Madrid.
I’ve been here before. It’s semi-familiar, but I feel as if I’ve grown so much since that trip that I’m seeing Madrid through new eyes. Now that I have the knowledge to actually compare world cities (I’m loving that, obv…), I can say that Madrid is reminiscent of Buenos Aires, without the port side. Possibly, there’s a little more Soho in Buenos Aires, a little more whimsy. While the Spaniards live their nightlife with reckless abandon, they’re still a conservative people, by nature. The Argentines are a bit more easy-going. Given the choice, Madrid or Buenos Aires, I’d still choose BA. Amongst the many other reasons, starting with the way I felt when I was in BA, the other one essential one is: I can’t be more than an hour, max, from a coast.
Being that Madrid is the first foreign city I’m revisiting after the passage of years (how weird to think that I’ve never actually revisited any foreign city not counting, like, Caribbean islands), I decided that I would base in Madrid and take a day trip or two from here, being that Madrid is so big and there’s so much to (re)see. It started off on a difficult note, as I had to change hotels after a miserable 11-hour train ride where I was in a six-person car sitting up (no recline feature on these suckers...) with six other passengers. My situation was made worse by the fact that my luggage didn’t fit in any of the luggage specified compartments, so I had to sit Indian-style, for the duration of the ride next to two hooligans who were singing Shakira outloud (that Hips Don’t Lie is the song of the Spanish right now) for way too long. Not fun. When I got to my hotel, it was sub-par. Being 7 AM, I figured I’d walk around a bit, find another place, so I went to the café for the “included” breakfast to look over my guidebooks. The “breakfast” was a coffee machine, like you’d find in a hospital, with lit-up buttons from which you choose your hot drink and it mechanically pours out, and…bread and butter. I tried the machine, but didn’t want as much milk as was being added to make my café “con leche” and was rewarded with the milk feature of the machine shooting all over the floor, drenching me, the nearby table, the bread display (who takes THAT MUCH milk in their coffee?) I left immediately, smelling like a dairy farm girl, and wound up finding the little boutique hotel that became my home for the next four days. After wheeling my luggage through the Madrid streets to my new home, I was spent (read: fucking annoyed), and decided to just relax for the day, walk around, and learn my way around Madrid.
It was easy to shake off any annoyance, however, Madrid is amazing. There’s a very historical side (Palacio Real, Plaza Mayor, church upon church upon church, plaza upon plaza upon plaza – all the site of some bloody battle with the French) and it’s easy to get lost. There’s also a very modern side, full of museums, shopping, and parks to while away the hours of daylight, and fabulous restaurants, lounges and terraces to enjoy the nightlife. And, oh the nightlife! For all the quiet of the days, the nights kick into high gear and don’t let up until sunrise. It’s unbelievable. It’s like everyone is out once it hits 8 PM and doesn’t even THINK of turning in before 3 or 4. I partook in ALL of it. By day it was Museo, Museo, Museo. I hit the Prado, the Thyssen-Bornemisza, the Reina-Sofia twice (I forgot HOW much I love to wander through museums), and was lucky to be here for a Picasso exhibit at both the Prado and Reina Sofia that celebrated the 125th anniversary of his birth, and the 25th anniversary of the return of Guernika to Spain from New York. I read in Retiro Park many afternoons, while watching the people in the rented rowboats lazily spend their own time (Nabi! Lukoff!) At night, I drank Riojas on the Plaza Santa Ana with an eclectic group of young professors from the university; I went tapas-hopping through the area of La Latina where I had to ditch a Frenchie and a Yugoslav by feigning tiredness, then danced ‘til dawn with a few Spaniards I met after the fake-out at a nightclub near my hotel; I went to a some new restaurant, the pride of an upcoming young chef (who looked like Eric Pellegrino) I had read about in a Bilbao magazine, who came out of the kitchen when I didn’t eat my soup (it was gross…some fish, ginger ale, cod gazpacho) and proceeded to serve me personally for the rest of the meal, pairing wines with each course. I then stayed while he closed up, sharing nightcaps and chatter in a deserted restaurant with him, at which point he walked me home, gave me the requisite double-kiss and said goodnight (I know…I wish it were a BETTER story than that!!!)
I took a side-trip to Toledo, an astonishingly beautiful old city that served as Spain’s religious nerve in the 1500-1600’s, tolerantly. A Jewish quarter, a Muslim quarter and the Catholic Church all lived in peace and harmony in the center, which was set up on a mountain, surrounded by three rivers, high above the other parts of the countryside. It was breathtaking to look up, or look down, depending on vantage point.
