Madrid – Page 2

Madrid Unfiltered, April 1 & 2: Playing Catch-up

April 5, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Blown slightly off course by the start of my trip, I’m posting the first two days as one post.

Day One

Beloved spouse drove me to Hartsfield and took this awesome photo.

I wish I always looked this good.

Day Two
Watched the sun come up over Spain through my aircraft cabin window. Iberian topography looked flat and treeless, entirely different from home. The few hills looked like weathered, half-buried bones. The phrase ‘the rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain’ sprang to my mind. I watched the shadow of my giant plane race over the fields and houses below. When it touched down there was a brief, mild stutter of the landing gear as gravity took an interest, and the rest was smooth as cream.

The nice taxi guy gladly took my Visa, as has everyone else, from my landlady to El Corte Inglés, and the Prado museum. So far, no charge is too big, no charge is too small but most want my ID and I’ve hauled out my passport more today than I did the whole time I was in Paris. I’m going to see if they accept my driver’s license as ID. Much easier to tote around, and easier to replace if it came to that.

My landlady met me at the apartment. She’s the architect who remodeled the building in a very intelligent and comfortable way that respected the history while making it efficient and comfortable.

Unpacked, changed and geared up to find milk and buy the Museum card I expect to use every day. Put on my Madrid music mix and walked down Carerra San Jeronimo to the Prado. That street is my idea of hell – seedy, crowded, tourist-infested, the length and breadth of it lined with beggars and their dogs. One armless man shook a plastic cup in his teeth. There were the ubiquitous street mimes in spray-painted costumes. Musicians I appreciate, and try to keep change in my pocket to drop in the hat, but I’ll walk a different route to the Prado tomorrow.
There are cops in wide legged stances and swat vests carrying worn, well-used rifles and big ass machine guns straight out of Call of Duty. I see them in front of government buildings and banks and museums and all the big plazas. Yowser.
Spent too much time staring at my iphone, turning the cell off and on, messing with Wi-Fi, trying to access Gmail for previously downloaded emails and use Google maps. Walking in circles trying to start off in the right direction.

Started at the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza. It did not sell the museum card, but the three young women at the desk called to find out who did (answer: the state museums – Thyssen is private). Having the website page printed out was invaluable. Good strategy. Yes, everyone is speaking Spanish. English is halting but deliciously flavored with musical vowels and rolling r of Spanish. The famous Castilian lisp is prevalent and charming. French sound like birds twittering, Spanish sounds like a fountain of water. Warm water.

When I bought my museum pass at the Prado, the nice lady handed me an entrance ticket for that day so I figured it was Fate, though by then I was footsore, crazy tired, and starving hungry.
I passed though the security to commune with whatever drew my eye first. This is the beauty of my plan. I don’t have to plot it out and or rush through. I have all the time in the world to make the Prado’s intimate acquaintance.

Immediately fell in love with a special exhibit by Roger van der Wyden. His anguished expressions are incomparable, and the face of James the beloved is as chiseled as romance cover model, but with profound gravitas. I sat and drew the folds of the virgin’s white cloak and elaborate wimple for half an hour. Heaven. No photography means I will have to look long and hard, and draw often.

I stumbled on to a room with old monastery walls and marble statues of popes, kings and queens. The men were all swagger and conquest, the women haughty. I’ll be back to draw. My landlady suggested I visit a room of Greek statues purchased by Velasquez for the King. Nobody knows it was Velazquez, she confides. Ah, the secrets the locals know.

Lunch was crap at the Prado – dry bread and tired ham. I’ll only snag coffee there from now on. That was fine.

A couple of hours later I started limping back, struggling with Google maps and Internet connection again. Saw a line of taxis by a hotel with doormen and grabbed one. Worth every cent of the six euro fare. A woman driver, who, yes, took Visa, and didn’t drive me around the city, but let me off half a walking block away.

I wandered through a couple of El Corte Inglés, – like Target with a food section in the basement. Got milk, jambon, melon, Nutella, an apple tart and éclair. The basics. Couldn’t find sugar, decent cheese, or alas, crème Englaise in a box. I yearned for an independent cheese monger/bakery/green grocer like in the Marais in Paris. I’ll keep my eyes open tomorrow.

Tomorrow I’m also going to try using a paper map.

The part of the city I’m in turns out to be like the French quarter. Seedy, noisy, crowded. Tourists looking to get a little wild. I’m gonna need bigger earplugs. I think it will be fine, as tired as I’ll be. Or I can get up and join the throngs and learn to eat dinner at 11, like the locals.

In bed it’s not quiet by any means, but not unpleasant. There’s a horn playing a jazzy version of the theme from the Godfather. It’s like staying on Bourbon Street in NOLA. The horn just segued into When The Saints Go Marching In. I rest my case.

I can hear the rattle of dishes and glasses, the murmur of voices, and the clink of cutlery in use. It feels like falling asleep in your bed upstairs while your parents host a big party. The apartment is across from a restaurant/bar. They open at 6am, so they may know my name in a few days.

Dinner was delicious; jambon, half a chocolate éclair, bread with olive oil, a piece of an almond croissant.

Later that night…
Passed out before 9pm. Woke three or four times, trying to figure out if the chatter and clatter was still going on or in my head. It was still rolling. Woke up wide awake at 1:30am and thought a soothing cup of herbal tea would not go amiss. Heading back to bed with decaf chai, heard a marching band. Wait, what? I opened the wooden shutters, and the glass window to my balcony. Yep, some kind of brass and drum marching band in full cry in the plaza a block or two away.
They finished at 1:45am, and people swarmed back down the street, I suppose to finally go home, but maybe not. Listened to dumpsters rolling out over the cobbles to the curb, and a random truck at 2am. Heard a garbage truck at 3:30am. Just heard someone hammering/tapping on the wall upstairs. 3:38. Oy.

