Our last days in Spain were
a series of bus and train rides, excursions to the towns of Toledo and Segovia,
and wandering through the streets of Madrid.
We visited the Prado Museum,
got there around ten o’clock in the morning and the line to enter was halfway
around the building, so we left, took a bus ride through the modern part of
Madrid and was terribly disappointed because it was not nearly as enchanted as
the old part. We arrived back at the Prado two hours later and walked right in.
For the next three and half hours M died and went to heaven. She was among the
old masters of European painters and totally in her own universe. I was in
total agony. The 4 hours standing of the previous evening watching the Semana Santa in Plaza Mayor rekindled an
old hip injury and the slow walking and more standing in the museum took its
toll on my hip. All I wanted to do was to sit somewhere comfortable to diminish
the pain. And sat I did from time to time and just let M meander through the
marbled-floor halls and appreciate the works of
her perennial favorites, Rembrandt,
Petrus Paulus Rubens and Anthony van Dyck, but we both got to know and like the
works of Goya too. At 5:30 pm I
eventually dragged her out of there, she reluctantly agreed, and we paid a
quick visit to the San Jerónimo el Real Church across the street from the
Prado.
We crossed the busy Paseo del
Prado street, allowed ourselves to be swept away by the crowd of
pedestrians towards Gran Via and down a quiet side street we found a quaint
square and the restaurant La Plateria, named after the square. For the next two
or three hours we sat al fresco under
the heated umbrellas of the restaurant watching the comings and goings of
people either heading home or on their way to the Friday night Holy Week procession
through the neighborhood of Huertas just a block or two away from the square.
We reflected on the day’s activities and savored Rioja wine and local Madrilène
cuisine. The food was generous, the house wine above average, the service swift
and the chairs comfortable to allow our tired feet a rest.
Early evening after the sun has
set behind the Sierra de Guadarrama mountains and a hazy darkness has settled
upon Madrid, I walked out on the apartment’s balcony for a cigarette before we
went out for our last dinner at an Italian trattoria around the corner from our
apartment. On the balcony next door a dog sniffled once or twice before an
unseen male voice silenced it from behind the wall that divided the balconies. A
star flooded sky could faintly be seen in the halo of the city’s lights. In the
distance a communications tower’s red light flickered insistently. Somewhere a
church bell rang and from the Rondo de Atocha, the main street that leads to
Madrid’s major railway station, the high pitch of a motorbike going much faster
than the speed limit pierce the tranquil twilight hour.
Personally I preferred Barcelona
to Madrid. I don’t have any specific reason. Maybe it’s Barcelona’s
location by the sea or its ancient origins from Roman times. Or maybe it was
because our apartment was located where I felt more inclusive of the community
with a small tienda de productos frescos,
a fruit and vegetable shop, across the street and a community grocer, a
butcher, a fishmonger and a panaderia,
a bakery, just around the corner, which I paid a visit to every morning for
croissants. Maybe it was because I found the Barcelonians friendlier than the
Madrilenians and the food and service exceedingly better. But I have to admit
Madrid is a very elegant city with beautiful architecture, wide boulevards and a
regal attitude which rivals that of Paris, Rome and London. Well, maybe not
Paris.
Maybe it was because the day
we spent in Barcelona’s Barri Gotic neighborhood was one of the best travel
days I have ever experienced. I have walked the streets of many medieval cities
or towns: Kyoto, Venice, Avignon, Gordes, and Les Baux-de-Provence to name a
few, and among the ruins of several Roman settlements in Rome and Pompeii, but
I never felt history as vibrant and alive as that day we spent in the Barri
Gotic. I know the Barri Gotic was totally revamped and modernized during the
early 20th century, but they kept the old world atmosphere and charm
in the narrow streets and hidden squares and the buildings’ brownish patinas reflected
the Middle Ages and allowed me to be transported back in time. No other travel
day, except maybe that late afternoon we meandered through the streets of the Haute
Ville of Vaison-la-Romaine in France with its extremely steep narrow passages,
tiny squares, ancient fountains and ruined castle of the Counts of Toulouse,
did I experience history so real that it left you melancholy with the thought
of having to return to reality.
I have no doubt that one day
I will return to Spain. I just don’t know when. I have no interest in seeing
the Costa del Sol or the islands of Majorca or Ibiza, but Seville, Córdoba,
Granada will always beckon and the white hilltop towns of Andalusia in the
south and the medieval villages in the Basque Country, Cantabria, Asturias and
Galicia in northern Spain must be as beautiful as the French villages of Provence,
the Dordogne and northwestern Midi-Pyrénées between Limoges in the north and
Cahors in the south.
Adiós Espana o hasta pronto!
Spain in Summary
1 comment:
Totally awesome! Would go back anytime!
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