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
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