Okay, the band; maybe it’s for Easter,’ cause it’s sure not a weekend. No sleeping through those drums, I could feel them through the floor.

I will have to change my liking, as Rick Steve says. Madrileños and tourists in the center are loud and rowdy until the wee hours. I realized, standing on my balcony under a fat round moon on a pleasant spring night, watching people of all ages and genders stroll down the street, I could have walked up to see what was happening without fear or worry. The streets feel safe. That’s a good thing. Secondly, I may become diurnal, sleeping in the early part of the evening, going out at ten and sleeping again. No idea when I’ll wake up tomorrow, and no worries.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 3

April 5, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

April 3
A shower and a cup of tea sharpened my jet-lagged brain. Never underestimate the resurrecting powers of scalding hot water and fire hose quality water pressure.
Dressed in my gray jeans and pink Chucks, I set out with a paper map and marker. I turned right instead of left outside my door and took the street Calle de las Huertas.
Completely different experience! Clean, calm, relatively few people, the street-turned-pedestrian path was actually paved with poetry – phrases in brass letters pressed into the paving. How cool is that?

Onward to the Prado, but en route my first unexpected thrill was a woman busker who busted out an aria from Carmen in a voice like liquid smoke and caramel. I was astonished. Yes, I dropped a Euro. Onward, giddy to realize it was all downhill to the Prado – literally. It was also noon. A bit further along I found the gates to paradise aka Le Café Belle Bonbon, a pastry and coffee joint.

The café con leche was delicious and hard-core caffeine. I hadn’t had breakfast and wasn’t hungry though by now it was 12:30. Definitely planned to come back this way and pick up something on the way home.

I decided to walk past the Prado to the famous Retiro Park. The police I saw yesterday were out in force again – I took a photo of a female officer standing at parade rest next to a police van parked in front of the Prado.

My dirt path through Retiro Park was more forgiving than asphalt, with the bonus of having multitudes of vain Spanish men jogging by with serious expressions and shorts. The rest of my walk was down quiet streets with grand buildings in lovely neighborhoods and virtually uninhabited. Window shopping is almost as fun as Paris. Behold, even the shoes in Madrid have got game.

Walked back a slightly different route, recalling how taking side streets on foot are always more pleasant than main roads. Realized I was thirsty and getting hungry and that it was 3pm. On no account did I want to eat in the Prado again, so I started reading menus. One place seemed promising; the outside venue was full of contented diners, and the menu had no English words, so I rolled the dice. Somewhat intimidated by the sleek steel and white leather décor. Puzzled over the menu (couldn’t get iTrans to function) until the waiter put an English version in my hands. He was laconic but helpful. I ordered two appetizers, hoping to double my chances of getting something edible. I drank three glasses of water and fiddled with my iPhone, like everyone else was doing.
The first dish arrived and looked like a bowl of white foam, and the bowl was smoking hot.

Oookaaay. Took a bite and it was freaking delicious. Ravioli filled with partridge, and I tasted olives and potatoes too. So, so good. I felt like I won the lottery. The next dish was cold, a single large scallop on some kind of chilled greens. Again, various distinct yet harmonious flavors, each mouthful a party. Well, where do I sign up. I marked it on my map and headed out towards the Prado. I was walking by the

I was walking by the Museum of Archeology when sphinxes on the steps called to me and I turned right through the iron gates.

It was a free entry day as it turned out. I spent several hours browsing through objects from the dawn of Iberian time. The older I get, the more I marvel at the brevity of our recorded existence. Most of the exhibits had Spanish and English commentary. I loved a bronze sarcophagus cover of a married couple, holding hands.

Also fell in love with the mosaics, carved wood screens, and the ceilings.

Time passed without me quite realizing it and I hit the wall around 6pm. Wanted to get a taxi, but more that I wanted to buy some apples and pastry, so I walked and walked.

After the Passeo del Prado, cops and crowds converged for one of the many Easter processions. Very festive and grim at the same time. New Orleans Mardi Gras parade meets the Inquisition. Hard to describe. That’s definitely what I heard last night, so I have a small hope that it won’t be like this my entire stay. I stopped in paradise and got a Panini on olive bread and two pastries – hey, according to Fitbit I’d walked over 10 miles on one scallop and one ravioli. Weirdly, I haven’t been particularly hungry today. I figure it’s the coffee – it’s so strong it might as well be speed.
I was one street away when I heard the drums and trumpet and saw the back of Christ’s head hoisted over the crowd, moving at a stately pace. The people carrying the shrine through the streets wore red satin hoods that covered their entire heads, white robes, and ropes that looked like nooses around their necks. So strange. I ran to catch up and took a few photos. I’ll never see the like again.

That done, I limped back to my noisy apartment and ate half my Panini, and something that turned out to be a butter cookie dusted with powdered sugar and filled with gooey caramel. Score!
In bed messing around with airdrop and drop box, trying to get all the photos onto the MacAir. It’s not a cinch, but at least I have most of them somewhere.
It’s 11:30 pm. the streets are packed out, and the processions keep making the rounds. I am going to go look for my earplugs. But what a great day! Don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I bet I’ll enjoy it.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 4: Reflected Glory

April 6, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Big day, Number Three. Where do I start?

Went to sleep around 2am – blame it on those nightlife loving Madrileños and tourists on perpetual spring break. Instead of being woken up, I just wait until it starts to slow down.

Left the Prado to the amateurs on the weekend, I headed West, towards the Royal Chapel of St. Anthony of La Florida with ceiling frescoes painted by Goya and where he is buried, planning to stop along the way to see the Museo Cerralbo. It’s the collection of Don Enrique de Aguilera y Gamboa, XVII Marquis of Cerralbo, left to a dazzled nation with the proviso that it be kept intact, each painting and object exactly where he placed it. http://translate.google.es/translate?hl=en&sl=es&u=http://museocerralbo.mcu.es/&prev=search

Along the way I saw an Easter window – it’s not about fluffy bunnies and peeps over here.

