Three Days in Madrid

                                                  Three Days in Madrid

   For the better part of the last 19 years, Blanca and I have been living on a highly irregular schedule. When we were both working, we were constrained by the school calendar, at times different for each of us. Upon my retirement, things became a bit more flexible, and when Blanca received her ticket to Heaven last year, we became free as birds. Up until now, Blanca had traveled simply using the three-month visa that is standard issue for Spanish tourists. But now we had the possibility of staying in the U.S. for longer periods of time, and the obligation of shelling out a thousand euros just to come back and then return seemed onerous. So we decided that we’d try to get her a “temporary immigrant” visa, which would permit her to come and go at will.

   After some investigation, it became clear that we’d have to make an appointment at the U.S. Embassy in Madrid, where we would have to prove to the satisfaction of an “interviewer,” that once in the United States, Blanca would not stay there for ever.

   During my month back in Massachusetts, Blanca made the appointment and diligently collected a huge sheaf of documents—including letters from bankers, doctors, and me—showing that she had roots in Spain and would be going back. She could easily prove that she had a Spanish pension and would not be depending on welfare or Medicare. She bought train tickets—obligatory given that we would be traveling during the Valenican “fallas,” and made a reservation at our favorite hotel near the Plaza Mayor.

   We got the 7:00 “Alaris” (rapid train) in Xátiva and were in Madrid in three hours. We arrived at Atocha station, and the sun was bright—about 20 degrees. We walked for about half an hour and got to our hotel, checked in, and headed out for the Plaza Mayor.

   We walked west down Calle Mayor to Calle Bailén, with the Almudena Cathedral and Royal Palace in front of us. We had a coffee (for me) and a beer (for Blanca)—a whopping 8 euros!—and proceeded north to the Plaza de España, which is dominated by the magnificent statue of Cervantes with Quijote and Sancho below.

   Disappointment followed: the Cerralbo Museo, which I’d very much looked forward to visiting—was closed for repairs. But we crossed the street and enjoyed the views from the Temple of Dabod, a transplanted Egyptian affair, which was dismantled and shipped to Spain during the construction of the Aswan Dam.

   After a turn in the Parque del Oeste, we pushed our way down the Gran Via and eventually back to the Plaza Santa Ana. After mediocre paella, we went back for a siesta and read until it was time for bed.

   Out of the hotel by 6:30, we got the Metro at Callao and got off at Rubén Darío, where there is a delightful outdoor sculpture garden. Then up Calle Serrano to the Embassy.

   After a coffee and muffin at Starbuck’s (8 euros!), we got on line and were waiting when they opened. We were the first to get numbers, which would be used to call us for three different processes: presentation of application, passport, picture, bank receipt, etc; fingerprinting; interview.

   When we were finally called to the interview, we approached a window and had to speak through a small hole. I succinctly explained what we wanted, and the amiable bureaucratic responded that giving Blanca a ten year visa would be no problem, but he couldn’t guarantee that his colleagues in the U.S. would not demand proof of Blanca’s bona fides at the border. So she’ll always have to travel with her sheaf of documents. Our interviewer closed by discreetly asking if we planned to get married. When I demurred, he immediately dropped the subject and wished us goodbye.

   Exhilarated, having achieved our objective, we emerged with light hearts. The Calle Serrano—Madrid’s “Fifth Avenue”—was alive with “gente guapa,” and the sun was bright and warm: a perfect day!

   One of the spots that we’d decided to check out was the Sorolla House-Museum (Paseo del General Martínez Campos 37), where the prolific Valencian painter lived during his stint in Madrid. The place is a gem! It’s filled with works from all his various periods, and the completely preserved house permits entry into the artist’s quotidian world. His studio is just as he left it, with paints mixed on his palette, and filled with sumptuous antiques. His favorite subject was fairly obviously his wife Clotilde. This place is a superb addition to my list of “small museums,” which I much prefer to the overpowering giants like the Prado, Thyssen, and Reina Sofia.