Of course, Madrid, like the Basque Country, wasn’t without it’s gastronomic rewards. Paella, Rabo de toro (oxtail), manchego cheese plates, freshly made gazpachos, sautéed prawns and albondigas (meatballs), all helped keep me feeling like a complete animal. Clara (a beer-lemonade concoction), sangria, and mucho vino kept me quenched. Gyms are only for those with memberships (makes sense, but unlike other cities I’ve visited…), so I was SURE to book my hotel in Portugal WITH a fitness center. I went to the Reebok Club for a mani-pedi, and oogled all the ladies with svelte frames (HOW do they live here and look like THAT?) I probably sound like a recovering Mary-Kate asserting just how much food she’s inputting daily, and just how many calories of sweat are needed to counteract the effects, and I apologize for that, BUT…I cannot stop stopping to eat here!!! And I cannot help being aware of it! ☺
That’s all for now. I’m sitting outside, having some “last day in Madrid” wine, and then will head off on my journey to Lisbon. IN A SLEEPING CAR…finally.
More soon…
~M
Showing posts with label Spain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spain. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
Trains, tapas, and tortilla espanol...
Hi, hi...
I'm back, sorry this took so long. I seem to have a lot of worried friends from lack of blogging, lack of photos.
I'm fine, I'm fine...I've just been in my own world since I got to Europe last week...
Northern Spain, Basque Country, La Rioja…the stuff of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, Michener’s The Drifters, and my latest adventure. Having been in Spain almost ten years ago (gasp!), a mere twenty-one year old (gasp again!) college graduate, I went back and reread my journals before taking this trip to Europe. Not the best idea. Shock, dismay, brief bouts of nausea reading through each day’s entry. Who wrote that?!?! Me? Most certainly not. What a lil’ bitchy thing I was, full of impatience, lacking palate and appreciation of culture, food, and experience. My time in Spain was rife with intolerance of both Lukoff (sorry, lovey) and the ever-ADD-Nabi, as we made our way from Barcelona to Sevilla, Madrid to Logrono, and finally, to Pamplona where we proceeded to sleep in an ATM booth while Nabi took bong hits from Spanish strangers out of carved melons and I struggled with bronchitis. In the morning, after a good night’s ATMisery, we “watched Todd run” with the bulls perched high on fences above the chaos. Exactly… Spain didn’t leave the best impression. So, I was most eager to come back and reacquaint myself with this country, on my own terms.
After a very long plane ride that landed me in Paris at 8 AM, followed by a day spent endlessly wandering the streets of Montparnasse and St. Germaine du Pres, loitering in coffee shop upon coffee shop eyes wide shut until my 11 PM (yep…) train to San Sebastian (NOT a sleeping train, mind you…), I was very VERY happy to finally arrive. I most definitely blocked out what train travel, Eurail (Hello, 1996! Plum, Luke..where are you?) travel is like. Though, it’s certainly not your average, door-to-door-taxi-counter-check-your-luggage-5-hour-American-Airlines-flight-with-a-snack-blanket-and-window-seat-nook-for-a-good-nap-after-popping-an-Ambien, that’s for sure. It’s more like keep-your-eye-on-your-triple-locked-luggage-at-all-times-don’t-tangle-your-feet-with-the-person-sitting-across-from-you-or-make-too-much-eye-contact-during-the-10-hours-you’re-spending-together-go-hungry-and-thirsty-and-hope-for-the-best kind of a scenario.