And the Church of All Grips (actually the entrance to a Medical Association.)

Then I walked into the Cerralbo.

Words fail me. So. Much. Stuff.

The good stuff. Some inherited, some acquired. What centuries of influence, conquest and wealth can accumulate, and edited down to what he could shoehorn into a mansion in town. What the Hearst Castle yearned to be but emphatically isn’t. More than the Frick. More even than Isabella Stewart Gardener, before the heist. Every square inch of it the best money and power could buy. After the initial string of wow wow oh wow moments, it was like eating buttered foie gras in Béarnaise sauce smothered in whipped cream. Rich.

Where to start. Okay, how about he never met a mirror he didn’t like. Five seemed to be the minimum for every room. We’re talking large, in ornate gold leaf or Murano glass frames.

Also chandeliers in bronze and horns and crystal; at least one per room and five in the halls.

My favorite was an enormous Murano glass chandelier in pastel party colors, shaped like a gondola.

And sometimes you see both, like this chandelier mirror combo.

Then there was the art. Every wall was crammed with paintings, not an inch to spare. In the dining hall – too grand to be called a room – mostly still lifes of flowers and fruit, with the puzzling exception of a large painting of porcupines fighting vipers. Not something I’ve seen before.

Just when you think you couldn’t possibly have anything in common with the Marquis, you notice the ceiling frescoes above the table, celebrating the Goddess of Chocolate and the Goddess of Coffee. Kindred spirit!

The adjoining billiard room doubled as a portrait gallery. It also had raised settees, so the ladies could watch the balls in play. Thoughtful.

There was one hall dedicated to his collections of drawings – closed off by a velvet rope. Sad for me.

Three floors of rooms meant there were withdrawing rooms for ladies, smoking rooms for men, morning rooms for flirting, bedrooms, dressing rooms, even bathrooms (with servants for plumbing), a library and his private office where he kept track of his realm. No doubt paid the bills and filled out his 1099s.

Not a cube.
There was a summer wing and winter wing – they lived in the wing where the light and air were best for that season. They could travel to their summer home without leaving the front door.

The public reception room and hallway were lined with armor, plus the weaponry to go with. Ceremonial swords as a centerpiece? Check. Suits of armor complete with leather gloves and fringed skirts? Check.

Scimitars, sabers, pikes, spears, knives, claymores, pistols and daggers? You bet. Samurai armor? But of course. The message –

I may be rich, but I am still a bad ass sonofabitch, from a long line of stone-cold killers. I can afford to lose more on one game of billiards than you will earn in your lifetime. Deal with it.

The marquis collected clocks – there is one in every room, all working and they strike the hours merrily as you wander, dazed, though this dragon’s dream of a hoard.

He backed the right horse – King Carlos – and won big. Having done that, he retired to enjoy his chosen passion, archeology, collecting art and objets d’art. Lots and lots of art.

It’s sumptuous and luxe on a grand and unrelenting scale. After a while, you yearn to rest your eye on nothing much. A blank wall. Some white space. Apparently, the Marquis felt the same way.
There is only one room on the tour that isn’t jammed with loot, and that is the bedroom of Marquis. It is austere, with plain painted blue-gray walls, a white spread on a black wooden spool bed of medieval design, a small bedside table that held a chamber pot, a shaving stand, and a wardrobe.

A cross hung by the bed and only two paintings on the wall – one a classic Virgin and child, the other, interestingly, Christ and Mary Magdalene.

I left after four hours because they close at 3pm. I was reeling. I wanted to go sit in an empty room for an hour. I’d still love a month in the place, with access to really look at everything. I just sent them an email to beg for an English tour, which their website says starts in April.

Off I staggered, hungry by now, and after passing several deserted places nearby went into a pretty little bakery. Alas, it looked better than it tasted. Everything was dry as day-old bread and the coffee tasted like instant, even though I saw her make it.

Walked on to the chapel, passed the Temple of Debod, through a park and then on to a path that wound downhill, faithfully following the iMap on my phone. The next thing I knew I was crossing a ramshackle bridge, rusty and trashy, over multiple train tracks, with every surface sprayed with graffiti as far as the eye could see. It was dirty and deserted and I was very glad I had didn’t try to walk to this chapel at night.

When I walked up to the chapel, I found it was closed until 7pm. I was tired and sweaty and disappointed. Before I quit, I looked around and discovered its had a twin across the street and sure enough, that was where the Goya chapel was. I went inside the very small church and looked at the glorious frescoes and ceilings and his tomb, simple and roped off. Strategic mirrors allowed the visitors to gaze at length without neck strain. There were also plain walls and plain stone floors. What a relief. I ended up sitting on a bench and drawing his tomb and a lamp held aloft by three cherubs for about an hour. It was perfect. http://www.lonelyplanet.com/spain/madrid/sights/museums-galleries/ermita-de-san-antonio-de-la-florida

Here’s a glimpse of the reflected glory.

When you think about it, that’s what the accumulated treasure of the Marquis was meant to achieve; to reflect his glory. And what Enrique really wanted was to potter around in the dust and rubble of archeological digs.
Started back keeping an eye out for a taxi but saw none for about four blocks. I was still a 45-minute walk from my apartment and was very happy to finally see a vacant cab and grab it. Of the miles I walk, at least a third are backtracking because I turned the wrong way. I do not lie.

