Do's and Dont's: Tips for your stay in Madrid.

1. AIRPORT TO CITY CENTRE.  A Taxi will set you back €30.00 so get the Metro.  Here's how.  When you exit Arrivals, take a deep breath.  Even if you do not speak Spanish, it really is so easy to get to the city centre by Metro.  It is also clean, safe and cheap (€4.50).  Now follow the symbol for METRO.  Once you get here, slide down the escalator to the station foyer with loads of tickets machines and bewildered tourists.  Get in a queue.  Woohoo, almost there.  The touch screen machines all have little flags indicating the language options.  Select your flag and follow the instructions in your native tongue  (OK, so they don't offer Lingala,- complaints to . . . ).  Select your ticket.  There is only one option for the city (your destination should be the metro station called Nuevos Ministerios (the Pink Line - LINE 8) - this is also the last stop on the short journey to the city form the airport.  Insert your coins, cash or card (oops - don't panic - sometimes the machines take cards only - no card? get in a new line).  The trains are rarely more than 7 minutes apart.  The trip to Nuevos Ministerios takes about 12 minutes!  Once arrived, you are now in the hub of several metro lines from where you can journey to any part of the city.  You will need a new ticket for the next section of your metro trip.  Prices depend on destination varying from €1.50 to €2.00 (still cheap by European standards).  All trains are very frequent and reliable with relatively short distances between stops.  Bienvenida a Madrid!

2. DON'T BE OFFENDED. Madrileños are no delicate flowers in the vein of Victorian courtesans.  You can take your chivalry and Anglo-Saxon etiquette and park it in your hotel safe once you get here.  Madrid is a city of over six and half million souls in a relatively tight and mostly hot space.  Here, if you went about your days holding doors, stepping aside and indulging in fawning politeness, you will probably end up looking like Sols's wife and you won't see much of the Spanish capital as a result.  No doubt about it, New Englander's, Confederates, the Irish, Japanese, Nordics and Southern English will at times find the attitude and bullish behaviour of Madrid society bordering on the downright rude.  If you don't speak Spanish, there is a chance you might find yourself standing open jawed and horrified at the b(m)oorish manner Madrileños occupy street pavments, hog alleyways, let doors swing, seem oblivious to the the phrases, "please" and "thank you" and generally move about about slow moving bulldozers (not to mention the invariably attached leashes and dogs in which you are sure to become entangled).  So are the Madrileños a bunch of ignoramuses? Of course not.  So, ditch your prissiness!  There is a presumption of politeness in spoken Spanish, which doesn't require the Castellanos to express pleases, thank yous and appreciations with same overbearing frequency of a New York corporate lawyer.  The Madrid pavement is tantamount to an open plan living room in which Madrileños live a substantial part of their lives. They own the pavement in a way humankind from further north may never appreciate.  So don't you come into the living room and try to re-set the rules.  Move evasively for peace of mind.  If you are blessed with an ability to communicate in Spanish, you will certainly find it difficult to disagree with the assertion that, aside from a heated temperament reflecting a hot and changeable climate, few cities boast such a helpful, amiable and enthusiastic people, largely genuinely interested in meeting and welcoming people from other cultures.

3. DON'T BE SURPRISED.  If like most visitors you are dying to plant yourself on one of Madrid's countless terraces for an open air refreshment and soak up the warm breeze, people watch or just watch the day go by, don't be surprised if the waiter looks at you with a stunned look of disbelief when you order a gin and tonic at twelve noon. There is an unspoken "how to and when to" regarding  what goes into your "vaso" and when.  Unless you don't mind the occasional sneer for being an ignorant foreigner who hasn't a clue about the rules of engagement on the terrace, or you are happy to be taken for a blind roaring alcoholic, there are times of the day when you need to know what you can drink with impunity.  Beer for instance is generally regarded as a water substitute in Madrid and can be drunk at any time of the day.  But, to avoid loud chortling, it might be best not to order a "jarra" (pint) before 5pm.  Have a "caña" (short glass) before noon, if you must and a "doble" (large glass up to 5pm).   Order vermouth at noon and be prepared to perform CPR on your camarero!  Down wine before lunch and accept the final Rites if the old lady at your neighbouring table offers them.  There is hope however.  "La caña de las ocho" - the almost religiously kept appointment for a pre-dinner drinks at 8pm in Madrid - marks the point at which you can leap with naked Scandinavian fervour into the entire drinks cabinet. Salud!

4.  AVOID THE MENU DEL DIA AT YOUR PERIL.  Eat your way into your wallet with the habitual lunchtime sandwich.  In Madrid, a coke or beer with a sandwich will cost you the guts of the full traditional three course meal  (with bread and drink) in which Madrileños habitually indulge from about  1.30pm to 4pm daily.  The 'Menu del Dia' is a Madrid staple. Costing usually in the range €9.00 to €13.00, it usually consists of a starter, main, desert or tea/ coffee with bread and a drink (wine or beer) included (note - the 'Menu del Dia' on a terrace may involve a surcharge so most locals eat indoors).  This a great way to sample standard Madrileño cuisine.  The standards can vary quite a bit, but sticking to a gazpacho followed by a fish dish combo will usually yield satisfied tummy.  Relax with the folk from the hood and watch the manner in which they relish the substantial lunch break as an opportunity to park work and engage in animated and lively discourse on everything from last night's Barca v. Real (don't mention the war!) to  the health service (yawn!). Buena comida!


