food

LA: June 4

June 24, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

I scampered through the airport TSA pre-check. It was green lights all the way until I was selected for additional screening. That included a pat down, running the beeping wand over my sillouette, swiping my palms with something on a paper strip, and doing the hokey poky in the infamous X-ray booth. On the upside, there was no body cavity search, and the security lady said, “Happy Birthday, darlin’. You have a blessed day,” when she was done.

Discovered we lost our treasured economy comfort bulkhead seats for the return flight when I requested the wheelchair. Fair enough, since that plane’s bulkhead is also an exit row, an automatic out for the infirm. Dang. Flight to LA not bad at all for me. I read and napped, Robert read a newspaper, went through his vast backlog of emails (7000+! Some going back to 2004!) and took half of a prescribed muscle relaxer. He seemed to do fine. In fact he did better than at home, because he was not as bored and frustrated with his temporary disability.

On arrival, Robert declined assistance – no, no I’m fine – until he walked the length of the jetway from the plane to the concourse, whereupon he cried uncle. I snagged a guy passing by with a wheelchair, and he pushed Robert through the LAX labyrinth of handicap accessible elevators, and wide, empty underground halls. The attendant was a Russian military brat until he was 10 when his parents emigrated to LA. He became a US citizen and just passed a battery of security checks in order to qualify to translate for hospitals and corporations. It was a long walk. I was very glad Robert succumbed and agreed to be helped. “Pain taught me what pride would not let me learn.”

We took the shuttle to Budget Rentacar which was a zoo. Go figure! A line so long it was out of the building and down the sidewalk. Robert secured a car and I ate my first meal in LA – spit temperature water, crumbs in the bottom of a bag of Fritos, and a piece of Vermont chocolate my daughter gave me for my birthday. I was desperate. Car sorted, Robert drove while I navigated via my iPhone Google maps, impersonating a SatNav.

The Little Cottage behind the Garden B&B is just as welcoming as we remembered. Joan’s on 3rd made up for my nasty lunch with some sublime selections for takeaway, including a gorgeous salad made of grilled fresh corn, jicama, red onion, edamame, fresh apple soaked in something, and a touch of cilantro. So so delicious. Robert had egg salad on ciabatta and a cappuccino. I heroically eschewed the ham and brie on a croissant, and went for turkey meatloaf, grilled snow peas, and asparagus, butternut squash salad, grilled heirloom carrots, and that grilled corn salad. Divine. I snagged a tiramisu and a chocolate roulade for desert, which I will eat tonight along with seconds of everything I ate for lunch. I am not made of stone. Yet.

On the walk back I see my first piece of indigenous LA graffiti; ‘Figure With iPhone Posture.’

We are having a little lie down now. Will probably laze around the rest of the evening. Tomorrow Robert drives me to the Getty Villa for the day, and he’ll visit a friend in Malibu and sit on his deck. Good times.

Air Drop & Al Trapo

March 28, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Yesterday I supervised a major spring yard clean up while I transfered files, images, songs and audio books from my home Macbook Pro laptop to our little Macbook air. I figured out how Air Drop works – with files it’s straightforward, but audio is a little trickier. I felt triumphant, since I am no IT wizard, and had to do it by guess and by golly. The next time I am complaining about my failing elder brain, Robert is going to remind me that while I may not remember the name of someone I’ve seen around for ages, I master new Apple apps and operating info like a boss.

I reviewed a dozen restaurant suggestions for Madrid and Lisbon, using suggestions from a knowledgeable friend, Madrid blogs, Yelp, and Trip Advisor. I added several that I could tell, from cross-referencing their locations with my bespoke Madrid Google Map, will be nearby museums I plan to visit. I made an Saturday afternoon reservation at Al Trapo – online in Spanish!- that’s experimental in service and cuisine. Sure it’s edgy, but you have to try stuff. !http://www.altraporestaurante.com/index.php/en/

I noticed a link to a Facebook page, so when I posted on my FB that I’d made a rez , I linked to it and Al Trapo Liked me back. Modern times. I can’t wait to tell the waitstaff when I sit down to my lunch that we are FB friends.

Today I commence the all important pre-trip grooming (mani pedi is not until Tuesday, since it has to last me for a month) and getting my hair trimmed and conditioned. This is after I go to the gym. If my hair looks good, thank the genius below on the right, Kelly Geiger, who has been coaxing it along since 2000.All of Atlanta is blooming, right before a freeze hits tonight. The streets and yards are filled with blossom. I’ve got crabapple, forsythia, redbud, weeping cherry, daffodil, woodland hyacinth, daphne, and camellias all in bloom. Worth the wheeze and sneeze.