Decided to swing by the famous Mercado de San Miguel, a sort of upscale food/tapas court, in a cast iron framed pavilion. It was lively and crowded and touristy, but in a good way. I bought some acorn fed jambon, a wedge of Brie cheese, and a cup of ceviche I ate on the spot.

Not far to get to my apartment after that but I manage to find some Limon gelato to eat on the way. Yum.

Cup of tea later I’ve been writing this for a couple of hours. Time for some peppermint tea. Tomorrow the famous gigantic outdoor flea market, El Rastro.

Madrid Unfiltered, Sunday April 5

April 7, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Easter Sunday
Apparently I like to make plans so I can change them. In a contrarian move, the rowdy people of Madrid all went to bed early on Saturday night. It was positively calm by 11.
I, on the other hand, didn’t get to sleep until 1am. Let’s blame that on jet lag. Woke up at 7am when the raucous folks who went to early mass strolled home talking and laughing.

Went back to sleep because I could. Up by 9, had a cup of tea and reviewed the original plan – to go to the big ass flea market with the hoards and look at tat. It was the last thing I wanted to do, so I decided to wing it. I’d walk over to the Bon Bon for café con leche and a pastry, then amble over to the Prado even though my policy is to stay far away from the big museums on the weekend when the crowds come. I can be a contrarian myself.

I was armed with a short list of words in Spanish. I am tired of fumbling with the phone app and have zero memory of any words I repeated on Duolingo.

I strode confidently out the door, secure that I knew the way. I paused at one intersection but told myself not to be a wussy. Didn’t realize I was going the wrong way until I saw the roof of the palace – which is the exact opposite direction. I turned around and a few streets later realized I was passing by the Dominical Basilica Pontificia de S. Miguel.

My plan changed again.

I slipped inside to say a prayer and maybe light a candle or two. Discovered Mass was underway, so I lingered in the back. I found I knew where they were in the mass by the rhythm of call and response, standing and kneeling, even though it was in Spanish.

Just as the Priest raised the wafer to consecrate the host… BOOM! Boom, Boom. Booomm. Rattatat. BOOOMMM. Forget fireworks – It sounded liked the detonation of artillery, so loud the priest’s amplified voice was drowned out. He sighed and rolled his eyes – or maybe looked to heaven for help. It didn’t stop the drummers in the street outside the church.

A convoy of white-caped celebrants with massive bicep strength gathered a crowd and banging away with all their might led the way to a packed out Plaza Mayor for the ceremonial drumming in of Easter. Yeah, when I think of death and resurrection rites I imagine a mood of solemnity and sorrow, but that’s not how they roll in tourist central Madrid.

I peeled away from the growing crowd, having heard enough drumming in the last four days to last me a decade. Back on my mission to get coffee from le Bon Bon when I looked in a doorway and saw a brightly lit bakery with an espresso machine and my feet walked me in.

I mastered my first Spanish phrase ‘para e avar?’ (can I get this to go?) ‘Si’ the clerk said. Success! Two shots of espresso with hot milk later my lips were numb and my brain lit up like a pinball machine What do they put in the stuff? It’s dangerously effective. I also got a pastry I’d seen in all the bakeries and dismissed until I read it was specific to Easter. It looks like cold French toast, but turned out to be much more custardy on the inside with a crusty sweet cinnamon glaze outside. Delicious.

Along the way, I spotted a yarn store and an art supply store – another benefit to getting lost. – and noted down the location for another day.

I ate my pastry sitting on a bench on that street I love, the one with the poetry. Which, by the way, Google maps fails to ‘see’ as a walking route to the Prado. Maybe that’s why there are so few people on it.

I walked to the back of the Prado to the ticket line for those with passes. I was the only person. The other line was out the door and wound around the side and along the long block in front of the museum. The line I am not in winds around the front of the building.

With this second visit, plus the Cerralbo and the Archeological museum visit I’m already ahead on the purchase price of the pass. I admit to a feeling of smugness.

I ask a passing tourist to take a photo of me hanging out with Goya and La Maja Desnuda.

Once inside, I decided to continue my Louvre Strategy; start on the top floor, at the back, and work my way forward. As I go along, I mark the rooms with colored marked on the floor plan they hand out, so I know where I’ve been. I add notes on paintings I want to revisit. Their ‘no photo’ policy makes that essential.

Honesty compels me to admit I forgot that rule twice and was busted both times.

I drew a postcard and sketched a sleeping woman and her dog.

My vision is tricky under the low light in some of the rooms. That’s frustrating. Mostly it was grand, taking my time, listening to the audio guide, which is quite informative.

I made it through rooms 14-39 – not quite half of the second floor. Spent quality time with Goya, Rubens, Murillo, Gainsborough, Reynolds, Tiepolo, and Titian, to name a few. A standout were royal portraits by Meng, who is entirely new to me. The way he made the gems glitter and the flesh soft and dewy. The faces of this upper class rogues gallery had expressions of cheerfully complacent superiority and they are dressed to shock and awe. Goya’s titled people are so different – much more ambivalent.

Left the museum at 5:30 pm pretty whipped, but not as tired as I have been. Walked to Corte Ingles and armed with my Spanish word list was more successful. I left with fresh cherries and pears, Prince of Wales tea, sea salt, a baguette, and butter – dinner!

Walking by a doorway I looked and half a dozen bulls looked back. Realized it must be one of the famous Madrid Bull Bars. I was fascinated. Tables of men inside made it feel like a boys club. I sidled in, and took a couple of photos as discretely as I dared. Ole!