5. DO NOT JAY WALK.  Madrileños respect the little green man like no other force of law and order on the planet.  They may spray graffiti on every inanimate object they can find, skateboard down the right lane of Princesa street in the midst of maniac traffic and screeching cop cars, they may occupying vast swathes of the city in defiance of all reason to celebrate the opening of a match box, or drink "botellon" in giddy groups (plastic bags of various boozey contents) on every doorstep higher than 1cm and, of course, go on strike with the regularity of Sunday services, but dare you defy the little red man!!  Of course, nothing is more certain to assure your untimely demise than jaywalking in Madrid.  The orange light means nothing here.  Only red means slow or stop.  Since cars hurtle about the street here like they were fired out of a  sling shot (there is always the possibility that the driver has a few cervezas on board), you are best to do as the locals (including the gum chewing chavs and the hard core tattooed rock teens - no one is too cool to wait for the little green man) and stand your ground. 

6.  GET OFF THE TIRED TOURIST TRAIL.  An awful lot of people have an awfully limited view of Madrid during their visit.  They  skulk about a certain trajectory like a school of orphaned whale cubs, drifting bewteen the Royal palace and the Paseo del Prado taking in the centre highlights; Plaza del Sol, Opera, Las Letras, The Rastro (Sundays only), Debod, Gran Via, La Latina occasionally popping up for oxygen in other quarters.  The foregoing is, in fairness, a lot to see in any break but for all their emblematic architectural and artistic value, this narrow central zone of Madrid is not really representative of the soul of the city.  A good visit to Madrid therefore really should poke its nose around a few alternative corners.  Suggestion are: a) La Tabacalera  (Lavapies district). This 19th Century retired Tobacco factory is today a semi decayed monstrosity of corridors, catacombs, chambers, halls and offices, dedicated to the alternative arts seen with rooms and facilities for community and emigrants groups, circus acts, rehersals, jugglers, and an array of creative street and visual artists. Undergoing constant renovation and clearly in need of some love and cash, the Tabacalera is a fascinating insight into community, activism, art and the alternative scene in Madrid.  Part London's Camden town or Portobello Market, part Copenhagen's Christiana with a shot of Rastarianism thrown in, this site is an institution and one of those surprising urban organisms that leaves a lasting impression. B) In the opposite direction, north of Gran Via, Madrid shelters a maze of old tightly packed and often cobbled streets between San Bernardo and Fuencarral streets.  The area broadly known as Tribunal and Malasaña is the hotbed of Madrid night-life with endless bars, cafès and niche shops and craft stores where you can simply grab a drink in olde worlde (Madrid) style, learn how to sew over a coffee, or paint your own vase with a glass of wine. These back streets hide a myriad of thriving arts enterprises from sitting room sized theatre to retail fashion, books and coffee, and music clubs. Wander if you will.

7.  SWIMMING OR RUNNING.  It often amazed me in Dublin to see travelling folk and holidaymakers (who clearly were not locals) jogging around Stephen's Green early mornings.  The Yanks (and my sister Neasa) are great for that kind of thing! Two days in Dublin and they bring their running gear.  Of course, not being a super sports fanatic, the whole concept of working out on holidays is alien to me, but then, if somebody told me that you could come to a city like Madrid and have the possibility to lounge by a fine big, clean, spacious pool in thirty degree heat all day for €4.00, I would have scoffed cynically into my Guinness.  Hello! The City Council of Madrid runs a number of public pools at the perimeter of the city (north, south, east and west), all within easy access by metro, completely open to the public and, for the princely sum I have just mentioned, you can come with your gear, pitch your towel and picnic bag (the latter not being essential as all sports complexes have subsidised cafès and bars, which are cheap and well stocked with anything from snacks to full dinners) and  unwind.  The best of such sports complexes is at metro Lago in the Casa del Campo only two stops from downtown.  There is a large array of green spaces, sheltered tree lines knolls and parkland to set up your day camp.  The centre at Lago has a choice of three pools you can wander between; an excellent olympic sized pool, a somewhat shallower and smaller Medium pool and (for those with little ones) a kid's pool!  The centre houses excellent and clean changing facilities with hot and cold showers. It is spacious, safe and friendly with ample friendly ground, security and life guard staff.  While it is always advisable not to carry valuables, you can leave your stuff on your patch while you go for a dip.  Madrileños will often whine and whinge about the pools being too crowded, but over the course of this summer with the exception  of one or two days, which were quite busy, I have had a really positive experience and lots of healthy swims to enjoy.  The best times to come (and beat the crowds) are usually in the mornings before the high heat of the day starts to accumulate after 3pm.  If you do stay all day, be sure to hide out of the high sun, which is extremely strong in July and August.  Alternatively, if you cannot swim, but really fancy burning those cals before breakfast you can always don your pumps and head for Retiro for a consistent and mostly flat gravel track run.  Better still, hit the gravel hills of the Parque del Oeste for a stiffer challenge to those pins.  For those into distance or speed runs (or with tender ankles) there is an excellent 1200 metre astro turf track in the free Parque Santander (Metro Canal).  Buen deportivo!

8. TIPS FOR TIPPING. This is the one every body gets all flustered about. True, isn't it?  Firstly, taxis are generally not tipped.  Hotel room attendants and porters are also usually exempted from obligatory tipping too, but, if you choose, €2 - 5 is acceptable. Madrileños do not as a general rule tip much and sometimes not at all.  The Menu del Dia, for instance, is not generally regarded a tipping meal.  If you want to leave a token for your very charming camarero, then 5% is sufficient for this lunch course.  Drinks or tapas at the bar (standing) do not require tipping.  If you choose to leave a tip here then it is typically a token or 2% - anything more is your call.  Tipping on the terrace or seated indoors for drinks, similarly, does not involve a large tip, but if you eat on the terrace after 5pm, then, as with evening meals, 5% is considered a fair basic tip.  A percentile or two more should be considered for good service. Service does not usually come included but do check the menu or with your waiter of you a large group to avoid doubt. Do not leave large cash tips in trays on the terrace table. Give it directly to your attendant and don't tip in salt or dollars. Spain is in the Eurozone (for now at least!).  Buen provecho!