   The Castellana is the main north-south thoroughfare in Madrid. It is an elegant, broad avenue, lined with palatial banks, hotels, and government buildings. We followed it down past the Plaza de Colón, where we entered the National Library. On the bottom floor is the small Museo del Libro, which featured a terrific exhibit dedicated to the history of the Spanish “copla,” perhaps the most typical manifestation of the Spanish musical soul. We’re talking here about people like La Argentinita, Pastora Imperio, Raquel Meller, Miguel de Molina, Estrelita Castro, Concha Piquer, Nati Mistral, Lola Flores, Manolo Caracol, Carmen Morell y Pepe Blanco, Antonio Molina, Manolo Escobar, Rocio Jurado, Isabel Pantoja, Pasión Vega, Diana Navarra, Carlos Cano, Concha Buika y Plácido Domingo. It addition, there was an exhibition dedicated to the Zarzuela composer Ruperto Chapí. Finally, we enjoyed the permanent display of ancient books and manuscripts and an explanation of book binding.

   Back to Plaza Santa Ana and a three-course lunch (20 euros).

   After siesta, we headed out to the warren of streets below the Plaza Mayor, and ended up walking down the Calle Segovia, which leads under a by-pass famous for being a preferred spot for suicides. (As coincidence might have it, I was currently reading a book by Muñoz Molina, Los Misterios de Madrid, that unfolds in many of the spots that we were visiting, including the Segovia viaduct.)

   Climbing up past the Cathedral, we took in the sunset from the gardens of Las Vistillas, and then walked back through the barrio of La Latina.

   Again in the Plaza Santa Ana, a hub of Madrid nightlife, we had outrageously expensive tapas at La Trucha (25 euros). I impressed the Colombian bartender by showing her my still functioning wallet that I’d bought nearly 20 years ago in Bogotá.

   The next day we got up late, packed, and left our bags at the hotel reception.

   We crossed the Plaza and the Calle Mayor and began the day with a chocolate—imagine a liquid Nestle’s bar—at the landmark Chocolatería San Ginés (10 euros).

   The Calle de Alcalá is the elegant thoroughfare that goes from Puerta del Sol to the Puerta de Alcalá. It’s lined with elegant buildings, most of which are now banks.

   We stopped at the Instituto de Cervantes (Alacalá 49), where there is a fine library of books related to the Quijote.

   Café Gijón (Paseo de Recoletos 21) is one of the classic Madrid most renowned literary spots. We had a beer and a coffee (8 euros).

  Our main destination for the day was the Museo Lázaro Galdiano. This is a collection put together by an interesting fellow, who was a businessman, bibliophile, and connoisseur (1862-1947). He built this palatial colossus in the beginning of the 20th century, and later spent periods in New York and Paris, where he continued to collect. The guard told us that half of the collection is still in storage. There are over 6000 pieces on display, including paintings by Goya and other Spanish “greats,” foreign painters from all periods, and an astounding collection of jewelry, metalwork, silver, and furniture. This is a magnificent find and should be a required stop on return trips to Madrid.

   Back down Serrano past Plaza Cibeles and west through the “Barrio de Las Letras,” where we passed Cervantes’ house and the convent where he’s buried. After picking up our luggage, we headed back down to Atocha.

   On Calle Almadén 12, Blanca noticed a sign that said “My Name’s Lolita Art,” and recognized the gallery of an ex-colleague and good friend from Valencia, Ramón García Alcaraz. (I also knew him, and will always be grateful that he let Blanca and me make love in his warehouse when we first met and she still lived with her kids in the house.) Ramón was out of town, but we left a message with his delightful assistant Marta, who giggled when I told her about our tryst in Ramón’s “almacén.”

  Two doors down the street we passed an attractive looking Moroccan bar (Tetería Bar Marrakesh). We went in and were delighted with the elaborate décor. We made friends with the waiter—who was himself from Marrakesh and married to a Spaniard—who was friendly with Ramón, and we had super falafel and mint tea (15 euros).

   Back in the huge greenhouse that is Atocha Station, we were able to board the train immediately. The three hours flew by while we were served a fine dinner by attentive staff.

   This was a very successful little trip. There are times when everything, especially apparently insignificant details, seems to work out just right. There were no groups of bratty school children, no bands of drunken football hooligans, and the sun shone all the time. The museums were uncrowded and everyone we dealt with---without exception—was pleasant and agreeable. I left with a much more benevolent feeling about Madrid than I’d had before, and I was extremely satisfied with several of the “discoveries” we’d made. I was also a bit proud of myself, since despite passing literally hundreds of beckoning bars and countless bottles of the Spanish finest, I didn’t fall off the wagon. (I admit that the gift of free will was probably helped out by the two medications that are helping me in the battle for Temperance.) And, of course, I’m glad that Blanca will presumably be able to move more freely back and forth across the Pond.

   A very fine three days.