Began to catch up on the blog while I ate my customary dinner of Brie, bread, jambon and fruit. Tomorrow it’s back to the Prado since nothing else is open on Mondays, and whatever other adventures befall me along the way.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 6

April 8, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Monday, April 6

My first day in Madrid that isn’t a national holiday. Up at 7am for the first time, and hoping to get back on a schedule that includes sleeping 8 hours a night. Showered and prepped my backpack for the day; a small half bottle of water, a sketch book and old cassette tape box of pencils and erasers, mini IPad, (the Prado has WiFi), postcards to draw on, a much folded and ceased map with routes marked in highlighter, lip balm, and a compact nylon shopping bag. My iPhone slips in my right pocket, tin with cash, ID & credit card in my left pocket, with the keys to the apartment. I’m good to go.

I ignored my pride and followed my iPhone’s Google maps to the poetry street, Calle de las Huertas . So easy and straightforward. I blush to confess I won’t be leaving the apartment door without running that map app. I have whatever the opposite of a sense of direction is. A sense of dislocation? It’s like the magnet for true north in my head spins randomly. It’s a roulette wheel, not a compass.

I was at the Prado close to 10:30. Took a stealthy photo of the police. No one misbehaves in these ticket lines.

Zipped through security with my museum pass and raced up the stairs to start where I left off yesterday. In the grand hallway, my eye was caught by a dog in one of Tintoretto’s grand paintings. A lovingly rendered hound, something like an English setter. I notice that the same dog is in a nearby painting by the same artist– same markings exactly. I’d bet cash money it’s the painter’s dog. I got out my pencil and a postcard and personal bliss commenced.

Also drew a trussed lamb, Agnus Dei, by the Spanish painter Francisco de Zurbarán.

No audio guide today, just my iPod – Bizet’s Carmen at first, then switched to an audio book while I drew the lamb. And that’s how time flies when I enter a museum.

Two experiences I didn’t predict. First, the wonderful pleasure of discovering magnificent painters I have never seen or heard of. Second, the twinge of embarrassment when an acknowledged master painter leaves me cold. I’m talking about you, El Greco. I won’t lie. Same goes, Picasso. Though I won’t be admitting it out loud in Spain. It would be like dissing Real Madrid. Probably a deportation offense.

Left at 1:30 to stroll around the park and visit St. Georges Church. Tried a place friends had recommended for lunch, Fonty http://fontymadrid.com/home. As a former wordsmith, the name amused me. The asparagus soup was intensely green and asparagussy. It tasted like spring. The steak on a bed of arugula had a decent flavor but was too tough and labor-intensive to chew. It was more like gnawing.

Luckily, the over-all experience was redeemed by the desert, a luscious, fresh raspberry pannacotta.

I’d been unsuccessfully seeking postcard stamps at Tabacs, the only shops permitted to sell them. For a city with smokers on every street corner, tobacconists are few and far between. A nice woman directed me to the Palace Cibeles for stamps. Double score! It was on my list to see, and is a post office. Guards at the first entrance I approached turned me away when I asked in my feeble Spanglish where I could buy stamps. On impulse, I turned back and I showed them the Google translation on my phone ‘do you know where I can find a post office?’ and apparently the penny dropped. Oh, they told me, that’s around the corner and up the stairs. That makes four times so far the Google translate app has changed a no to yes for me. I’m no shill, it’s just the fact.White marble for miles and beautiful ornate brass mail slots. Went in and was promptly scolded, shooed away from the counter and instructed to take a ticket. I took the ticket, they immediately called my number, and impatiently waved me back over. Ah, the international brotherhood of bureaucracy. I used the Google voice translate feature again, and it worked fine for I would like to buy ten postcard stamps, please.

Thought of doing some light shopping, but I was tired and had walked10 miles on concrete and marble, it’s uphill all the way back to the apartment, plus there was a Madrid taxis right outside the PO. I jumped in the cab. and ten minutes and 6 Euros later popped out at my apartment door. Made my standard dinner – fruit, cheese, ham, and bread.

Hope I sleep through the night.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 7

April 9, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Tuesday, April 7
I did my laundry this morning and festooned the apartment with tee shirt and jeans, drying on hangers. It was close to noon by the time I walked over to the Museo del Romanticismo. http://museoromanticismo.mcu.es/. I decided to make the most of venturing away from the Prado to a new part of town. I took my time and moseyed along, looking in windows. I found a number of art supply stores I’ll revisit. I bought some Conté sticks here.

Best of all, I stumbled across a great eyeglasses store with interesting frames – my favorite souvenir. I have their card and I will be back with my current prescription in hand.
I was looking for a pair or tortoiseshell or black frames and these have both –

But then I saw these. Can’t decide what’s cooler, the pink and bronze or lavender and bronze.

I haven’t even tried them on yet. That will probably tell the tale.

The museum was a little disappointing, despite the fact it packs in paintings, sculptures, furniture, painted fans, jewelry, carpets, coins, cameos and ceramics. There are way too many bad portraits of unappealing Spanish matrons and wooden-faced señors, and dishonest genre scenes of happy peasants larking about in native dress. A couple of pieces made it all worthwhile: a portrait of three children. The kids are okay, but the ram is really spectacular.

I spent a good hour trying to draw a small painting Mártir, by José María Rodríguez de Losada. It was stark and raw and nothing like those hagiographic images of saints calmly ascending to heaven clasping their instrument of torture. In a small side room, there was a series of small paintings on the Inquisition, which struck me as a bold choice of subject for a painter; like taking on the jihadists nowadays.

The strangest thing was a dollhouse that had tiny nun dolls in their habits, so I guess it was a doll’s nunnery. They were working in a kitchen, singing around a piano and praying in one room.

The last exhibit was a fake house facade with windows the showcased. I three dioramas: a street with a carriage, a kitchen table, and a music room. Projected images materialized – a couple waltzing while a man playing the piano, a couple getting out of a carriage and putting on their gloves, a maid sweeping while a cook kneaded dough – and then disappeared. The mix of miniature props and video imagery was captivating, like watching ghosts from the era.