9.  CON MEN. They are everywhere.  While we all need to be vigilant, in the street and in the metro, as a tourist sitting on the terrace, chances are despite your best efforts to fit in, you look like a goose in long grass.  It could be your knee length tartan socks, or your brash Tennessee drawl, or maybe even that mothball purple rinse you sport with pride.  Whatever it is, there's a con man potentially eyeing the IPhone you have sitting in front of you or your swish Sony slimline 3D digital 20X zoom camera with built in soda stream (lucky you!).  A well established Madrid trick, which continues to yield results for its purveyors, is to approach the 'Guiri' (Gringo - to you and me) table and lay a sheet of paper in front of him while distracting the poor sod with some rambling gibberish.  While Mr. Mcleod-socks-man is trying to read the garbled hieroglyphs and understand the quasi aramaic jabberings of his uninvited attendee, the said hawk is busy using his invisible hand to pocket the shiny device, which caught his eye.  

10.   Madrid is waiting,  What are you waiting for?

WHY MADRID IS STREETS AHEAD

Forget about about recession for a minute. Life goes on, however awkwardly.  Things keep on going and Spain's Federal Capital is no different. Well, that is not quite true. . .


Madrid is divided into "Barrios" (here is a link to the handiest zonal map of the city that I've seen around - http://moving2madrid.com/best-neighbourhoods/).  Getting a grip on the general layout of the city through knowing its neighbourhoods is a great way to start orienting yourself, until finally you get familiar with the street networks, where they link, where they start and where they end.  Why would you want to become so fluent in the streetscape of any city? ((particularly one of five million souls - well two million in the inner conurbation)?  Well apart from the fact that Madrid is the most pedestrian friendly of cities, it also one of the few great large Capitals of the world that is so compact it really can be walked in its entirety (and it deserves to be).


Everybody who comes to Madrid comments on its spectacular architectural heritage.  I have written about this before and all I will say here is that if you have visited cities like Vienna, Paris, London, or Rome you are still in for a big treat in Madrid.  Even Barcelona, which admittedly has a bit of a coup in Gaudi's great stone, ceramic, tile and plaster adventures, stands in second place when the full measure of Madrid's expansive wealth of magnificent buildings (like the jawdroppingly handsome Casa Gaallardo) are weighed against those of its irksome rival sibling to the North East.  Where on earth outside Madrid do you see breath taking  construction, which houses not the central bank, nor any bank, not even government ministries, but the  modest little dwellings of the ordinary citizen?


Madrid by foot!  The rewards are truly worth it because it is a city which lends itself to having favourite squares, streets, lanes, avenues, parks.  There is a spot in this city to reflect almost every personality and every mood, whether it is lounging on the clay slopes of the docile Plaza Paja watching a crystal moon  through shimmering trees, catching up on Proust (or Kelly!) in the company of Sabatini's magnificent  royal garden sculptures, dozing peacefully and quietly in the shade of a giant spruce in the magnificent Parque del Oueste, practising your Ukelele along side The Egyptian Temple of Debod, sipping Sangria or Vermouth somewhere along or off the Calle de Palma, or skipping along merrily through Calles Huertas, Funecarral, Lavapies or who knows how many other bustling parades.


Madrid and fountains go hand in hand and while they may do big elsewhere, they do them better here.  The obvious atttractions are the grand old twin sprinklers on the Paseo del Prado (Cibilles and Neptune Fountains).   Then there are the tall buttressing fountains of the Plaza de Espagna and nearly every Glorietta (Roundabouto has a spout of some sort at its centre.  But there is a royally impressive fountain hidden away from many the tourist eye which merits special mention.  The Fountain of  the Paseo de Gomaens sits at the end of a steep sloping hill just off the Paseo de Pintor Rosales, near where the Parque del Oeste meets the Parque del Templo de Debod.  On Sundays this thoroughfare past the fountain is closed and the street is taken over by hundreds of Madrileños doing what Madridleños love doing - skateboarding!!  Park yourself under a shady slope on the green lawns skirting the fountain and marvel at the accidental juxtaposition of the posh, ambitious grandeur of this magnificent 19th Century fountain with its veils of water falling like fine lace down beautifully sculpted pillars and basins while around its base whizz and spin gangs of death defying flat-board speedsters in hoodies, baskets, baggy pants, screeching down the hill out of sight.  It is at times the best free circus in town and what a setting!

If you are one of those people who like colourful, quaint and village like, you might be forgiven for thinking that a former Imperial city like Madrid can only have achingly wide boulevards and neck strainingly impressive monuments.  Well you are right and, thankfully, wrong.  The great charm of Madrid is that lurking behind many of its grandest  and most glorious architectural outbursts, are sheltered discreet communities thriving like independent states within the greater metropolis.  If Madrid were a big fish it would have many pilots nibbling at its underbelly.  


One of these underbellies is the heady, left-field, alternative, arty and edgy Malasaña -Tribunal area through which the delightful, colorful and bristling Calle de Palma passes.  Starting at a scrumptious sweet shop off the Fuencarral, Calle de Palma runs east to west over towards Calle San Bernardo.  Along its span you will find tiny amateur theatre, pottery shops, art shops, second hand clothing, innumerable bars and café's (urban steps - a fetish . don't ask), tatoo shops, pet shops, more café's and more bars catering to everything from the traditional Tapas to post- punk.  Here is where the so called "Hipster" culture was born (a cross between Teddy boys and Punk) 

 

(NOTE TO SELF - If there is a God up there, these far-too-precious, pretentious and unoriginal fame-hunters will trip over there pumps and disappear down a drain sooner rather than later.  But I digress).  