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 14

April 17, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Tuesday, April 14

Skipped breakfast and headed straight to the Royal Palace. Kept hearing Cinderella’s song in my head, from the Into the Woods musical, ‘He’s a very nice prince…’ Though since his father, Juan Carlos, abdicated last year, the Prince is now King Felipe VI, and his heir presumptive is his eldest daughter Leonor, Princess of Asturias. Here’s a photo I like of the three generations of Spanish royals. Yeah, she’s got this.

Here’s me in front of the Palacio Real de Madrid. The royal family doesn’t live here. It’s like the company headquarters, the main office where they meet clients and sign paperwork.

It’s pretty much grandeur, everywhere you look. Here’s the view from where I’m standing –

There were swarms of humans buzzing around the palace. The first guard I approached shook his head at my Spain museum card. I walked on to another entrance and the security guard looked at it and waved me through. I still paid admission, happy to, but I wasn’t in line behind the sixty zillion tour groups of Asians and school children. Win!

Asked at the ticket counter about a tour in English, and as luck would have it there was one in twenty minutes for an additional four euros. What a deal. It turned out to be a nice young woman guide and a young couple from Brooklyn. A private tour, basically.

Sadly no photos permitted, except in the front entry, the grand staircase, and a corridor.

Just to give you a sense of the scale.Again, looking upThe guide’s English was so-so, but her enthusiasm and patience were stellar. At one point, after the over-the-top state dining room (formerly three rooms of the Queens and rococo as all get out) she gave us a number of personal recommendations for places to eat. Apparently, Clinton was the last President to officially visit Spain, and he is still highly regarded for this in Spain. Maybe Clinton will be the next President to visit, too. Just putting it out there.

We toured around twenty rooms of the palace and there are thousands more. It was built after a fire on Christmas Even in 1734 destroyed the former Alcázar (they threw Las Meninas out of a window to save it).

There is so much freaking splendor, it feels both aggressive and oppressive – behold the power and might of Reino de España – it’s clearly more suited to be a national heritage museum than any place you’d want to raise a family.

If you are like me, you wonder – who cleans this stuff? I mean, they’d have to have high-level security clearance to start, and arcane cleaning skills to cope with silk wallpaper and walls decorated with 200-year-old porcelain bas-reliefs, not to mention miles of Spanish marble floors, gilded carved wood frames, French crystal chandeliers by the score with a thousand lights a pop (currently halogen). No mop and go. King Charles IV was another clock aficionado, like our friend the Marquis de Cerralbo. Clocks were the latest in technology and science, the iPhone of their age, said the guide. Dozens of these clocks are in the palace, all in working order. Who winds them? For that matter, who dusts the collection of Stradivarius? It’s got to be a highly paid, niche career.

I was in love with the sphinx table, where the former king signed the abdication papers.

The guide explained that the King and Queen never sit on the thrones, they stand on the steps because the monarchy no longer rules the people. Interesting but I’d bet cash money King Felipe sat on that throne at least once when he was a boy.

A family portrait, recently unveiled and decades in the painting, has an interestingly retro /modern feel – the lightness of the background, the brushwork varying from loose to precise, the dated clothes (oh why, Queen Sophia? Why shoulder pads and big florals?) the visible grid. It’s no Las Meninas, but it’s interesting.

The current monarch is impossibly handsome, not often the case for the prior job holders. I wonder if he ever takes his daughter to the office on Bring Your Kid to Work day, or when Mom has to open a fête. Queen Letizia is a beauty, if frighteningly thin. I wish her future highness all the best. Go ladies!

Dropped some ducats in the gift shop. As souvenirs go, they were classy. Afterwards strolled through the garden to a restaurant our guide recommended, Taverna Botin. The smells of the grilled lamb and roast beef wafted out onto the street – alluring. Ordered the menu del dia – soup, stew, wine and apple fritter. I did the reverse of Christ at Cana, replaced wine with water, but otherwise ate what came. I had forgotten what nutrition tasted like. The soup (broth, thin noodles, chickpea) was delicious, and the stew, to my surprise, tasted like really, really good Brunswick stew.

The last thing I expected was a southern Georgia flavor. I could feel my body cheering for protein after two weeks of mostly pastry, jambon, and café con leche. I was so stuffed I couldn’t finish the fritter.I was seated in the foreign tourists’ room – all Austrian, Asian and Americans – but the food was tasty and satisfying so it mattered not. Read Grace Burrowes’ latest, The Duke’s Disaster (also tasty and satisfying) on my iPad, leisurely ate my meal, and afterwards embraced my first siesta.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 15

April 18, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Wednesday, April the 15

Before my Bon Bon breakfast, I consolidated the interior floor maps I’ve used at the Prado. Marking them with colored highlighters and writing notes in the margins turns them into treasure maps, with more than one X marking the spot. I scribble names of painters in the margins that I want to Google up later, along with the locations of paintings I want to revisit.