I was the only person there (besides the guards) for a couple hours. The only other visitors were an English woman and a child who looked about seven years old and was tethered by a leash that resembled a bell pull. The mum had long hair, wore a bright floral dress on a linebacker build, and spoke in a bass voice. They were going through the rooms on a scavenger hunt. They were having a jolly time, couldn’t have been more cheerful.

I somehow missed breakfast – only a cup of tea – kept thinking I’d grab something on the street but I didn’t, and then didn’t get around to lunch until 4. The museum tearoom didn’t open until 2 and I was deep in the collection at that point. This whole change of time zone coupled with standard Madrid lunch at 2 and dinner at 10, has my stomach as confused as my sleep.

Health nut that I am, I ended up eating a cup of coconut gelato after I left the museum. I walked to the San Miguel Market where I ate cone of hot chicharones. I turned down the offer of baby squid tapas that looked exactly like a heap of slimy white worms.

“With garlic,” the counter man said persuasively. “Um, not for me. More for you, brave man!” He laughed at that.
Can’t seem to get bedtime right. I am ready to nod off around 8pm, but make myself stay up until 10, since waking up at 1am is not good. Somehow I get wakeful again and can’t get to sleep until 2am. I sleep until 9am and technically it’s seven hours but I don’t feel rested. Ah well. It’s a small price to pay.
Tomorrow, back to the Prado. Rain is predicted for Thursday, so I’m penciling in the Thyssen instead of the Palace.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 8

April 9, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Wednesday, April 8

Walked to the Prado down poetry street, stopping for my café con latte and mini croissant at Le Bon Bon. I am now a regular – they get out the to-go cup and had my favorite croissant in the bag. Paused to gaze adoringly at the statue of Velasquéz at the entrance.

Nabbed my no-line entry ticket and checked my raincoat – cool enough to need an extra layer this morning, but the Prado is always toasty inside. Instead of finishing upstairs, I went straight to The Garden of Earthly Delights.

It’s twice as large in person as I imagined it was, just like Durër’s self-portrait is half as big.

The impact of scale is one of the reasons I don’t content myself with looking at art online, however closely gigapixels can get me.

I was a little stunned by Bosch, I’ll admit it. The impact of the pretty pinks and blues and greens in the center panel depicting utter weirdness – vicious imaginary creatures, surreal buildings, and humans tortured by monsters – is like listening to Hannibal Lector whistle Mary Had A Little Lamb. Jarring.

My eye skips around, and only slowly begins to really see what’s going on. There are nightmare hybrid creatures devouring humans that are trapped in a variety of inventive and horrifying way. In the third panel, Hell, it gets deeply gruesome, repugnant, repellent and fascinating.

If you are wondering what a ‘fate worse than death’ could be, you need look no further.

Couple of things; the room has other works by Bosch, but The Garden of Earthly Delight is the 800 pound Gorilla that siphons off the majority of the tourists, leaving his other disturbing works available to view in peace. The Haywain is my favorite.

After a while, a sense of horror sets in. What kind of sick, twisted, malevolent bastard invents this stuff?

Here’s my theory. Bosch was a third generation painter, he had skills, his work sold well, and like Petruchio, he wived it wealthily. He had strong faith but was not merely credulous (he was comfortable criticizing the clergy’s excesses – see the pig in a nun’s habit in hell). He was an esteemed member of The Illustrious Brotherhood of Our Blessed Lady. When Bosch died at the ripe age of 66 the society paid good coin for his funeral mass which included music and bell ringing and special prayers. He never had to declare bankruptcy, there is no record of lawsuits or criminal behavior.

I’m thinking he was like Stephen King, a popular guy who exorcized demons by for a living and went home at night happy man, easy going, kind to children, loved by his dog. Luckily for me, since they don’t have many facts about his personal life, I can think whatever I want.

If, like me, you’d like to learn more about the social context of the painter Hieronymus Bosch and the Delights of Hell. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bRBpg6eYac

It took quite a few rooms of excellent Flemish and Italian paintings to shake the spell of Bosch – it burned itself into more than my retinas.

Left at 2pm for a bite at the bakery I’ve seen more than one of around town and has been consistently tasty – little bites of cheese and ham, peach glazed cookies, hot chocolate. Proteins seem to escape me. Afterward, I walked over to the Fernan Gómez gallery to view A Su imagen; arte, cultura y religion. It’s an underground venue, literally, and across the street from the national library. Though I cannot read Spanish any better than I speak it, I took a photo of the library because you know, books.

I didn’t have high expectations of this exhibition, but I was happily surprised. All religious in theme, and much more accessible than work at the Prado. No crowds which made the work easier to spend time with, but also almost no security, which made ma a little uneasy for these works by Murillo, Goya, José de Ribera, Rubens and other masters.

There was one small work of Saint Joseph walking with his stepson that reminded me of my beloved spouse, who has been such a wonderful father; patient, loving, and devoted.

Started the long walk uphill to the apartment. Feel asleep at 8 with the computer open on my lap, watching the movie on Bosch. Got into bed at 8:30, and slept through until 7am. I think I might have turned the time zone around. I feel truly rested for the first time in a week.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 9

April 11, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Thursday, April 9

Raining, drizzling, and cold. I layer up in a long sleeve tee, black Zella hoodie, Marmot raincoat, jeans, heavy socks, and mittens. I’m good to go. My family has convinced me of the Norwegian adage Der findes intet der hedder dårligt vejr, kun dårligt påklædning. ‘There is no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong gear.’ Thinking of flagging a taxi, but the rain is just mizzling, so I trotted down my favorite street to le Bon Bon. This time, I sat down in the tiny, toasty interior for my café and croissant.