At the intersection of Palma with Calle San Andreas, a whole labyrinth of streets and squares present as opportunities to explore and get lost.  Never far from the chance to grab a chair on a terrace or kick back on a bench under a shady tree ( The Plaza del Dos de Mayo is good for both) and soak up the busy bee like atmosphere, this is (despite the Hipsters) very much the artistic nerve centre of Madrid.


Although it is a mecca for tourists in Summer, and the areas close to the museums on the Paseo del Prado (of course), and areas like Las Letras do get quite mobbed,  these central communes are still quintessintially Spanish and a must-stroll-through. OK the terrazas will rob you blind with exploitative prices, but that should not stop you from wandering around the streets of Leon, Huertas,  Sta Maria  (finding all those former abodes of Spain's literary giants (Lope de Vega, Cervantes etc) and all those other tightly knit streets and cobbled alleys between Calle Atocha and the parliamentary chambers on Calle San Jeronimo.  Despite the obvious tourist traps on squares like Plaza Sta Anna (lovely, but why would you want to pay 7€ for a beer here with so many other options?) and Plaza Angel, there are plenty of little bars and cafes, which will serve you up local fare in local company at local prices if you look carefully.  One of my little favorites in the area for a quick beer and tapa is Los Gatos on Calle Jèsus.

No stroll through Madrid is complete with a visit to the Rastro, Europe's longest running and biggest open Sunday Market where you can buy everything from a scarf to a garden shed.  Do't be fooled by the hoards of tourists. There is good value here and as many locals as visitors make their way to this Southern Madrid institution weekly. Word of advice - get here early!  The market closes at 2pm and the crowds are peaking at about noon - mostly.


OK, lets get away from bars and shopping for a minute.  So you want to know where to go to get a nice pic, or a different view, or a shady spot to really let your senses know you are in a different land.  Well there are so many places that can do this for you but its hard to beat, for example, hoping over the fence on the edge of Calle de Moreira into Los Jardines de Las Vistillas at dusk and sitting to watch the sky descend from bright yellow through violet and ultramarines as the sun goes down over the vast and impressive peaks of the Sierra de Guadarrama, while in the foreground the hulking mass of the Almudeña comes into its own in a twilight illuminated spectacle.  Bring your lover and some bubbly - everybody else does.

The Casa de Campo, which sits on the doorstep of Madrid, is its vast and virtually empty (Monday to Friday) playground with endless cycling and running tracks, picnic benches and forest walks (there is a Zoo and a theme Park too!).  There is even a wondeful lake where you can hire a boat and go rowing!  But it at its entrance on the open plaza where the Avenida de Portugal crosses the Manzanares river (more like stream) that the full sweep of Madrid's impressive Imperial character and economic legacies are best observed with eyepoppoing views of the Torre de Espagna, past the Almudeña and on to the Royal Palace. Few Cities boast a place where you get such a uninterrupted view of their most iconic constructions.


























There is another corner of Madrid to get the best views of the Sierra. This is the least glamorous part of the city, but a great walk through another side of Madrid nonethless, and one which gives you a view of the different realities the Madrileños of all types live. To the north in the area called Valdecarras about an hour walk along Calle Bravo Murrillo, through Tetuan,  and then to the right walk along the shanty and slum lined streets of  Paseo del Dirrécion  until the intersection with Calle del Capitán Blanco Argibay.  The conditions in which people survive is quite startling (especially when compared to the affluence of Salamanca and Ibiza districts) and equals degrees of deprivation in many third world countries - it is not a  pretty sight and stands as a poor testament to Spain's socialist past, yet as ever the people here are friendly and engaging and delighted to share their neighbourhood's spectacular views of the Gaudarrama.  They might not know it, but they could be sitting on prime real estate waiting for someone to realise the asset they have, well, if not for the minor issue of the property collapse in Spain. Did I say forget the recession at the start of this blog? I did, did I not. Ok, well just look at the mountains then. Can you see Escorial???

SAN ISIDRO . . Don't just get angry - dance!

IT is hardly a coincidence that the eleventh century patron saint of Madrid, Saint (or San) Isidro, was a farmer renowned for his goodness to the poor and animals.  After all, Madrid is home to a population whose adulation for pets, particularly of the canine variety, is legendary and it also home to the 'Indignados' (the movement widely reported for its activism and opposition to austerity).  So when the Madrileños celebrate their patron saint, it is with unfaltering abandon,  adulation and a festiveness worthy of perhaps both the barking and the genuinely mad.  

Such enthusiasm and pride, however, not only brings the city back to an idyllic and romantic past, elegantly riposting the uncertain present through the comforts of nostalgic fanfare, but they expose the city's exotic personalities, the contradictions between its religious and cultural yearnings and the kaleidoscopic freneticsm of a turbulent modernity. There is probably no better time, then, to see and experience the diversity and complexity that defines Madrid; a festival that makes Madrid one of the great conurbations on earth and, possibly, the loudest exponent of all that is both brilliant and inadequate in the human condition. San Isidro is not just a festival - it is an outpouring.

On the eve of the 15th of May, thousands, possibly as many as thirty thousand citizens gather in the muggy starlit evening.  In front of the imperial collonade, (Riera's monumental tribute to Alfonso XII  and a stark reminder of a time of plenty),  the crowds converge. They come through several of the grand Retiro Park entrances leading to the central lake and over which the gigantic bronze horse-mounted Alfonso appears to summon his citizens as though to some grand calling.  (If only the Indignados had such a plausible director for their energies!).  


