India??

No, actually ... Germany, would you believe. I was there from the end of May to early June and if it takes me that long to start a new blog, it's not just a considerable capacity for getting distracted (ahem...) nor my head spinning with getting house, rucksack and whatnot, ready for the next journey but a need to mull things over. With the passing of time, I take a step back and get a clearer picture. Here it is : the impression I'm left with after two weeks in Cologne and Berlin, is a wealth of culture, openness and courtesy. 

So, indeed, not India above but Berlin's Karneval der Kulturen, a celebration of the diverse communities that inhabit Germany's capital city, an event eagerly awaited after the Covid black hole. Now, I would love to see such a thing happen in Paris. It would do a power of good to social tensions.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I first arrive in Cologne to visit Susanne who is probably one of my oldest friends. We met in the early eighties in Southern France when she was doing a voluntary stint at a hospital where I worked nights. Since then she married Ralf, became a GP and they had 2 children, Ana and Leonie, now lovely young women. We kept in touch along the years. They had me when I needed to revive my German before embarking on a language teacher training and under strict instructions not to speak a word of French or English to me. The girls stayed with us in England and my daughter had the rare privilege to be a red and yellow chicken with the whole family in Cologne's carnival parade, throwing sweets to kids, 'Kamele, Kamele!! That was 13 years ago.

Accompanied by Leonie on the train to her parents, who live south of Cologne, I'm happy to notice I remember how to get from the station to their flat on a tree-lined quiet street. I even spot on the way the Biergarten where we went to see a football world cup game, years ago, at Ralf's supplication, the only man in a family of women. There were many kinds of sausages on the barbecue - Germany boasts 1200 different types of sausages - beer flowing and a deliriously happy crowd each time Podolsky scored a goal. A hilarious memory.

We're delighted to meet again and laughter rings around the table, laden with sauerkraut, cooked with apples and pineapple, surprising and delicious. Susanne winks at me. Nothing more typical, hey!

Probably Cologne is the German city I know the best, which is not saying much but I am not going to visit Cologne's cathedral again, the Dom, stunning as it is - Germany's most visited landmark and the tallest twin-spired cathedral in the world -  nor wander again the little streets of what remains of the old town by the Rhine. 

No. Instead, I make my way south to quiet, provincial Bonn. I find it impossible to extract a day ticket from the machine for train and tram so I take my chances in this law-abiding country, hoping to God I won't get checked. 

I'm told Bonn benefited from not being the capital city anymore, with many a consolation prizes that make for fascinating museums. The weather is grey and cool on that first day so it's time for an art binge.

The Kunstmuseum Bonn, or Bonn museum of Modern art is dedicated to expressionism and post-war artists. Now, I had heard of Gerhard Richter and Max Ernst but not of August Macke or Franz Marc. It is an explosion of colours and boldness and I'm rooted to the spot with wonder. 

The contemporary rooms show the usual installation, obtuse videos in darkness accompanied with groaning recordings that do not strike any chord with me. They pale in comparison with stunning works of contemporary art. I'm particularly fascinated by Shannon Bool, who now lives in Berlin and produces magical pieces with fabric in an intricate and evocative way.  This one evokes an underwater world...

I wander under grey skies towards the next tram station along large avenues lined with sharp-edged modern buildings, with the feeling of stepping into a science-fiction film, a soulless universe where robots drive silent cars. This kind of landscape is much too abstract for me and I'm relieved to step into the old part of town, around the university, where pristine mansions line the streets and kids and dogs run on the grass. Leonie and I stroll in the tropical and desert plant greenhouses of the botanical garden, delighting in the green fragrance of nature.

That evening, I have a meeting in Königswinter, near Bonn, so Susanne joins me after work at 'Das gut Sülz', a 'Weingarten' nearby, with vineyards sloping up behind a garden strewn with deckchairs, where we enjoy Flammkuchen, a type of thin crust flambée pizza, a speciality from Alsace.

After a day resting and a hike with Ralf in nearby woods where we almost get lost, Susanne and I are ready for a time-honoured tradition and a must-do on a Cologne stay : a visit to the Spa 'Mediterana', in the forest east of Cologne and a more beautiful spa I have never seen. It's also a chance to catch up as she's been working long hours and rekindle our old friendship, a real delight altogether. 

