Okay, so I’ll never be madrileña (a Madrid native), even if I were to move in tomorrow and spend the rest of my life working on it, it would take more than the luck of the Irish, dynamism of California, and a blessing from every other label I have ever fallen under: Mount Hermonites, Christians, Baptists, cyclists, bookworms, Calvinists, etc. It is a different world. Fascinating. Frightening. Wow. And trust me, I saw nothing.
Madrid is llenísimo of people: brimming, dripping, weaving. And with each person comes sound—sonido y ruido—even if it is nothing more than the shuffling of feet or nothing less than setting off a noisemaker that could be likened to an invisible firework. And Madrid is big. Chicago is big. So what? Climbing out of the subway in Chicago, one looks around to orient the station entrance with x, y, and z buildings, and then, looking at the base of the building, begins to follow it up . . . and up and up and up . . . and up. Scared of heights anyone? Madrid is not exactly skyscraper row, but the buildings are not only tall (anything over four stories is tall in my book, and these were at least twice that height), but wide—grandísimo in all respects. Stately, elegant history, everywhere . . .
and everywhere, culture. Culture in every sense. The Palacio Real with baroque madness popping off the walls, street life all day and all night, Indian food, museums: El Prado, La Reina Sofía, Thyssen-Bornemisza; discotecas, “El esplendor del románico” exhibit by Mapfre, calamares y cañas . . .
Who doesn’t want to eat a bocadillo de calamares with a caña? How can’t one be madrileño? Well, I don’t know. I can’t even begin to describe the ambience of Madrid—it was awesome. As in awe. As in overwhelming. Honestly, it scared the living daylights out of me and left me exhausted. But in contemplating the vivacity that keeps the life pumping through the veins of the people and the people pulsing through the city, I started to like it, to be tempted by it . . . tempted to swim through the wakes and ride the waves as if it were the Nor Cal coast. I didn’t have time to put that to the test, but the taste lingers . . . calamares y caña.
Before the adventure in Madrid:
Thursday morning we headed out from Denia to Toledo—I love it, I love it, I love it. Toledo is roped in by the Tajo river (pronounced the same as Tahoe), brimming with history, and surrounded by rolling, rugged hills.
We visited:
The Cathedral of Toledo—which is awe striking . . . I only saw half before we had to hope onto our next visit, but I was amazed.
La Iglesia de El Salvador (an ancient mosque converted into church, the original pillars are still intact, pretty darn sweet—to be eloquent about it).
La Iglesia de Santo Tomé—where we goggled over El Greco’s masterpiece El entierro del Conde Orgaz.
El Museo Sefardí—a Sephardic Museum (the Sefardí are the Spanish Jews who were expelled various times from Spain—Sephardic communities still exist throughout the world, and families still have the keys to the homes left behind).
Whew! Throughout all of Toledo (which I spent the afternoon wandering through with some friends, because we could, and it is simultaneously cute and wowing with the picturesque streets weaving in and around history) there are Sephardic shops that specialize in el arte demasquinado. It is gorgeous. Generally not one for jewelry, especially not anything fancy and not usually big on gold, I was oohing and awing at every window of these artisans. But I didn’t want to pay fifteen to twenty or so euros for earrings, so I simply bookmarked Toledo as where I spend a bit of money on something superfluous (but so intricate and . . . wow . . .) and selfish when I’m rich . . . ;)
Friday, first stop: Valle de los Caídos. A monument constructed under Franco to himself, really. I’m not up to writing a historical essay here, so I’m going to trust my audience to do the research—but I will say the monument is controversial and if not frequently visited by the tourists, is less visited by the Spaniards, it is part of a rather widely ignored history: the civil war, the dictatorships, the mass graves to which both sides contributed . . . but it is history, as Ricardo, our bus driver commented (I love hearing him talk about history, current events, lo que sea, he has well-formed and informed opinions built on a foundation of knowledge that is wowing in and of itself), no matter what one thinks of it. The inside of the monument was, like the cathedrals, big and awing, but in a very different way. Perhaps due to the lighting (or lack thereof) and dimensions (it was huge), or the knowledge of how it was construed and to whom under x circumstances, it was not a desirable “wow.” The aura was heavy; the feeling of smallness was a little crushing: directing the vision more to feet than up and around. It was a relief to step outside.
Second stop: El Escorial—I don’t remember it terribly well right now; I’ll have to muse about it later. The library was pretty sweet—I remember that much. And it was huge. It’s where all (well, not all) the Spanish royalty are laid to rest.
Third stop: Segovia. Roman Aqueduct. Just look at the pictures. Isn’t that something? And El Alcázar. Ahaha. Yaz. I’m not sure where to start with that one either. There is a lot of genius involved, but I’ll pull on the pattern theme from before. In the arte hispano-musulmán one will find, rather than paintings of angels, intricate, geometric patterns. These patterns are busy, but not overwhelming, colorful but not clashing. And yall’ll just have to use your imagination, because I cannot put words to what my camera could not capture. These designs, like the Sephardic damasquinado and Celtic patterns, are genius and captivating, but indescribable. Saturday: Madrid all day. El Palacio Real. Calamaris y caña. Annie wandering Madrid: an exhibit on el arte romanico; a floor of the Thyssen (impressionism, Geiger, Rembrandt, Pissarro, Dyke, etc.); El Prado; Indian food . . . good night.
Sunday: A stroll through el Parque de Buen Retiro and a stop at Segóbriga, Roman ruins. My descriptors are running out, and getting boring (“pretty sweet”), and sleep is in order. I do have classes (no, we don’t just play here, believe it or not). Cheers!
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