The night air bristles with excitement. The lake is bathed in a rainbow of morphing light cast up the lengths of imposing columns as Mozart blasts out over the eager spectators.  Then, signalled by a single canon shot, the sky explodes in a spectacular fireworks display heralding the commencement of the San Isidro festivities and wowing the throngs into awed amazement.  Bedazzled by fire and thunder, we are all stood unified in the nourishment of this simple spectacle, which at once reduces us to mere children . Here we stand compacted, huddled embracing with childlike innocence the magic of an exploding symphony. For a short while, all woes are  abandoned for a tiny piece of joy, a moment like no other here, in Madrid, in the night, on a small planet drifting in the great infinity of darkness and starlight .

On the Calle Baja and all around the topsy turvy streets and shadowed alleys of La Latina, (those narrow lanes spared the harshness of the blazing sun by tall buildings), more crowds gather -  dispersed  clusters -  and amongst them drummers and floutists are belting out  familiar tunes, which at once sound of both a medieval whine and Belle-Epoque tunefulness.  Ladies are dressed in tailored full length gowns, shawls and head scarves  topped with a red or white rose; colours stolen from the fireworks.  The men are decked out in perfectly fitting three piece suits and brilliantly polished shoes.  Who has conspired to bring this theatre to the streets where the population act as though the city, this megalopolis, were a mere village in which everyone had a part in some Joycean fete.  In a city of five million! How can this be?  Is it pride?  Faith?  Hope?  Folly?  Out of each and every lane, alley, street, and avenue they pour.  Mostly, but not always, the elderly adorned in vivid colour and dress and merging casually into a new universe for a day.  


The news on the News is not news for any man's ears. It is toxic at the moment. Thanks be to God I am Irish (well kind of).  At least I have heard the record already. I know how this one plays out.  But to this people of a sunny and boisterous disposition, the News may make for a cold summer. They had better dance.

At the Plaza del Sol, the heat of San Isidro, the heat of impatience, the burning heat of trouble to come, sets off another dance. Thousands compact the sloping square focused upon some invisible core as though pleading for an Alfonso on horseback; giant, capable, leading a victorious charge. But all there is, is a lumpish mound; the roof of Sol metro, the Samsung Galaxy metro as it is now labelled.  Irony?

Hands float aloft in the air. Pots and pans bang. Tired dogs hide beneath their masters' legs.  On other days they would bark and howl at such nuisance, but they are outnumbered by this pack, this strange menacing herd.  While the ladies in the lace dresses fluttered by on other streets and squares, here the clutter of dark legs and bruised voices is nothing to be toyed with.  The brown flicking uncertain eyes of a sheltering Alsatian say it all.  An unpolished man sits on a makeshift stool beside a  treehugger.  Unlikely bedfellows, their fireworks are of another sound and colour.   The old man's shirt reads "Retirees fighting for their rights".  The treehugger nods to the rhythm of the clanking pans and drags on his joint.  He looks at the old man as though to say " I am with you, man".   The old man looks at the treehugger as though to say " Whatever, mate."   Another man stands with a copy of "The European Constitution" - upside down in his back pocket. Someone is trying to be heard. More Irony?


Most people are either banging pans or rolling their arms with impatience. Most are well equipped.  How come so many upset people have great digital cameras?  At the far side of the square, a few timid "Chulapos" are skirting the indignation in blue and crimson dresses as they head for their dance, gripping their shawls.

Looking down the street, with a hopeless anxiety for want of business, a scattering of street prostitutes  dare to challenge the midday sun.  Their numbers are down today.  Are they protesting?  Perhaps.   All the same, there is business to be got amongst the Indignados;  perhaps amongst the retirees;  perhaps amongst the few passing women in the fluffy dresses and roses (amongst their husbands).  The crowds float down from Callao toward Sol like driftwood on a fast flowing river.   In the excited melee, a tall athletic young man stops by a voluptuous dark skinned woman.  He toys with her hand.  A black-tie waiter wipes a table before lighting a fag and disappearing momentarily behind a cloud of smoke.  The young man seals a deal and vanishes into the throng with his purchase.  At the end of the street, the pots and pans clank louder.  The police are distracted by the swirling throng, enough for a paperless black boy to spread his sheet on the pavement to sell pirated films.  His eyes dart left to right as he polices his trade at the Samsung Galaxy  metro.

On the far side of the Plaza Mayor, San Isidro sits atop a chaparoned carriage.  Mantilla bearers, boys and girls, marching bands, soldiers, widows and others float past in solemn duty-bound procession. Uniformed guards in sumptuous uniforms and silver helmets with brilliant purple plumes guard parade marshals who sport long black cloaks and multicoloured tassled head dress.  They nod and bob past with an air of means. One man likes his tassles to sway; his Golden yellow tassles.  Far from the clamour of indignation rattling out on beaten pans, here the citizens applaud as the parading faithful cry out triumphantly "Viva San Isidro, Viva Madrid!"  There is a familiar prevalence of digital hardware.  A blind shoeless girl with a palsy arm, whose sign reads "TENGO HAMBRE", can see neither the adulation nor the indignation around her (nor the cameras).  The applause grows louder and prouder as the tank-like carriage is tilted up the steps into the church, bringing San Isidro home.  The beautifully turned out custodians of the city's nostalgia, nod gracefully as the Mayor passes, waving knowingly. 

TAKE FIVE . . . THEN TAKE THREE . . .