There were a few gaps signifying unseen rooms, though I feel as if I have poked my nose into every corner.Turns out I’d missed an entire room of Titians. The standouts were two versions of Venus reclining on her bed while a man leers over his shoulder at her and plays an organ *wink wink nudge nudge*.

Not a subtle man, Titian. To his credit, his goddess of love ignores the man and his, um, big organ for her dog. There’s also a lovely Venus clasping the waist of Adonis.

Next, I spent some time with one of Rembrandt’s many paeans to his Saskia. Then I devoted my attention to Velásquez, starting with the portraits he did of the dwarfs at court. They weren’t rendered as purely grotesque court entertainers or buffoons but as individualized characters. Far from mocking or cruel, I found them ambiguous and compassionate.

Having looked up several accounts of the life of Infanta Margarite Teresa, the golden child at the center of Las Meninas, I took another, longer look at that incomparable work. More on that at the end of this post.

Around three I meandered over to Álbora for my lunch. http://www.restaurantealbora.com/ It was very nice indeed. The wait staff recalled me from my single prior visit. Between courses we chatted about our respective visits to Edinburgh and the pleasures of viewing art. This meal featured an artichoke and asparagus salad and croquetas of ham and potato. My favorite, a sort of Spanish taco of braised oxtail on a puree of potatoes streaked with gravy and a heap of grilled, caramelized onion. Mm’mm.

And here’s a shot of their restroom doors. Not my usual area of visual interest, but I found this exceptionally direct. No manikin/skirt icon for this hip joint. The men’s room image is reflected in a glass partition.

Thus fortified, I walked back to the Cibeles Palacio for the pleasure of seeing those magnificent brass mail slots for various regions of Spain, to mail my next batch of postcards, and to buy more stamps. This time, I got the ticket from the machine first.

Now, here is what became of the pretty little Infanta.Get out your handkerchiefs.

For the standard political and dynastic reasons (power, wealth) Infanta Margarite Teresa was betrothed as a child to her uncle and cousin, Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor. One courtly bow away from incest if you ask me, and it didn’t do their gene pool any favors, but he was in Austria, she was in Spain. It was all on paper, so no harm, no foul.

Margarite Teresa’s father, King Felipe IV, who called her ‘his joy’ in his private letters, died in1665 when she was only fourteen.

By Easter of the following year the grieving Infanta was shipped off to Austria and married to the twenty-six-year-old Leopold She continued to call him Uncle, he called her Gretl. But it could still work out, right? By all reports they had shared interests in music and theater.

But instead, she was treated like a puppy mill bitch, a battery chicken. She gave birth to four children and had at least two miscarriages. Only one of her children survived past infancy. Margarite Teresa died in childbirth at the age of 21.

Do the math.

A pregnancy a year for seven years, punctuated by painful and debilitating miscarriage after miscarriage. Three funerals, not counting her own and that last baby. A man wouldn’t breed a valuable horse that young and that often for fear of spoiling a mare’s health.

What a bleak and desperate end. One that could have been averted with a modicum of patience. A little restraint and she might have lived. Unlike, say, death by disease or misadventure, it was entirely preventable. A tragedy.

To end this post on a more upbeat note, here’s a video of a couturier’s collection inspired by the master.

http://www.blouinartinfo.com/news/story/971647/video-french-couturier-stephane-rolland-talk-velazquez#

Bela Lisboa, Day Six

April 28, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday, April 24

It’s pouring rain, and a good time to catch up on blogging. I talked about art for an hour this morning with Luis, who introduced me to some of his favorite Portuguese artists. Here are three websites for the curious.
Contemporary realism, of an unapologetically sexual in your face kind. Don’t click if you are a prude. You have been warned. http://barahonapossollo.com/

This guy blows images into buildings with explosives. Bam! http://www.alexandrefarto.com/index.php?page=video&video=16

Sprezzatura skills with wire creates sculpture of unworldly grace. http://hifructose.com/2013/04/04/illusory-wire-sculptures-by-david-oliveira/

When the downpour turns to a drizzle, I walked half a block and into Fundação Arpad Szenes-vieira Da Silva, a modern art museum, if by modern you mean Warchol and Lichtenstein. For those of you who know me, I went because the ticket was free, and my B&B hosts strongly urged me to attend. Had a moment of interest with these typewriters. The title is a favorite; Infinite amount of monkeys + Infinite amount of typewriters + Infinite amount of time = Hamlet.