I can't help comparing Mediterrana with other, English, spas I attended along the years and quite amused to report a marked difference : we're all stark naked under our robes, hanging them on hooks before stepping into saunas or pools, in an easy-going, matter-of-fact, manner.

On my last day, a Saturday I, for once, am up before Ralf and Susanne and glad of it. I was starting to feel guilty that everybody else is already at it when I emerge around 8am. There is still plenty of time to dash to Niederdollendorf, walk along the right bank of the Rhine and, in the Sieben Gebirge, wander among the ruins of Heisterbach Abbey that would have been in its time, bigger than Cologne's Dom. 

It's surrounded by a cathedral of majestic copper beeches. In this landscape, dominated by 'Drachenfels', the Dragon's cliff, I feel the pulse of legends. I'm told the story of the monk Caesarius who followed a bird deeper and deeper into the forest and forgot time and space. Tired he sat on a tree trunk and fell asleep. When he awoke and discovered 300 years had gone, he died on the spot. 'Und ihr solt wissen, dass ein Tag for den Herrn wie tausend Jahre ist und tausend Jahre wie ein Tag". 

Time to say good-bye... We'll see each other again, Susanne and Ralf, as we always do and won't wait for 300 years.

From the world of legend to reality and to a real good deal on the train to Berlin with Flixtrain, a private company that uses the German rail network at a quarter of the price. Carriages are old and packed but get me there in 6 hours. After stopping at a number of cities in that busy, industrial western part of Germany, we cross a luxuriant countryside of lush fields, deep forests and sleepy villages, a peaceful landscape under a deep blue sky, so empty that I'm hard put believing that, with 83 million souls, this is the most populated country in Europe. 

The border across the ex DDR (GRD) follows the river Elbe between Hanover and Brandenburg. It has now been replaced by a 1300km long green belt, the largest biotope sanctuary in Europe. What a statement!

Over the next few days with Franzi in Berlin, I will slowly realise that my geographical centre of gravity has moved : friends of hers are spending the weekend on the Baltic coast. The Baltic !! Only a 3 hour drive away and Prague not that much further...  Yes, I'm in eastern Europe. 

A good camino friend, Franzi came to stay with me last year in my village before embarking on another hike. Her invitation to Berlin didn't fall on deaf ears and a year later, here I am. We spend companionable days together, fuelled by a shared fondness for wine, good food and cinema, by her delight at showing me her beloved city and mine to discover it.  She's very patient with me and prevents me more than once to be hit by bikes as I walk with my nose up in the air.  

Franzi runs half marathons and has legs of steel... and a kilometre count on her mobile App. We walk 16 km average each day in her city. Mine are not made of steel, but rather of jelly but I am game.  Full of glee on that first morning, she tells me she's concocted a Berlin program for me that avoids all the grotty areas and I can say here that, although it is not the most beautiful capital city I have ever seen, it is the most vibrant, energetic, progressive and alive community, still surfing on the exhilarating wave or reunification... with ethics to match. I'm not fond of cities but I could live among its many parks, lakes and streams and cycle along its leafy avenues. Franzi, dear friend, be warned : I'll be back.

And what a better introduction than the Karneval der Kulturen. It's in the Kreuzberg area, on the line 6, straight from 'Wedding' where she lives. So we get there in good time under a beautiful spring sun and among general mounting excitement.

It is, as it should, opened by the Brazilian community, the best people to set the rhythm, with delirious costumes, feathers, samba and big smiles, followed by Peruvians, Venezuelans, Indians from Maharashtra with orange turbans, hieratic Koreans, a float with Ukrainian new wave music, much applauded, a roller-skate dancing club, another float with characters of German folklore and legends, another of Woodstock-worthy Jimmy Hendrix-style rock music... and more and more and I forget. 

Time for a caipirinha at one of the many little stalls, so generous with rum that it needs an antidote :  a Bratwurst in a bun, liberally ladled with mustard. Dazed with noise, joy and alcohol we slump somewhere on a quiet side-street. Time for a snooze and an evening wander in her neighbourhood of quiet avenues and wide pavements planted with mature trees. We find the holy grail, a cheap and tasty restaurant fo finish off a perfect day .Vietnamese it is!