Still, getting to Spain felt good. Familiar, even. I know I haven’t been to San Sebastian specifically, but Europe, even Paris earlier, and now Spain, felt familiar. I guess having spent the last nine months only being in places that were completely foreign, lacking anything you can liken to things in the States, Europe offers familiarity that felt different. Weird, almost. I’m still trying to figure out if that’s good or bad. I think I’ve gotten so used to novelty that anything partially comfortable is disconcerting. (I’m sure my parents are cringing reading that…)
Anyway, San Sebastian was a stunning seaside town, on par with Monte Carlo and Nice. It’s fabulous, you can feel it as you walk around; this is a European Hamptons, of sorts. Although, inherently Spanish. With MUCH better architecture. But not as good shopping. The glory of being a Spaniard… Aaah, that life. Sleep until ten or so (the cafes didn’t open until around 10 each day and, even then, they were scrambling to serve the waiting early-rise, mostly American tourists), work a bit, maybe until around 1. Take a long, wine-fueled lunch, have a siesta, start work again around 4:30. Stop around 8, grab some tapas, head to dinner around 11, linger longer, go out and dance. Sleep, repeat as needed. A good life, indeed. The streets of the old city – winding four/five storied connected buildings of browns, beige and rusts, terraced with potted begonias dripping off the green/blue/red shutters – pulsed with the tapas scene. Pinxtos, they’re called here. All day long, it’s just tapas bar after tapas bar after tapas bar (Lukoff! The bendy-match tapas bar!). You can find people at all times crowding around a bar, crumpled napkins strewn all over the floor (it took a while for me to just litter like that…), as they devour their pinxtos; sangria, wine or cava (their version of champagne) in hand, nibbling, sipping, and moving on. It’s all on the honor system, so you can have two tapas, walk away, go for a run, buy a shirt, come back and pay. I mean…. I will admit that I had to test the system JUST ONCE and walked off after a red wine and a seafood au gratin shell (Mom, it was coquille, delish!) and nary an officer (or bar-man) tracked me down. Dangerous to know. I kinda felt accomplished. I’m not a shove-your-face tapas’er that hovers at the bar, being obvious. I’m more picky as I’m not a huge fan of bacalao (cod), which is a staple, or anchovies (another hot topper), or mayo, which is a base for so many little treats. So, I would skulk through each potential tapas bar before I would commit to it. Sometimes more than once, just to be sure. I think I freaked people out a little. I stuck to the really healthy stuff: tortilla espanol, croquetas, chorizos, fried cheese/meat dumplings, stuffed pimientos. Right.... And, anytime I was slightly hungry, I just stopped off for a tapa, which became three, which became five, throw in a cava, SURE. Bad, bad, bad… And while tapas are fantastic and all, don’t even get me started on the actual restaurants…
I think my cholesterol has skyrocketed already because anyone who knows me knows that my absolute favorite food in the whole is my grandmother’s (and mom’s) potato and eggs. Which is, basically, tortilla espanol. I have about 4 a day. I already had two for breakfast (it’s 10 AM right now). Here they serve them on bread. Like you need bread to sandwich your potatoes! But hey, I’m not REALLY arguing. I spent a couple of days on the beach, people-watching; pondering the weird, weird hair cuts and colors of the Spanish teenagers (and adults) and adoring the little kids playing in their red-white little outfits in celebration of the Running of the Bulls. I spent a couple of days wandering the city, overhearing the shouts of World Cup’s finale, the gasps at the nightly newsreels of Pamplona’s injured, and the sighs after Nadal’s Wimbledon loss (a very sad day for Spain). My “wow” moment, I guess, was getting into my elevator, bleary-eyed at 9 AM yesterday as I made my way down to the gym, only to think I “knew” the crotchety, dirty old man in the elevator with me. Why do I know this skeevy grandpa beatnik? Um, maybe because it was Bob Dylan. He was playing a concert there the day I was leaving, I had read about it in the papers every day, I mean… It was the concierge, my man Carlos, who said when I asked him for a gym pass – you see Bob Deeelin? Aha! Right. Crotchety.
And, now onto Bilbao to see the Guggenheim. Cannot wait. I hear it’s amazing.
More soon.
xoxo
I'm back, sorry this took so long. I seem to have a lot of worried friends from lack of blogging, lack of photos.
I'm fine, I'm fine...I've just been in my own world since I got to Europe last week...
Northern Spain, Basque Country, La Rioja…the stuff of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, Michener’s The Drifters, and my latest adventure. Having been in Spain almost ten years ago (gasp!), a mere twenty-one year old (gasp again!) college graduate, I went back and reread my journals before taking this trip to Europe. Not the best idea. Shock, dismay, brief bouts of nausea reading through each day’s entry. Who wrote that?!?! Me? Most certainly not. What a lil’ bitchy thing I was, full of impatience, lacking palate and appreciation of culture, food, and experience. My time in Spain was rife with intolerance of both Lukoff (sorry, lovey) and the ever-ADD-Nabi, as we made our way from Barcelona to Sevilla, Madrid to Logrono, and finally, to Pamplona where we proceeded to sleep in an ATM booth while Nabi took bong hits from Spanish strangers out of carved melons and I struggled with bronchitis. In the morning, after a good night’s ATMisery, we “watched Todd run” with the bulls perched high on fences above the chaos. Exactly… Spain didn’t leave the best impression. So, I was most eager to come back and reacquaint myself with this country, on my own terms.
After a very long plane ride that landed me in Paris at 8 AM, followed by a day spent endlessly wandering the streets of Montparnasse and St. Germaine du Pres, loitering in coffee shop upon coffee shop eyes wide shut until my 11 PM (yep…) train to San Sebastian (NOT a sleeping train, mind you…), I was very VERY happy to finally arrive. I most definitely blocked out what train travel, Eurail (Hello, 1996! Plum, Luke..where are you?) travel is like. Though, it’s certainly not your average, door-to-door-taxi-counter-check-your-luggage-5-hour-American-Airlines-flight-with-a-snack-blanket-and-window-seat-nook-for-a-good-nap-after-popping-an-Ambien, that’s for sure. It’s more like keep-your-eye-on-your-triple-locked-luggage-at-all-times-don’t-tangle-your-feet-with-the-person-sitting-across-from-you-or-make-too-much-eye-contact-during-the-10-hours-you’re-spending-together-go-hungry-and-thirsty-and-hope-for-the-best kind of a scenario.