I have not got enough time on my hands to go all out on what I think about all my latest forays around the city of Madrid.  I am indeed a little fearful that on the not so touristy side I might go for the jugular on, for example, the state medical services (good grief), more strikes (heavens above) or residential building standards (for goodness sake). Anyhow, I will (more calmingly) just concentrate for now on three discreet little places worth poking your greedy little nose into when you come visit the fabulously unorthodox city that is Madrid.  Buen Provecho!!


There are no end of traditional Tavernas in Madrid which do a fine job at a great price.  The further way you get from the touristy core though, it is fair to say that things only get better, both in terms of service, product and price.  The traditional taverna is a place where you could effectively camp out all day and have breakfast dinner and supper and then grab a few beers and pass the rest of the evening stuck in garrulous conversation while throwing your eye over the large screen TV blaring out the commentary on the latest league match. Frankly, I hate soccer.  My unabashedly biased view is that there is an unhealthy addiction to it in Madrid.  It seems to act as some sort of tribal mechanism whereby Madrileños get to pound their chest and express their collective masculinity in an overtly tactile manner and without a care in the world as to whether they are causing disruption or disturbance or nuisance to other citizens.  Well at least there is one taverna where the TV is mostly OFF. Yahoo.  But that is not the only reason to like the Taverna de Moncloa at 45, Calle Andres Mellado.  They have totally delicious, (sinful even), croquettes, Andalucian bread with tomatoes and garlic, great jarritas of beer, a gregarious and friendly staff all day and night, a buzzy friendly mixed clientele old and young and . . . well, they just have a great thing going on.  Their coffee and pulga breakfast deal at €2.20 is a real treat to start the day (that is a cafè con leche, a slice of warm freshly made tortilla and a fine fat sandwich of your choice (the patè is my favourite!).  The best time for supper is about 8.30pm (you need to book!). Yummy yum yum.  Come out stuffed, sated, fed and watered (read "beered") on great home cooking for as little as €10.00!  I do not know how they do it, but I just hope they keep on doing it (and without the football blaring!).  Now where is my wallet . . . (You can book on Tel: 91 549 11 43)


Love Italian? Love Sapori di Sicilia at 15, Calle Francisco de Ricci. This might be a bit of a long shot for most weekend visitors to Madrid as it is about a thirty minute walk north from Plaza del Sol.  But if you are looking for great, authentic Italian cooking at a great price, then you really need to do yourself a favour and stretch those legs.  The boys in Saperi are the real deal; from the kitchen to the front door Italian all the way and they have taken a huge big leaf out of Mamma's cook book and applied it deliziosamente!  The hand made parcels of home made pasta filled with pear and spek in a creamy Gorgonzola sauce was the nutritional equivalent of a year of psychotherapy.  And only a toothless, gumless, aardvark could turn a nose up at the Canelo with its crisp cracking biscuit coat wrapped around a glorious fondant interior.  Holy St. Francis of Assisi! As though I was not near enough the point of ecstasy, they had to deliver a little shot bottle of Limoncello on the house.  Table for two and with wine less than sixty euro in all!  Some might say this may be heading a little north budget for Madrid but, for quality product, I say unbeatable (www.saporidisicilia.org).


These days when you a signpost for Sushi (I am using this as the generic term for all things fishy, raw and Japanesey!) hanging from an Asian restaurant, there is every chance your getting some chancer the business, but I like my sushi as authentic as it gets (being on the wrong side of the planet and all). If the chef ain't Japanese, I might even settle for a Korean take on the classic eastern delight, but please spare me the big ricey-eggy-fakery.  NIPPON  at Calle Los Madrazos is a Japanese/ Korean  affair with a fine menu from hot authentic Kimchi dishes to Teriyaki and, Yay!!!, great sushi, fresh, perfect temperature (not warm but not too cold) and the best tasting fish.  Shared platters are anything from €20 to €50 and all are adequately generous.  The friendly waiting staff (polite as only the Japanese can be) had little English when we visited and some only had broken Spanish, (no complaint as this could be your chance to practice your Japanese!).  Service is prompt and efficient.  The surroundings are aptly decored with woven table matts, dark wood furnishings and sharply contrasting light and angles.  The tables have ample room between them for diners who cherish their own intimate space or there is an option to eat traditional style (cross legged on the floor).  This is abit uncomfortable for those of us with long gangly legs and creaking hips, but it is a delight to watch the traditional service, including the removal of slippers, bowing and reversing. All great I suppose for the yoga addicts who like to practice while they eat.  Meanwhile, I say stay focused on the scrumptious menu offerings.  Next time I must remember the Sake . . . (http://www.nipponmadrid.com/)


Now about the health service . . . 

HOW MADRID'S SOUTH CAN KEEP YOU FROM LOSING A HAND!

It seems mainly the Senegalese lead the charge - on Sundays particularly. But West Africans of all hues come out to occupy every available bench, wall, pillar, sill - you name name it. They line the courts of courtyards, basketball yards, squares, junctions, crossroads and intersections. They hang from balconies, stair wells, door steps and lean-tos. The patina of magnolia and pale grays that typifies the back streets of the Lavapiès district are suddenly awash with ebony, crimson reds, vibrant greens and yellows and, as well as the boys sporting those traditional knitted caps, others float around in body length garments, mainly silks, of such vibrant colour and design that they might just as well have walked off the set of JOSEPH or AVATAR.  

