When I arrive in Madrid on April 29th - yes, I'm on the move again - there is nothing ciudad del sol about it. Bleary-eyed after an overnight coach journey from Toulouse, I trudge under a steady drizzle, single-mindedly bent on locating my hotel, have a shower and a nap. All in that order. I have to come to terms with the fact that I can't anymore just not sleep and be functioning the next day. In the metro at the Estacion del sur, it's a job for my blurry head to put together a sentence in Spanish but I manage to ask for 'una tarjeta para diez viajes, por favor', a cheaper option. 'Si!' and tap tap tap goes the helpful staff on those baffling ticket vending machines, so fast that I don't even have the time to locate my purse. Muchas muchas gracias! A far cry from struggling to extract a ticket in Paris from machines that are in my native tongue. No helpful, efficient staff there that I have ever seen.
Blablabus has a brand new and comfy fleet of coaches with competitively cheap prices but I wouldn't recommend any wait at all, long or short, at Toulouse coach station. It is the grottiest of the grottiest in that generally grotty type of establishment. Dingy-smelling draughts, unidentifiable foul splatters, accumulated litter, broken seats... I am now utterly convinced that cities do not care to make travelling on a budget a pleasant episode.
It was Idoia's idea to meet up in Madrid, a novel experience for us. I generally see her in San Sebastian, her home town and I believe she's visited me in almost every place and country I stayed since our first encounter at the same hospital in Switzerland, where I was starting work as a nurse and her as a budding psychiatrist. A lot was shared over the years and she's the best godmother to my daughter. Friends are the family we choose, as important as the one we inherit.
Now there are two things in Spain that do not exist quite so well anywhere else I know. La siesta and la fiesta. It does sound cliché but it's true. And it rhymes beautifully. Anyway, I have never been in this country without witnessing a celebration of some sort, bands, fanfares, drums, dance, fireworks, bam bam bam bam, you name it, it's all out and making a lot of noise. Spaniards might disagree with me but I feel the fun is laced with gravitas. Partying is an intense, absolute, pursuit, an existential necessity, the ultimate remedy against the angst of life. It all requires quite a bit of stamina and that is where la siesta comes in handy.
So, Idoia and I get into a holiday routine, wandering through a different central barrio (district) mornings and evenings with a blissful interruption at the hotel, kicking sandals off weary feet and getting into our nighties - yes, we mean it - and into our little beds.. .and slumber off the hottest part of the day, as la ciudad del sol has soon reverted to its balmy nature. It is a 4 day weekend in Madrid and we need some staying power. Monday 1st of May is labour day and we do contemplate for a while attending the traditional demonstrations but eventually decide on the botanical garden though Idoia has pangs of guilt for not joining the happy crowds walking past us, banners at the ready. And, to prove the point I was making above, May 2nd is a local holiday, la fiesta de la Comunidad de Madrid that celebrates the uprising of the city against the French troops on that very date of 1808. And off bam bam bam bam we go and it's all very exciting and what a way to end our stay.
I love to be surprised and I am here without any preconceived ideas, another way to say I have done no research at all whatsoever before this trip. Idoia's childhood friends, Ana and Eva, true Madrilenas, have taken upon themselves to make our days in their beautiful city the best ever. I have to be careful not to voice too many wishes as they will go to great lengths to make them happen. Ana acts as our 'guia' (guide) and such a wonderful one that we tease her she spends all night studying, so extensive is her knowledge of her beloved city. Both her and Idoia are quite relieved to hear I just wish to walk the little streets, feel the air, smell the scents, soak in the atmosphere, absorb the energy, a more pleasant pursuit than compulsive, box-ticking tourism.
We see less of Eva who lives outside the city but she's there on my first (bleary-eyed) evening for an introduction to the Madrid's music scene she knows so well. And so should she as she's a pianist and a composer, the recipient of the Goya prize for the music of the film 'La buena Estrella'. She'd never mention it herself so I have to do it for her.
So we end up in 'Clamores', a jazz and soul cellar, calle de Albuquerque in the Chamberi district. By then, I feel almost ill with fatigue and unable to string a sentence together in Spanish but never mind ! The Haitian rhythms of Leyla McCalla are so complex and powerful, I have to get up and dance.
The hotel Regio where we're staying is nothing to write home about but it's clean and situated on a quiet street. Its main attraction is to be minutes away from the Plaza Puerta del sol, the very hub of the city and of the country too, actually, as it is there that the official 12 midnight bongs are struck on December 31st and where the 'kilometro cero' is located, the point from which kilometer distances are numbered in the Spanish road network. In France, it is in front of the cathedral Notre-Dame in Paris, another symbolic centre. It's a sun beaten, vast expanse, lined with elegant buildings and filled with tourists taking pictures of the sights - and so did I - and of the statue of 'El oso y el madrono', the bear and the strawberry tree, the heraldic symbols of Madrid.
The strawberry tree is common around the Mediterranean and Madrilenes make a sweet and potent liquor from its fruit. The bar Los Madronos on the plaza del Angel, 11 serves it in little biscuit and chocolate shot glasses and I can declare here that it is delicious and indeed potent. As for the bears, they haven't been around for a few centuries, poor things.
In a city of more than 3 million inhabitants, it is possible to lose oneself in the little streets of the centre and believe one is in a village. In all barrios we explored, there would be little squares, tables outside, drinks being shared, tapas being eaten, laughter, children playing and that Spanish hoarse, husky buzz of conversation that sounds to me like a mountain stream hurtling pebbles in its rushing waters.