Still, getting to Spain felt good. Familiar, even. I know I haven’t been to San Sebastian specifically, but Europe, even Paris earlier, and now Spain, felt familiar. I guess having spent the last nine months only being in places that were completely foreign, lacking anything you can liken to things in the States, Europe offers familiarity that felt different. Weird, almost. I’m still trying to figure out if that’s good or bad. I think I’ve gotten so used to novelty that anything partially comfortable is disconcerting. (I’m sure my parents are cringing reading that…)
Anyway, San Sebastian was a stunning seaside town, on par with Monte Carlo and Nice. It’s fabulous, you can feel it as you walk around; this is a European Hamptons, of sorts. Although, inherently Spanish. With MUCH better architecture. But not as good shopping. The glory of being a Spaniard… Aaah, that life. Sleep until ten or so (the cafes didn’t open until around 10 each day and, even then, they were scrambling to serve the waiting early-rise, mostly American tourists), work a bit, maybe until around 1. Take a long, wine-fueled lunch, have a siesta, start work again around 4:30. Stop around 8, grab some tapas, head to dinner around 11, linger longer, go out and dance. Sleep, repeat as needed. A good life, indeed. The streets of the old city – winding four/five storied connected buildings of browns, beige and rusts, terraced with potted begonias dripping off the green/blue/red shutters – pulsed with the tapas scene. Pinxtos, they’re called here. All day long, it’s just tapas bar after tapas bar after tapas bar (Lukoff! The bendy-match tapas bar!). You can find people at all times crowding around a bar, crumpled napkins strewn all over the floor (it took a while for me to just litter like that…), as they devour their pinxtos; sangria, wine or cava (their version of champagne) in hand, nibbling, sipping, and moving on. It’s all on the honor system, so you can have two tapas, walk away, go for a run, buy a shirt, come back and pay. I mean…. I will admit that I had to test the system JUST ONCE and walked off after a red wine and a seafood au gratin shell (Mom, it was coquille, delish!) and nary an officer (or bar-man) tracked me down. Dangerous to know. I kinda felt accomplished. I’m not a shove-your-face tapas’er that hovers at the bar, being obvious. I’m more picky as I’m not a huge fan of bacalao (cod), which is a staple, or anchovies (another hot topper), or mayo, which is a base for so many little treats. So, I would skulk through each potential tapas bar before I would commit to it. Sometimes more than once, just to be sure. I think I freaked people out a little. I stuck to the really healthy stuff: tortilla espanol, croquetas, chorizos, fried cheese/meat dumplings, stuffed pimientos. Right.... And, anytime I was slightly hungry, I just stopped off for a tapa, which became three, which became five, throw in a cava, SURE. Bad, bad, bad… And while tapas are fantastic and all, don’t even get me started on the actual restaurants…
I think my cholesterol has skyrocketed already because anyone who knows me knows that my absolute favorite food in the whole is my grandmother’s (and mom’s) potato and eggs. Which is, basically, tortilla espanol. I have about 4 a day. I already had two for breakfast (it’s 10 AM right now). Here they serve them on bread. Like you need bread to sandwich your potatoes! But hey, I’m not REALLY arguing. I spent a couple of days on the beach, people-watching; pondering the weird, weird hair cuts and colors of the Spanish teenagers (and adults) and adoring the little kids playing in their red-white little outfits in celebration of the Running of the Bulls. I spent a couple of days wandering the city, overhearing the shouts of World Cup’s finale, the gasps at the nightly newsreels of Pamplona’s injured, and the sighs after Nadal’s Wimbledon loss (a very sad day for Spain). My “wow” moment, I guess, was getting into my elevator, bleary-eyed at 9 AM yesterday as I made my way down to the gym, only to think I “knew” the crotchety, dirty old man in the elevator with me. Why do I know this skeevy grandpa beatnik? Um, maybe because it was Bob Dylan. He was playing a concert there the day I was leaving, I had read about it in the papers every day, I mean… It was the concierge, my man Carlos, who said when I asked him for a gym pass – you see Bob Deeelin? Aha! Right. Crotchety.
And, now onto Bilbao to see the Guggenheim. Cannot wait. I hear it’s amazing.
More soon.
xoxo
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