When the hats are off, the spectacle of hair do’s abounds with a platted intricacy so complex as would make Star Wars casting directors weep and spiders turn to a life of accountancy. Such is the splendour that fills the sun drenched morning streets of southern Madrid.  And the people, such beautiful people, with skin the colour of polished umber, tall, elegant, striding, gather in groups to converse, discuss, argue banter, chat and chide, often in the rhythmic dialects and languages of west Africa. For the Senegalese this means (mostly) Wolof and it is no wonder that a country such as it, with its profusions of indigenous languages, ancient and poetic, would give the world the likes of Youssu N’dour, Baaba Maal, and of course the incomparable Ismael Lo (cut and paste this link to hear Ismael; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_SAWiSPkZaM&feature=related).

I have not been to Senegal although it is high up on my wish list, but I can think of no better way to spend a  Sunday  than  drifting through the lazy back streets of Madrid’s southern Lavapies barrio to soak up such sights, rhythms, sounds and smells as might readily bring you some inclination as to what must be the magic of the legendary west African markets. And what better day for such novel exploration than Palm Sunday, the day of which the Spaniards say: "Domingo de Ramos, quien no estrena algo, se le caen las manos" (the hands fall off him who fails to wear something new on Palm Sunday).

Of course there’s is more to Madrid’s heady mix of ethnicities than the Senegalese or indeed Africans.  Around Calle de Embajadores, generally, you will find every walk of civilisation from Bangladesh to Bolivia and from Laos to Libreville, which is why - if you are looking for for some decent ethnic fare to sate your taste buds - there really is no better place to take a wander and find a table to indulge your culinary fetishes.  (Note: While there are plenty and varied ethnic eateries, good Indian, for example, is definitely not easy to find in Madrid.  The Spaniards (unlike their Mexican cousins) no likey the spicy!  Bizarrely, the Madrileños often refer to Indian food as Hindu food!!! (OMG - LOL), does that make Tapas Catholic or Fish ‘n Chips Protestant?  Anyway, modestly decent Indian food can be got in a number of places especially around Calle Lavapiès.  But die-hards, please note, both Ryanair and Easy Jet have regular flights to London and Dublin for spicy nourishment, alternatively the fastest-cheapest way to India from Spain is via London. (Ah, that might explain . . . duh!).

To walk off the calories, there is no better exercise than heading down to the banks of the Manzares River. Here you will find opening up before you one of Madrid’s favourite weekend playgrounds.  The magnificently reinstated river basin has been decked out in parks and walk-ways, children’s play areas, resting spots, nooks, crannies, knolls, and greens; every conceivable machination of space has been given expression to make what must be one of the finest public recreation areas in Europe and all a few minutes walk from the city centre.  Whether you want to sit back and people watch, rollerblade, stroll, cycle, slide, jump, hop, skip, ramble or crawl, there really is a route, a means and a place for all comers here.  Spectacularly, there is no evidence of much (if any) anti social behaviour (boozers, hobos, drugs, beggars etc), which it has to be said renders the place unusual on a European inspection of similar public recreation areas. Of course, it also can make the place a little sterile at times, but mums with little ones will not be complaining.

Along this fabulous airey space, (albeit quite packed with Madrileños on the weekends) you can work your way eastwards from the Crystal Palace, with its wonderful zoned gardens of tropical and sub tropical plants, towards the impressive Puente de Arguanzuela with its mighty polished steel spirals. Further on you will pass the renowned home of Athletico Madrid (Estadio Vincente Calderon) and finishing up with a stroll through the magnificent gardens of the Campo  del Moro  by which time you should just about be ready for a nice blob of italian ice cream (OK its not Italy, but hey no compromising on ice cream!) in one of the stalls inside the shopping centre at the revamped Estacion de Principe Pio. By the way, that little walk (about an hour and a half) follows part of a  cycle track that circumnavigates Madrid for over 50 Kilometres (one for the bikers!).

The evening stroll back to home brings us into collision with a traditional Palm Sunday procession (around Opera Place) and a biting question. Why do so many tourists head to Seville to see the famed religious processions (with the bearing of the Virgin, the streams of mantilla wearing black clad custodians of the faith and penetant candlebearers in peaked caps)? The by-times errie religiosity of these events reaches a fervour and level of spectacle as, if not more, impressive in the Spanish capital where the crowds are far less over whelming. Oh well, somethings escape explanation. Anyway, here is good short video of what that is all about:-

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8lFmYLqdAs

So there you have it. A day on foot starting in the gritty vibrancy of Lavapiés and ending in the shadow of the plush Royal Palace gardens. It just goes to show what a wonderful place a city can be when it welcomes difference, communities, ethnicities, cultures of all kinds. Madrid is a true leader in this game. Check out this worthy cause:

http://malugu.org/

EPILOGUE

There is another little matter I have not mentioned on the journey through Lavapiés and it is “La Tabacalera y el Laberinto de Miradas” . . . but that is such an amazing find, I have to go back myself to make sure I was not dreaming. To follow . . .!

MADRID GOTHIC . . . .

 

I  could not stop thinking about Grant Wood's American Gothic last night. Then it dawned on me.  Recently, I had been meandering my way through the absurdly silent Malasaña and Tribunal backstreets (on a Sunday night, all the mad Madrileños had migrated south to La Latina for their ritual collective end-of-weekend debauchery - did I mention that Madrileños move about in great shoal-like waves? anyhow . . ).   I was struck by this little tavern, which for all the world, could have easily sat on a small town high street in middle America 100 years ago, or just as easily in Paris in the 70's or as it does now in the middle of this Spanish urban maze. 