 Ever considerate, Franzi insists to go and sleep at a friend's because her flat (under the eaves, light and perfectly appointed) is too small, she says, and she wants me to be 'cosy' and 'relaxed', her favourite words. Off she goes, bless her soul, but not until we plan the next day, into the ex East Berlin and the Kiez where she used to live. 

A little note about German. I haven't spoken a word of it for 5 years and the little drawers at the back of my memory are rusty and squeaky. But open they do, to my astonishment, though it's a head-splitting pursuit. 

This is a language akin to the coast of western Brittany, strewn with grammatical reefs and barely submerged opportunities to flounder into an ocean of 14 letter words, some poetically descriptive like 'Eichhörnchen', a squirrel, 'the little horn - the shape of its tail - of the acorn'. 

Franzi teaches me some berliner slang, ein Späti (a shop opening late), ein Schnapper (a good deal), and others inherited from the GDR where western words were verboten : ein Nicki for a T-shirt and Nietenhosen - trousers with metal studs - for jeans. And of course, you know the aforementioned word for district : Kiez and this is where our steps take us the next day, where east Berlin used to be, through Simon Dach Kiez and Samariter Kiez, Franzi's past favourite haunts where she used to live with her ex-partner Daniel. 

It's Whitsun Monday and everything is closed but bars and restaurants do a roaring trade along the small tree-lined streets. It's charming and convivial. By then, I'm more than ready to sit down : we have walked along what is left of the Berlin wall and the mural paintings are so evocative and powerful that I burst into tears. 

I recover in the leafy alleys of Treptower park, where families stroll, children cycle, couples dance, and we share a picnic in the shade by the river Spree. 

As we sit with a beer, later, at a bar, Daniel and Franzi push the courtesy to speak English to each other in my presence, a lesson from the camino where they often felt isolated with people speaking French or Spanish around them. It's a privilege to hear their stories : we lived here and that's how we moved flats and that restaurant used to  be there and the neighbourhood feels alive, not seen from the eyes of an outsider. 

That evening, back in her flat, we kill a bottle of bubbly rosé, fuel for the next, exclusively touristy day, of the type we have, so far, successfully avoided. The usual culprits : a saunter on Unter den Linden - the Berlin Champs-Elysées - and under the Brandenburg gate. We shake off the milling throngs of tourists and amble through the Tiergarten and along the river Spree with a delicious coffee at das Haus der Kulteren der Welt (to celebrate the different cultures in the world), called by the Berliner the 'pregnant oyster', reminiscent of the Sydney opera house - on a smaller scale - and past the chancellor abode, Olaf Scholz, a socialist in coalition with the liberals and the green party. It's all very modern, light and airy. 

Boats ply the river, people stroll lazily but it ramps up as we get to the crowded Museum Insel, museum island. The weather is too warm and sunny to enter any building but if ever I'm back in Berlin on a rainy day, I can get totally museum-ed out. There is scope here for death by art. 

Under the arcades of one of the museums...

After a walk through the delightful Nikolaiviertel and sightings of the TV tower - impossible to miss - comes the day's crowning glory, a real treat...

                                                             Axel Springer Neubau

A friend of Franzi, Claudia, is personal assistant to one of the CEOs at Axel Springer publishing company. She has arranged for us to meet her at the terrace on top of Axel Springer Neubau. A most recent addition -2019 - to Berlin's landscape, designed by the dutch architect Rem Koolhas, it is not only stunning but a symbolic statement :  close to checkpoint Charlie it spans where the border used to be between the east and west of the city. After going through security, we lounge on the terrace chatting (in English) and sipping cocktails as the sun sets red and gold over Berlin...

Time for a break and, on my last day, a relaxing (fave word) program awaits : we take a fast train to Potsdam in the south-east, dominated by the castle Sans-Souci. A small replica of Versailles, it was built in 1745 by Frederic the Great as a summer residence and retreat. Painted a warm ochre, surrounded by well-tended grounds and a terraced orchard, it is utterly charming... but nothing beats the quaint prettiness of the dutch quarter, Holländisches Viertel. 