From there it was off to the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum, http://www.museothyssen.org/en/thyssen/home I hoped the nasty weather would discourage crowds, but there were throngs of grammar school children. Luckily, they were short and I could easily see over their heads

I galloped upstairs to view the works of my people, the Flemish and Dutch. Lovely lovely stuff, especially the portraits. To look at the famous portrait of King Henry VIII (by Hans Holbein in 1536) is to wonder how he managed to invest features marred by greed with firmness and resolve. And it’s very small, another surprise of scale.

For my artist friends, here’s a particularly wonderful example of pentimento – the platter’s highlighted edge clearly visible through ghostly fruit.

What you can’t see in this slightly unfocused detail of a portrait, is the way the painter scraped the blue paint back to the weave of the canvas to make the fabric’s texture.

It was a shock, but a pleasant one, to see several rooms of American artists. Here they take on a shine they don’t get at home. To see my compatriots honored in this way gave me a little shiver of pride. I spotted a lovely Innes,

and Hugh Jones’ Summer in of the Blue Ridge gave me a surge of homesickness.

A genre scene of maple sugaring reminded me of my sister Sarah, who was boiling down sap up in Wisconsin last month. William Bradford’s Fishermen off the Coast of Labrador drew visitors like a blue magnet.

Gilbert Stuart’s portrait of George Washington was echoed, and to my mind eclipsed, by the dignity and warmth of his portrait of Washington’s cook. I was going to forage for my lunch back out in the streets, but took a chance on the museum café. Score! Cheeseburger with bacon, medium rare, and thick cut French fries. Yum. As much as I enjoy gorging myself on pastry and ham, I have actually missed nutrition. Followed it up with an espresso, or I would have taken a siesta right there.

Restored, I went back to view another floor and a half. As it turned out, I moved much more briskly through the halls of impressionists and 20^th century.

Left around 4pm and took a taxi to the opticians. Tried on dozens before I settled on a pair of hybrid black and tortoise shell frames, designed in Paris. But of course! The frames I bought in Paris last year were designed in Barcelona.

These frames weren’t cheap but they so delight me that they were well worth the cost. However, the price they quoted for the lenses was shocking – and that was before they said it was for each lens. Now, that’s just appalling. No one buys a single lens. It borders on deceptive practice. I still bought the frames, but I’ll get the prescription filled back home. I may be a tourist and I am certainly vain but I am not an idiot.

Strolled back to the apartment, picking up a brace of apples here, a fresh pan pequeño there. Hoping to have another whole night of sleep. What a difference it makes! Tomorrow, depending upon the weather and my mood, it’s either the Prado or the Palace.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 10

April 12, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday, April 10

Hiked over to the Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales (Convent of the Barefoot Noblewomen), Plaza de las Descalzas, 3, just six minutes away. Tours are limited to 20 people and only two tours in English daily. I arrived at 10:45, and was issued a ticket for noon. Perfect! I wandered through the streets in search of my daily caffeine fix. I avoid the large plazas – side streets have better service and lower prices. Meandering paid off. Five minutes later I had a table and a café con leche and a croissant. The croissant was fresh and tender. The best I’ve eaten, with the exception of Bob Bon’s which cannot be surpassed.

Fortified, I was waiting by the forbidding, grim entrance doors by 11:45. The guards were turning people away, sold out for the day. A better option is to book online, but only Spanish language tours are offered.

We waited in an anteroom lined with paintings of angels. The mood was quiet and respectful, something I like to see in my fellow tourists. Photographs were forbidden, and I didn’t cheat because, you know, nuns. I pulled these off Google Image. I watched a clueless older man who considered himself an exception get his knuckles rapped.

A dignified man of quiet authority with a particularly beautiful Spanish accent led the tour. If words were music, he spoke in glissandos. The Grand Staircase brought to mind the Benozzo Gozzoli chapel in the Palazzo Medici in central Florence.

https://medicipatronsaints.wordpress.com/works-in-the-exhibition/benozzi-gozzoli-journey-of-the-magi/

Every inch painted with dazzling frescoes covering walls, arches, ceiling, and balustrades. Added in the 17^th century, the colors were still brilliant.

I was struck by a trompe-l’oeil balcony scene beside the staircase with King Felipe IV, Queen Mariana, and their little floss-haired infanta Margarita Teresa, looking much as she does in Velázquez’s Las Meninas. Here’s a brightly lit photo – look on the wall to the left.

Joanna of Austria founded this convent in 1559, and for 100 years the convent attracted young widowed or spinster noblewomen who brought their lavish dowries with them. Clearly, these ladies were more noble than barefoot. Not that I doubt their devotion, but I can’t help wondering if they chose Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales over being bossed around by men at court. The convent was ruled by women, their own world of wealth and privilege, art and music. Spain’s finest Renaissance composer, Tomas Luis de Victoria, worked at the convent for 25 years. How dreary could it have been?

We followed our guide, and were followed by his assistant, a young, doe-eyed, dark-haired woman, who looked like half of the portraits of Virgin we passed. Her task was to move the stragglers along the wide hallways of the upper cloister. Mullioned windows overlooked a sunny, grassy courtyard, planted with orange trees. Fruit hung in the green boughs. To quote another visitor, one fully expected to see a unicorn canter by.The guide explained about the founding of the order, and what made various paintings or sculptures noteworthy. Except for the occasional bench, the rooms of the cloister we saw were empty, but so embellished that they felt replete.

Some pieces I keep thinking about:

The Virgin of Guadalupe shrine enclosed by a pair of riotously rococo gilded and carved doors. The altar was made of stacked mirrored panels, and the 68 panels feature matriarchs of the Old Testament painted by Sebastián Herrera Barnuevo. Girl power!

A pair of golden crowns – open in the center for a king and closed like a helmet for an emperor – resting on purple velvet pillows. I have no clue why there were there.