The high bar with confessional like panels subdividing it, large brass taps, a massive inclined mirror reflecting a  chequered floor and oak barrels all cloaked in a dim ochre light had a gothic hue worthy of any Roman Polanski set.  A solitary couple,  he beareded, thirty, drunk, clasping her; she wrapped in large black collared three quarter length, red lipstick, auburn wavey hair, heeled, tipsy, giggling at his rabid  kisses, turn and stare.  
LANA TURNER plucks her purse from the counter and stomps towards the glass doors.  She stares. Pulls out a cigarette. Quick flicker.  Plume of smoke.  James CAGNEY? No. STEWART;  Beautiful, awkward, trundles after the moll.  Door swings shut.  Another cigarette.  Giggles. Kissing. I  enter the bar.  Unfinished Riojas, black, sit.  Waiting. I pass the confessional and grab a stool.









There THEY are then, behind the bar. 
"Si, Señor?"
"Un Ribero de la Casa, por favor"
"Si Señor"
HER back is turned. HE leaves the bar. The TV is on. SHE cuts bread. Some socialist politician is thumping the podium.  A full bottle of wine, an advertisement, sits on the bar.  1978.  The wine has turned to treacle.  The bottle cloaked in dust and grease.  The vineyard?  Who knows. 
The Brass taps sparkle. Polished. Owned.  A plate clanks on the glass surface.  I turn.  Hot toasted breads with tomatoes, anchovies and garlic.  Dainty, sweet smelling, knitted deliciousness.  HE returns with the wine an pours.  SHE stands with her back to me always.  Her hair is cropped.  She wears a black knitted cardigan.  Her shoulders are risen as though she is holding a sigh in her bosom.  Is SHE?  HE folds his arms, leans beside her and stares at the TV.  I look across the empty room. 
The SOCIALIST blathers on.  "Compañeros . . .  blaa blaa blaa. . .".  Is this a movie?  HE turns down the sound.
"Compañeros, compañeros!".  HE sighs.
SHE turns.  Resting against the counter she looks out.  Her shoulders fall.  SHE smiles.  HER eyes are THAT blue.  Then the smile fades.

The Doors crack open. Giggling. The STARS are back. Glasses clink.

HE with his small grey pony tale unfolds his arms. He rubs HER arm up and down. Up and down. UP and down. 

"Señor" a drunken voice calls out.
SHE turns to cut some bread.
HE, "Si".

Spain is facing years of economic hardship but the timeless TABERNA MAYRIT, one suspects, will always be found at Bernado López Garcia,11.

A ROYAL F$%K UP???

The (almost on-the-run) Duke of Palma's name, Iñaki Urdangarin, also spells:  "Dangr, Iñaki a r...ruin". Is there a message there, one wonders???

A PIZZA FORGIVENESS . . .

I am feeling bad about having given La Vaca Argentina a bit of  bashing, so I have been thinking about how I can make some sort of gesture of amends towards the land of the 'Gaucho'.  And guess what? I did not have to go far.  Not a stone's throw, up the street (Huertas Street, that is), we stumbled upon "Il Piccolino della Farfalla"; A Little Butterfly that set my butterflies all a flutter!  


Here we have another Argentine restaurant with an Italian soul that simply oozes out of its rustic warm cream interior of old parlour chairs, benches, cushions, painted panels and curtains, but, more importantly, from every dish on the menu.   It does not boast anything other than your standard Italian fare and to be honest the prices are so ridiculously cheap that you would be forgiven for thinking you might have hit upon the local student diner (pizzas under €8, deserts under €5,  a perfectly agreeable house red wine for €6 - the bottle!).  But do not let the prices fool you.  Il Piccolino is as good an Argo-Italian diner as you are likely to find in Madrid as it turns out. Everything it does it does scrumptiously well; dishing up pizzas, pastas, meat dishes, salads and deserts as only your Italian Mama might. 


All about us patrons' faces are lighting up like those crazed excited medieval diners or jesters you might see in a Brueghal work.  Tables surround us with 'reserved' notices; it is no wonder.  At the door, eager would-be guests are turned away one after the other; no surprise there either (the place has queues on its bookings list).  Part of the kitchen area, at the entrance to this deceptively sizey place, immediately announces that this house is all about the food.  The good humoured staff bounce about the place with the confidence that only a good consistent kitchen can give them.  There will be no complaints here. Our stone baked pizzas (with fine Spanish chorizo) were crisp and hot severed up on wooden palates. The mozzarella was soft and oily. Perfect. And desert? Well, no disappointment here either  (Somebody should have sent the pastry chef down to La Vaca to show them what a real Tiramisù is all about).


The general air of happiness was only briefly interrupted.  At one point, a grumpy Porteño behind us hollered for a digestif, catching the attention of the whole restaurant.  "Have you anything decent?" he cries out as a chirpy waitress passes his table.  "I have something to put a smile on your face, Caballero!" she tweets cheekily.  The old fellow grunts, unimpressed.  In seconds she is back with a label-less bottle she has swiped from the 1950's fridge beside us.  She pounds a miniature tumbler in front of the retired dictator and begins to spill a yellow syrupy substance up to the rim of the glass. "Now, try that!" she chirps confidently. The grump looks at her suspiciously with the face of man who can never be made happy.  He sips. "Ah, que rico!" He exclaims, catching himself by surprise with  his miserable face betraying a tiny glint of satisfaction.  The Waitress tops him up again and then pounds the cork into the bottle with a pop. "De la casa!" she says with a wink and whips the bottle back in to the cooler before disappearing into the kitchen like a non-plused surgeon passes through swinging doors after a successful heart transplant.  Judging by all the faces here, the warm cheeks and warmer bellies (OK, we had some of that glorious Limoncello too!), she just might as well have completed heart surgery on us all.  Did I mention the Tiramisù?


"Il Piccolino della Farfalla" at 6, Calle Huertas (just off Plaza Santa Ana) is open 2.30pm - 4-30pm and 6.30pm - early hours of the morning every day of the week. 091 -369 4391 - Booking advised.