Madrid

My Fearless Readers will be relieved to be informed that, were Generalissimo Francisco Franco able to walk the streets of Madrid as I have recently he would certainly be most disturbed by what he saw. 

He would see gay couples strolling down the street holding hands with nary a side-glance

cast their way.  He could hardly miss the common sight of brown- and black-skinned people hailing from such far-flung locales as North Africa (mostly Morocco, a former colony), the Philippines (another former colony) and elsewhere in Asia, and, of course Latin Americans galore.  All of this diverse humanity, and all speaking Castilian like natives (oh, wait, many of these people are natives!) and doing their business like they belong – this would be pretty horrifying for the old fascist.  Franco would certainly frown on the gangs of young skateboarders whooshing down the streets and using the public parks to practice their moves.  I also think he would look askance at the way the police in Madrid handle vagrants and Gypsies.  I saw two burly motorcycle cops in a posh neighborhood interviewing one homeless man with what I can only describe as solicitude; the man was obviously stone drunk at 11:00 am, dressed in a rumpled jacket with tie askew, and they were gently asking him how long he had been on the streets, where he had lived before, did he have family….  Cops as social workers?  The Generalissimo would have booted those cops off the force, or worse.  As far as the Roma are concerned, if they made a nuisance of themselves I saw cops essentially herding them away without a hint of brutality or even disdain; elsewhere in Europe, both east and west, I have witnessed and heard of true sadism in the way officialdom treats the Gypsies.

This is what I witnessed in my two days in Madrid before proceeding on to my dig (on which much more later…).  What were my other impressions of the grand city, you may well ask? 

I re-immersed myself in the café culture with a sigh of contentment as one entering a pool of cool water on a sweltering day; for me it was like a homecoming.  This is one thing that Europeans do so well I don’t think any American could possibly argue otherwise.  (Any challengers?  Meet me in Madrid beginning of August and I will cheerfully prove you wrong.)  To my mind, there is nothing so civilized and sensible as to sit down at one of the hundreds of sidewalk cafés proliferating in Madrid’s streets and plazas, order a coffee/beer/sandwich/pastry, and sit unmolested for an hour sipping, reading, watching humanity pass by (many likely headed for their own favorite café).  The only downside is that you are sometimes so thoroughly left in peace that it is hard to get the waiters to notice you long enough to bring another tonic or the bill.  I like to sit and try to puzzle out who my fellow patrons are.  Why is the guy at the next table so formally dressed on such a nice summer day?  The old lady seated next to the waiters’ station clearly

is a regular; they fuss over her and bring her drinks and pastries without her having to order.  The young man three tables over – he keeps glancing down the street – is he waiting for a date or lover?

Another aspect of life in Madrid – and much of the rest of Spain, as I understand – are the twin institutions of the mid-afternoon siesta and the late evening paseo.  Like the ubiquitous cafés, the siesta and paseo are, to my mind, eminently civilized.  Siesta I am sure you are all familiar with.  One eats a light breakfast here of pastry, toast, coffee, whatnot; then to work until about 1:30.  Lunch is the big meal, usually eaten around 2:00 or so, followed by an afternoon of rest – including a nap as prescribed.  Being largely civilized, I usually prescribe myself a nap.  Back to work around 5:00 until about 8:00 in the evening when everyone goes home for dinner or finds a good tapas place or a restaurant.  Both evenings I spent in Madrid I opted for tapas at places with outside seating in the Plaza Santa Ana, near my hotel.  There are a half-dozen such places around this square, and if you stroll by anytime before 8:30 they are empty.  Around that time, however, the better places begin to fill up rapidly with folk coming off of a day’s work to meet friends for wine, beer or whatnot, and rounds of tapas.  Most people I observed spent less than an hour, and then moved on – presumably to another tapas spot,

My first night I happened to order a dish of Spain's premier
 Jamón Ibirica.  Better than most Italian prosciutto I have had.

perhaps even stopping at three or more in the evening.  (Tapas I also rate high on the civilized scale). 

As folks finish up their round(s) of tapas or dinner out or at home, then comes the paseo.  The plaza my hotel was off of, the Puerto del Sol, was fairly empty during the day, save for Madrilleños passing through or shopping nearby and, of course, las touristas wandering about snapping photos.  This changes dramatically starting around 10:00.  At this point, for a couple of hours, the plaza is teeming with humanity of all sorts.  Some simply stroll about, meeting up with friends or taking advantage of the prime people-watching opportunity.  Young folk meet up to chat, or to go on to the bars.  Mothers take their babies out in their strollers and toddlers run about gaily.  There are street entertainers galore – both nights a group of young men had an act where they got young women to volunteer and taught them a hip-hop dance, to the cheers of the crowd of spectators.  Chicago has buskers on the streets and in the subways, mostly licensed, and many quite good at their guitar or violin.  In Madrid, it’s like one big  concert – I heard a saxophonist one afternoon riffing for some time on what sounded like, but almost certainly couldn’t have been, When the Saints Come Marching In.  And, just outside my hotel off the plaza one night at about 11:00 I stopped to listen to some of the most beautiful operatic music I’ve ever heard.  There were three young men playing arias on violin and a man and a woman singing O Sole Mio and other familiar duets.  They were so good that the ‘donation’ violin case was full both of Euro coins and bills (to which I happily contributed a fiver).