As we head off to one of the many lakes that surround Berlin, bathing-suits at the ready, I learn that this is a city that was founded by the dutch on a flat, marshy area and, indeed, who is better suited than them for drying wetland. So, Babelsberg Strandbad (beach of Babelsberg lake), here we come for a dip in your blue waters and for a Berliner Weisse (white berliner beer with fruity syrup) and a Chili Hotdog from the café.

This is a lot of sausages ... but in Rome... To crown the sausage exploration, I should have a Currywurst and, when I get back to Cologne on a real Schnapper (see above) Flixtrain fare, it won't take much convincing for my new host, Ian, to accompany me to the nearest Currywurst joint. A type of hotdog swimming in a vaguely spicy sauce, it is a true insult to gastronomy but it does hit the spot.

When he stopped by my home last year in his camper van, he offered me his place to stay if I wished to spend some time in the centre of Cologne. That didn't fall on deaf ears either. When you invite me, be careful : I will come! I had some news from Ian over the winter, fabulous pictures of the Moroccan Sahara that he was exploring in his van while continuing to focus on translation contracts. A good way to be away from a German winter and return for the joys of spring. 

As Ian spends the morning translating at his desk, I set myself loose in the Agnes Viertel where he lives. A pleasant residential area, it is a few minutes walk from the train station and the Dom and accessed through Eigelstein Torburg, the only gate that remains from the city's medieval fortifications. 

I have things to attend to, post-office, hairdresser appointment, etc... and while, at home, it's mundane, routine and boring, it takes another dimension when in another city, culture and language, an enigma-solving kind of fun. I discover fashion shops - not the same style as in France - give a beggar a cup of coffee, sit in a bookshop, get lost and found. Ah ! On this square, there will be a market tomorrow. I feel at home. Not a tourist seeking known attractions but almost a local, albeit one with hesitant vocabulary. Tall trees shelter me from an unseasonal balmy sun. I receive news from home where they're plagued by cold and rain. Not a time to be in the south then, for a change. A plethora of weeds will be awaiting me at home but at least the grass will be green. 

Chance encounters on the train are precious and so are people's stories. I'm sitting next to a gentle Ukrainian young lady who remained hidden with her family in a cellar in Mariupol for a month. She was evacuated to Berlin a year ago, was welcomed, given clothes, a home, was offered psychotherapy in Ukrainian and German lessons. Only now does she feel safe enough within herself to leave Berlin and go visit a friend in Cologne... 

Across the aisle, an academic with perfect English tells me of a scandal at Axel Springer publishing company (see above), involving the former chief editor of the tabloid' Bild', yet another instance of sexual misconduct and abusing women, told in a barely disguised, well-informed fiction  'Noch Wach' by the 'pop star of German literature' Benjamin von Stuckrad-Barre. Now that's a mouthful of a name and I had to ask her to spell it for me...

Back to Cologne : again, this is no museum weather. The zoo it is!! It's within walking distance and an outing Ian has practised over the years with his children : we do not miss any feeding time. I have never seen hippos so close. They are gross and bristly, in an endearing sort of way. I feel like a kid. We end up slumping at the botanical garden café in front of a huge beer. 

A delightful day. I feel so kindly welcomed and, Ian, if ever my home is on the way to or from your winter escapades, do stop by.

Cologne, under the spring sun, is a joyful, relaxed and welcoming city. Saturday will be a day of picnic and parks, some with outdoor sculptures, including one of Anish Kapoor - whose fame I cannot begin to comprehend - a walk along the Rhine and, come evening, the best finale for those two beautiful weeks where I have reconnected with friends and really got to know, more intimately, a good country imbued with a sense of purpose. In contrast, France feels more like a nation of argumentative epicureans.

We busily prepare spicy roasted potatoes and a delicious humous made with dry-fried sesame seeds, ram a couple of beers in the cool bag and off we go, across the river, over the Hohenzollern bridge, to Schäl Sick (the wrong side) and plonk ourselves on the riverside steps to wait for the sun to set behind the Dom.

His back to the river Rhine, a guitarist is facing us. The crowd in front of him sings along and seems to know all the lyrics. They are nostalgic, soulful Turkish ballads and a perfect accompaniment to the silhouette of the Dom against amber skies.

Ciudad del Sol

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.