Tapestries designed by Rubens and made in Brussels in the 17th century. Displayed in the former nuns’ dormitories, they curved up into the high ceiling and swept the floor.

The Flemish room of paintings, including one of a ship sailing for heaven while sinners sank in the seas, pulled down by demons, and a Deësis of the Virgin Mary, Christ Blessing, and Saint John the Baptist. Very like one I just saw in the Prado.

The many, many portraits of Juana.

Little robes for altar figures made by the nuns – like divine doll clothes.

A carved and painted wooden statue of the grieving Magdalene wearing a garment that looks like woven basketry – such intricate carving.

A shrine, set low in the wall, with miniature figures made of silver. It was for the edification of the children of women who came to the convent after marriage.

And, of course, at every turn there were virgins virgins virgins, Mary depicted in all her different aspects. It’s worth mentioning one of Fra Angelico’s Annunciations was taken from the cloister to the Prado. According to our guide, it took a royal edict to override the nuns’ protest. Note the unusual depiction of Adam and Eve leaving Eden fully clothed.

I wondered if the richness and the beauty, the might and power these acquisitions represent distracted the nuns or was a conduit to the divine? Or maybe it faded into background noise after a few decades of prayer and service. I was only there an hour and a half. I could’ve stayed a week.

Afterward, it took me a minute to return to the 21^st century. Decided to go in search of that tee shirt place I’d found and lost. Success! Picked up a portable lunch from a bakery. Walked through Retiro Park towards the Prado. I planned to sit on a bench and eat little sausage-stuffed croissants and squares of tiramisu. Note: there is no cholesterol in Spain. This fact is well known.

The park is large, the trees leafed out in pale spring green, and the paths broad, well laid out, and a pleasure to walk. The problem was there were very few people. Two runners in 20 minutes, no children playing, no families, no one eating lunch. I expected it would be well populated on this beautiful day. I saw a few men sleeping on benches, and three burly men on either side of a path that gave me hard stares. So, no. I kept going, and ate as I walked.

I returned to the Prado. That’s another great thing about the museum pass, it’s reasonable to drop by for a couple of hours. I went to the earliest section, which made me wish I had a Bible to consult. I know the basics, of course. A Presbyterian childhood is all about the bible stories. I can spot a Magdalene or Noah or Christ confounding the doctors from across the room, but I mostly know my expurgated, childhood version of the stories.

I sat for an hour and drew details of demons being slain by the Archangel Michael (and his footwear) on postcards for my family. The Prado: where the wild things are. So satisfying. I am starting to miss the act of painting.

Ducked into a room on the way out that had a vibrant Sorolla painting of boys lying in surf that makes me determined to visit his museum. The next door room held four enormous narrative paintings on a grand scale; a blighted lovers tale, a betrayal and mass execution, a despairing prince in exile, and a knight’s conversion to Christianity when confronted by a rotting corpse. Thought of contemporary realism painters that have no place now. What a loss.

Did a bit of shopping in the Prado gift store. You didn’t expect me to pass by a tee shirt with Velázquez’s signature on it, did you? Walked back via Calle Cervantes and picked up my dinner en route.

Tomorrow, Belle Arte and lunch at the avant-garde restaurant, Al Trapo.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 11 & !2

April 14, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Saturday April 11 and Sunday April 12

Me in the Real Academia de Bellas Artes is like a kid alone in a candy story. There were only a few other visitors, so ample access to every work of art. And this is mundane, but there were couches and benches in almost every room. I gotta say, after weeks standing on cold, hard marble floors it was enough to make me weep with gratitude.

There was, to be sure, a lot of chaff amidst the wheat, the wheat is there, Ruben, Goya, Mengs, Bellini, and Corregio to name a few. And it’s right there – you can get right next to it and not have to defend your position or feel guilty for blocking the view .

Another Francisco de Zurbarán trussed ram, this one with a halo.

This just tickled me. ‘Skeleton, party of four’. Hey Kids, let’s go visit the land of the living. Dia de los Muertos day at Disney World.

Detailed miniature scenes, made of white wax in encased in glass, elaborately framed.

Goya’s last palette is there, framed in a golden laurel wreath. Very nice.

An unintentionally hilarious artist moment. There this painting of a volcano erupting and people fleeing for their lives, except –over on the left-hand side, the artist calmly recording the scene for posterity. Oh, really?

So much more. I started taking photos of the sleeves in the portraits of exalted military men and they are a feast, a gilt and silver embroidery, velvet nap, armor, fur, and lace still life. Just luscious. It makes me crave a pile of brocades and embroidered fabric, lace and oil paint.

My WTF moment. I looked down and saw this: wands and the cast of a hand in a glass case. At first, I thought – Voldemort!

A famous conductor and his batons? Nearby was Segovia’s guitar, so maybe.

Onto adventures in dining. It is possible to have a modern, ie unrecognizable, plate of food that is never the less delicious? Yes. The food at Trapo was A+, the décor a little chilly and the ambiance was lonely. The large, L-shaped room was empty. Just me at my table, and off in the distance a family with a baby. A baby that that ramped up from fussing to shrieking for a good quarter of an hour

But I was there for the food. Great bread in a cloth sack, salad on a piece of paper I slid on the provided tin plate – just like the county jail.

Artichokes under a sort of rice paper caul, but delicious. Didn’t get a photo because I fell on them like the starved for vegetables person I’ve become.

Main course , spring roll with buttered, toasted crumbs. The finale, spice cake with banana ice cream and caramel sauce.It was all tasty, but in the best food in Madrid category, points to Álbora. The lack of other people was disconcerting. Though, hey, I had a private chef.

Sunday, April 12: I was indisposed and stayed in the apartment most of the day, reading and napping. Enforced rest, which I needed anyway, so on balance, not a bad thing.

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