I goofed around with Pistoletto’s Bottiglia per terra Bottle

but otherwise, I begrudged it my time.

I hiked through wet streets to the basilica, which, compared to St Roch, was pretty tame. Walked around for a moment and then it closed and I was politely shown the door. Just like in Madrid. No more tardy visits. When it comes to basilicas, go first thing in the morning.

Spitting rain again, I called Uber and got the ‘high tariff ‘ message, but noticed it said ‘ending in 2 minutes’ . Okay. I waited a couple of minutes in the church doorway, tried again and got the normal rate. Just a tip. Sometimes pausing is your friend.

I was determined to visit the 19th Century ship-museum, the Frigate Don Fernando II e Glória. It’s in dry dock on the banks of Tagus River, in Cacilhas. Directly across from where I had lunch yesterday.

Uber arrived, and off we sped across the May 25^th bridge, designed by the same firm that did the Golden Gate in San Francisco. The driver was a native and life-long Lisboan. Took the time to carefully to explain to me how I could safely and easily return on the train or ferry. There’s no Uber where I’m going.

The frigate lay high and dry, in a moat of cars. In dry dock, it looked abandoned and ungainly. I was the only person there. I walked up the gangplank, toward a tiny wood kiosk with a window. I heard a voice behind me and a young lad with red cheeks darted past me, opened the door to the hut, motioned me back and slid open the wooden hatch. “May I help you?”

He sold me a ticket. No more audioguides, he explained, because the water is not good for wires. Hmmm, I thought, looking around at the river and the sea. I walked around the deck recalling Elizabeth Essex sea-faring books http://www.elizabethessex.com, feeling uneasy but psyched at being the only living soul aboard. I am sure Portuguese school children are herded through here in droves, but not today.

Except for the artillery, everything was made of wood or rope coiled neatly and woven in patterns.

Below the top deck, the captain’s cabin looked like a Mayfair drawing room with a very low ceiling, so peculiar.

The ship itself looks sleek and elegantly made to my ignorant eye. It may have wallowed in the water like a hog, but it was clean and smelled of wood and hemp.

Below deck, I thought I saw other tourists and but they were manikins dressed as seamen. Not bland-faced models dressed up, but manikins fully realized and quite disturbing. Spooky. A trio dressed as passengers, a father, mother, and child, were so creepy George Romero would cast them in a heartbeat.

I descended further below decks, completely alone. There was a small working office with a TV running and the paper detritus pinned up and spread on the desk but no one was there. Twilight Zone. I had a subliminal sense that a ship ought to be moving, that being still and motionless was wrong. The way a corpse is stiff once the life goes out of it. The parade of eerie mannequins continued, frozen figures slumped in hammocks, a seaman with a howling face clamped with iron manacles at his throat and ankles “for strict discipline”, a cook who fed up to six hundred out of three big stew pots, a sick bay with a grimacing patient, an officer reading in his bunk with a crucifix on the wall.

There were cannon balls stowed neatly in racks and they reminded me of the true purpose of this vessel. Not a pleasure yacht.

I had a new respect for ship builders, all the way back to Noah. I knew that though this vessel dwarfed me, at sea it would bob in the water like a cork, a speck in the immensity of the ocean.

I climbed up and out, and the red-cheeked boy popped up to show me down the gangplank and helpfully pointed to the ferry, 150 meters away. He agreed that the mannequins were scary and claimed their faces were modeled on the actual laborers who rebuilt the ship. Maybe that’s why they look like corpses. I found them distracting, but the ship was a thing of latent beauty. I bought my ferry ticket, climbed aboard, and in only a short time – ten minutes maybe – we docked in Lisbon.

I was a few blocks from the Mercado da Ribeira, and Santini’s calls to me. Plus, time for lunch. I wander the market periphery and settle on a spot that offers black pork cheeks on sweet potato puree. In a bowl. Very happy with my choice.

Heading back I checked on a souvenir shop with unique Portuguese items that the B&B recommended. Loved it! An artist mother and her daughter ran it. I bought some tee shirts she designed featuring the Cranach version of Eve tempting Adam, but with a Pastéis de Nata. Good call, Casa Amora.

Tomorrow is Lisbon’s independence day, May 25^th That shop will be closed and there will be parades and parties. I’ll let you know if it’s another day like King’s Day in Amsterdam when I should hunker down and avoid the crowds, or something more pleasant.