The paseo one night in the Puerta del Sol.  The best people-watching
I have ever experienced!

I did a lot of walking during the mornings before it got too hot, and in the evenings.  Madrid is a wonderful walking town.  Much of the old, historic district is strictly pedestrian, and they even hang a sort of awning system between the buildings in order to provide shade for people strolling underneath.  People walk in the parks, especially the grand Parque del Buen Retiro.  This was originally the grounds for a royal palace, but in the 1770’s King Carlos III opened it up to ordinary Madrilleños.  This particular Carlos did much to beautify the city with fountains and new plazas.  He clearly loved Madrid, and Madrid loved him back; he earned the nickname of “Best Mayor of Madrid,” and he is permanently memorialized in bronze, astride a horse in the middle of the Puerto del Sol.  

Statues.  Like other European countries I have visited, Madrid abounds with the usual statues dedicated to this or that politician or king or queen or general.  But, also like other European countries, there are just as many statues dedicated to writers and poets and painters – Lorca, Goya, Cervantes, and more that I sadly did not recognize. 

The Spanish clearly love their literature and all forms of writing.  In the States, the small bookstore is disappearing, and even some of the big bookstore chains are shutting down.  It is actually difficult for me to find a store with actual books of actual ink and paper and thread and glue near my house, aside from my favorite used book store.  In Madrid it seems every street has its little bookstore and an Antiquarium or two.  There are, with no exaggeration, hundreds of bookstores in the city.  As I emerged from the Parque del Buen Retiro on the 4^th, I found myself on booksellers’ row – one side of the street was all booths selling books new and used and antique. 

I also saw on that street an inspiring tribute to our national holiday.  A lovely young

Madrilleña rollerblading gracefully up the way wearing an abbreviated American flag t-shirt.  I saluted her on numerous accounts.  I also saw an apartment building on a narrow street with a string of little American flags hanging from the balcony – most likely expats – and a few bars sporting old glory, inviting Americans in for a party.  I think the Spanish might be one of the last Western European countries which still like us. 

Then again, the people of Madrid and of Spain in general, in my short experience, are among the friendliest folks I’ve encountered.  They greet total strangers with a cheerful hóla! and a smile.  As I travel beyond the capital and encounter more Spaniards, I find their humor to be earthy and contagious and their hospitality beyond compare; I have had to be very firm and a little crafty in order to buy a round of drinks, for instance, since they insist that they are my hosts.

Goya: The Second of May.  Spanish protesters in 1808
ridden down and massacred by French troops, including
North African colonials.  (This event took place across
the Puerto del Sol from my hotel).

The other thing I made sure to fit in my schedule was a visit to Spain’s premier museum – indeed, one of Europe’s finest – the Prado.  I discovered that from 6-8 on some weekdays entrance is free.  So did about 500 other tourists from all over, as well as locals.  So I made two visits on succeeding evenings and spent some quality time with Titian, Raphael, … and especially with El Greco and Goya, two painters who have long held a special fascination for me.  I discovered new paintings (especially from Goya’s ‘black period’) and for the first time gazed on long

Goya: The Third of May.  This event took place on the
grounds of the Royal Palace in Madrid.

familiar works.  In particular I came to a new appreciation of Goya’s two paintings – the 2^nd of May, and the 3^rd of May, both commemorating the inauguration of Spain’s long, ultimately victorious guerrilla against Napoleon’s attempt to swallow the country whole (the Spanish invented the guerrilla war in the modern sense of the term, harrying superior French forces until they were paranoid, exhausted and demoralized and, finally, gave it up for lost).  I learned elsewhere that the events of the 2^nd of May took place a stone’s throw from my hotel, at the district administration building at Puerto del Sol.  A crowd of Madrilleños had gathered there to try to prevent the French from absconding with the royal family and were brutally attacked; the next day there was a mass execution on the grounds of the royal palace.  Goya went on to do a series of drawings called the Los Desastres de la Guerra which to me remain one of the most modern and moving anti-war statement in history. 

Disastres de la Guerra.  Some of the most disturbing and modern anti-war art
ever produced.  Depicts the prolonged, bitter and bloddy Guerilla war the Spanish
conducted against occupying French forces.  The French, with some help from
England's Duke of Wellington and his army, eventually quit and went back home.

I shall finish with one last observation on Spanish cuisine – the first of likely many to come.  Every culture, it seems, has its own national comfort food to which natives come back to time and again.  In the case of Spain, it is ham.  Not ham as we know it in the states, but something closer to prosciutto – and they have dozens of varieties.  Without intending to, the first tapas dish I ordered ended up being the primest of the prime varieties of jamón – and it was dreamy.  Then I started noticing that the deli’s in Madrid were not just places to buy ham and such, they were advertised as El Museo del Jamón.  How can you not love a people who regard their nation’s best food as worthy of museum treatment?

You gotta love a people who elevate their favorite delicatessen food to museum status...