Madrid

In Madrid I discovered the grumpiest hostel staff of my entire trip; I arrived a few hours before check-in, but I couldn’t even leave my pack in the luggage room; I was only offered foul glares and curt English. Not the best start to the morning, and I followed it up by deeply confusing a waiter at a local cafe. I ordered churros (fried dough) and porras (same thing, different shape), but my pronunciation was slightly off and the waiter heard me ask for “porros”. It was not until the following day that I discovered I had ordered marijuana for breakfast.

My first day in Madrid was a mixture of noting the local tapas bars, admiring some of the grandly ornate buildings (the nearby train station is essentially a large greenhouse, home to a tropical garden) and visiting museums. The Reina Sofía National Museum finds itself in a very modern building, notable for being both home to Picasso’s giant Guernica canvas and much too easy in which to get lost. In contrast, the Museo del Prado spreads its wares along the walls of grandiose (and easily navigable) old halls, Free evening entry was a sufficient lure, since I was keen to see Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights triptych (triptychs are artworks divided into three hinged panels). It was a spectacular sight up close, but this proved to be a rare highlight amongst a dauntingly large collection of dark and gloomy Christian art.

Madrid Trivia #1: In 2009, the Superior Council of Scientific Investigations reported that the air in Madrid (and also Barcelona) is laced with at least five drugs: amphetamines, opiates, cannabinoids, lysergic acid (a relative of LSD) and, most prominently, cocaine. I did not notice any effects, ill or otherwise.

My first evening ended, of course, with beer and tapas. After being driven from the dingy hostel bar by Ace of Base, a slow search through one of Madrid’s nicer neighbourhoods eventually led us to a tapas bar that proved irresistible due to the hunger and thirst that had grown during the long walk. From a wide range of tapas on offer, I resorted to old favourites (potato tortilla, chorizo) and some of the more exotic offerings; blood sausage tasted too good to worry about the name. This night was also a moment of discovery: born with an innate belief that I hated olives in all their forms, I devoured an entire plate of green olives.

The next morning I was fortunate enough to have my very own tour guide. Pablo, a Spanish student whom I had met in Bergen (Norway), was much too kind and had agreed to show me around his home town. All distances in Spain are measured from the Puerta del Sol, where “kilometer 0” is marked by a small plaque on the pavement; it was an appropriate place to begin the tour. Pablo showed me many of the large squares and parks around the city, accompanying each with a mix of personal anecdotes and historical facts. I now realise how little I know about my own home town of Melbourne. Eventually we ended up in a very quiet, cosy neighbourhood where local protests had recently led to curfews being enforced on late night revelry. The revellers had in turn countered with exuberant defiance of the curfew and there had been some degree of street violence, but by day it was calm and quiet.

Madrid Trivia #2: Leganés (a city now caught in the urban sprawl of Madrid) has a street named “AC/DC” in honor of the Australian rock band, who visited Leganés to inaugurate the street. The street sign was frequently stolen until the council decided to paint it on the wall instead of replacing the sign over and over again.

That evening, Pablo and I explored more tapas bars (surely you saw that coming) and on his advice I ordered from the Spanish menu without any idea of what would arrive. Mango and duck-ham toast was delicious (I never knew there was such a thing as duck ham) and a bowl of chorizo cooked in cider was also a hit, despite some initial misgivings about the combination of cider and sausage. We then headed to the neighbourhood of late night curfews, which was much more crowded and noisier by night, the bars and streets full of people.

At the Labyrinto bar, a giant and grisly minotaur statue glares down at the bar and I was introduced to Calimocho. The cheapest of Spanish red wines is mixed with coca cola and served on ice in giant plastic cups. Perhaps it was the dark and grisly decor, or the excessive amounts of cheap wine, but eventually we crossed the street to the Milky Way bar. Alas, there was no sign of the Milky Bar kid (or chocolate bars of any kind) and umpteen beers later we arrived in a tiny bar, whose television featured endless footage of Midnight Oil. Being so far from home for so long, it felt fanciful to imagine that the tall and gaunt singer (stumbling around awkwardly with microphone in hand) now wore the title of Australian Minister for the Environment.

Pablo and I parted ways at 5am. In true Spanish fashion, Pablo’s night was not nearly over. I returned to the hostel, but only for a brief nap. Due to a bed shortage I had to check out before 9am that same morning. With my flight home creeping ever nearer, I decided to leave Madrid behind and take a bus to the southern town of Granada. I took shameful pleasure in being somewhat curt with the hostel staff as I checked out.