The Malasana district, north of Gran via, was named after a young seamstress who was killed by the troops of Napoleon (him again). This barrio was the cradle of the cultural movement 'la movida' that exploded after the death of Franco and has quite a bohemian feel and beautifully tiled old shop fronts, some of them now closed. Here, like everywhere else, Covid hasn't been kind to trade. The next morning, I see a long line of people queuing at a soup kitchen.
On our way to the 'barrio de las letras' and its literary quotes inlaid in the road surface, we pass, on the Plaza de Santa Ana, the oldest tablao flamenco - from the word tablado, meaning floorboards. Every country has to have its blues and Spain's is flamenco, a fierce and fiery way to kick pain and trouble away. Anyway, it is early in the morning and there is no sign of life behind the beautifully painted walls. I'm rooted in place, in wonderment and longing and a young lady at the door, raven hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, invites us to visit the empty rooms, the stage... and I can hear the ghost rhythms of thumping feet.
I had a mental picture of Madrid in my head and I'm surprised at how recent this capital city feels to me but maybe I'm just getting too familiar with my medieval surroundings in France. We walk past where the house of Cervantes used to stand. The house was timbered and it burned, like it happened to other buildings of that time and to most of the Plaza Mayor whose reconstruction was finished in stern, sober grandeur in the middle of the 19th century. Though I know Cervantes, whose Don Quijote I never quite managed to finish, I had never heard of its competitor, Lope de la Vega, a prolific playwright of the 'siglo de oro', the Spanish golden age, a period of flourishing in arts (El Greco, Velasquez) and literature that coincided with the political rise of the Spanish Empire. There you go, that was a very concise Wikipedia moment.
In that district, I was particularly charmed by the Ateneo cientifico y literario and its library, created in the early 19th century where even the dust motes are infused with decades of knowledge.
La Plaza Mayor... Does Idoia have a twin?
My favourite barrio is Lavapies and next time I visit the capital, it's a district where I would love to stay. It used to be the Jewish quarter before they were expelled in 1492 by Ferdinand and Isabella and its name comes from the ritual of washing (lava) your feet (pies) before prayer, tough opinions vary about this. We access Lavapies from the Plaza Mayor, through an ancient massive stone gate and stop for a drink at the oldest bar in the city, the taberna Antonio Sanchez, calle Meson de Paredes. It is all dark wood, leather, black and white photos, a bull's head planted above dark ochre walls, oak barrels and a waiter who does his best to appear surly but it's all an act, Idoia says.
Lavapies is the most ancient, most diverse and cheapest district in the centre and there we can feel the pulse of everyday life, devoid of any tourist hype. Boys play football on the street, old African men with traditional garb from Senegal and Mali sit on their doorsteps, long tree-lined avenues shelter a succession of restaurants and bars and echo with quiet conversations. As we're trying to find a place to eat outside, we happen on a collective garden on calle Doctor Fourquet, 27, a haven and meeting place for the local community.
We end up in La canibal, calle Argumosa, 28, specialised in 'vinos naturales y cervezas artisanas' and enjoy the most delicious pulpo a la galega and a dish of artichokes to die for.
As we're on the topics of restaurants, Idoia and I manage to find on our own lonesome - Ana is having a break in her guia job - the very best restaurant in the centre, La taverna de la Elisa, on calle de Santa Maria, 42, that serves typical Castillan food. We happen on it by chance after meandering through the botanical garden, among the roses in full bloom, along alleys of olive trees and ancient bonsais.
Because we like to live dangerously, Idoia orders tripes (callos) and I order snails (caracoles) in a spicy tomato sauce. Unlike me, Idoia hasn't been traumatised by tripes in her childhood and I might not have been if I had tasted tripes like this. The service is friendly and hyper, a nervous, speedy ballet, most entertaining to observe. These guys work hard. For sure, if I order a dessert, their blood pressure will rocket. But the appeal of a creamy rice pudding with a crisp caramel topping is irresistible. Congratulations to the chef I declare in Spanish. 'Si si', the waiter replies, 'we know!' and off he runs. This inspiring discovery should earn us a badge of honorary Madrilenas, Ana jokes when we see her next.
Still, it is her who recommends a restaurant close to our hotel, La ciudad de Tui, named after a small Galician harbour. It is cheap and cheerful and a good start to the day with freshly pressed orange juice, fragrant coffee, croissants or tostadas, all served with brisk friendliness.
So far, we've resisted museums but on the day of la fiesta de la comunidad de Madrid, keen to escape the general excitement, we head to the Sorolla museum.
Why had I never heard of him? His paintings are filled with movement and light. I can feel the sea breeze on my skin, splash with those little girls in the shallows, smell the fresh fish brought by sailing boats on the shore of the Mediterranean. He moved to Madrid at the end of the 19th century and the museum is situated in the high ceilinged airy rooms of his house. We find respite from the heat of the day sitting by the fountain in his garden. It is an utter delight and my favourite, most enthralling moment in Madrid.
Our trip is coming to an end. We return to the hub, la plaza de la Puerta del sol where local Spanish musics and dances are performed and more, on the big stage, from South America. Crowds throng the place, sing along and dance. At dusk, we oooh and aaaah at fireworks bursting over the buildings and walk along the streets in the balmy night towards the Palacio Real, the official residence of the king of Spain.
There is one last thing! I can't leave Madrid without Churros and hot chocolate and that's what we do while waiting for the car taking us to San Sebastian. In case you were wondering, it's not a private chauffeur but Blablacar.
The sea awaits!! The heat is so intense for early May that we jump into our bathing suits as soon as we've dropped our luggage at Idoia's flat and off we run to the beach. Bye bye Madrid, its life effervescent and friendship shared, the most precious gift.
