, wearing underwear for shorts, long lean tanned legs lengthened by the high cut line of their short shorts. Mad gesticulating. Everyone smokes. And I do mean EVERYONE. It's hot; hotter than I've felt in a long while but not suffocatingly so because of the utter lack of humidity. My hair responds by rebelling into greasy here, dry there and peaks & horns everywhere. Litter - everywhere. All over the streets. What an absolute shame to denigrate the beauty of these otherwise beautifully manicured streets with their quaint shuttered windowed buildings! Lots of smoking, lots of cigarette butts all over the streets, the gardens. Madrid isn't going to win "cleanest city" award any time soon. Strange smells in alleyways; probably the homeless population meeting with the over-abundance of pet dogs being walked everywhere I look.
Buildings yawn up into the sky like sleepy mythical giants; shuttered windows remind me of eyelashes framing huge rectangular eyes like powder-blue lacework. The afternoon sun beats down from a perfectly blue sky, both warming and scorching, depending on where you stand in the street. I'm suddenly thirsty, realising I haven't drunk anywhere near enough water to combat the drying effect of the Madrid heat. We cross another street, and make our way past al fresco dining as it is now well and truly Spanish lunch hour. I do not understand how folks can eat breakfast at 7am but have lunch at 2pm and dinner at 9pm. My poor stomach is going to protest, I just know it.
Finally, after more shopping, more public displays of affection (I cannot help it; it's been too long that I've been unable to touch the man I love), more fanning myself to combat the heat - we head home. Tired, happy, brimming with new love.
I debated writing a blog for this trip, because strictly speaking, I'm not here on holidays. Yes, sure I'm in a different country and I'm not working and I'm exploring the city and sightseeing - so it is a holiday - but that's not the purpose of my being here. I'm here to meet and spend time with the man I met months ago online, and figure out if we work as a couple, and whether we can visualise a life together. The answer, thus far, dear readers - is yes. I could spend the entire blog waxing lyrical about how wonderful he is, how in love I am, how he's everything I never even knew I wanted in a partner.. but I imagine that'd get tiresome pretty quickly, and given the purpose of my blogs is to remind me of my travels I think I should stay on-point. I can't see me forgetting how smitten I am any time soon!
Madrid - weekend #!. Emirates loses my bags. Somewhere in Dubai, apparently. OK, not a problem. I'm just so happy to arrive alive and to finally be able to put my arms around said amazing man, that I don't much care my presents for him or my beloved camera are MIA. We went shopping, at El Corte Ingles, a major department store to the North-West of his apartment. Had a lovely time shopping for essentials (think underwear, clothes, perfume etc) and just grinning like fools at each other. Listening to Spaniards roll their "r's" and speak with a warmth and openness that is typically European was both a culture shock and a delight to witness. Tapas, or Pinchos, for lunch. I let him choose everything. Dish after dish of delicious and very different to my usual white man food arrives. I eat slowly; he pops the whole thing in his mouth and it's done in one or two bites. Lots of people watching. Lots of smiling. I notice that the girls here are slight of build, wearing underwear for shorts, long lean tanned legs lengthened by the high cut line of their short shorts. Mad gesticulating. Everyone smokes. And I do mean EVERYONE. It's hot; hotter than I've felt in a long while but not suffocatingly so because of the utter lack of humidity. My hair responds by rebelling into greasy here, dry there and peaks & horns everywhere. Litter - everywhere. All over the streets. What an absolute shame to denigrate the beauty of these otherwise beautifully manicured streets with their quaint shuttered windowed buildings! Lots of smoking, lots of cigarette butts all over the streets, the gardens. Madrid isn't going to win "cleanest city" award any time soon. Strange smells in alleyways; probably the homeless population meeting with the over-abundance of pet dogs being walked everywhere I look.
Buildings yawn up into the sky like sleepy mythical giants; shuttered windows remind me of eyelashes framing huge rectangular eyes like powder-blue lacework. The afternoon sun beats down from a perfectly blue sky, both warming and scorching, depending on where you stand in the street. I'm suddenly thirsty, realising I haven't drunk anywhere near enough water to combat the drying effect of the Madrid heat. We cross another street, and make our way past al fresco dining as it is now well and truly Spanish lunch hour. I do not understand how folks can eat breakfast at 7am but have lunch at 2pm and dinner at 9pm. My poor stomach is going to protest, I just know it.
Finally, after more shopping, more public displays of affection (I cannot help it; it's been too long that I've been unable to touch the man I love), more fanning myself to combat the heat - we head home. Tired, happy, brimming with new love.
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