22:25
Back at the hostal.

A great day, full of memorable little moments, many of which I´ve already forgotten... such being my memory.

After breakfast at La Suiza, I went back up to my room and optimistically washed only a single day´s laundry in the home that the laundromat would reopen tomorrow. Then I set out on a Great Walking Tour of Madrid (caps obligatory).

First, I headed to the Prado, the best museum in Spain (according to the Lonely Planet), and only open until 2pm on holidays, except as it turns out not open at all on Good Friday.

Then, back to the centre of town. I found an Internet café open and stopped in for an hour an a half. Then I stopped at the Museo de Jamon -- literally, the Ham Museum -- a ham wholesaler (butcher) and popular lunchtime cafeteria, where I had an orange juice and a ham sandwich.

Finally, back to the Puerta del Sol, the start of the Lonely Planet´s suggested walking tour. Southwest through old streets to old churches. I briefly visited the Iglesia de San Ginés, took in the Plaza Major with a quick photo, walked past the ayuntamiento (town hall) and the Iglesia de San Pedró. Took another photo, of pigeons frolicking in a fountain in front of the Iglesia de San Andrés, then went in and sat and gawped in a semi-convincingly religious manner at the over-the-top cherubim and seraphim hanging from every point of the domed ceiling.

On my way from the Plaza de la Puerta de Moros to the Basilica de San Francisco El Grande (which, incidentally, has netting up inside to prevent the clergy from being injured by falling bits of ceiling), I was approached by some would-be scam artists:

First, a foreign-looking man with a subway map asked for help finding his way back to the Puerta del Sol. Then, as I was flipping to the map in the guide book, two men in leather jackets descended on us, quickly flipped badges, claimed to be tourist police, and asked to see our passports. After checking these (and handing them back) they asked to check our money, at which point I was pretty sure they were fake. The other guy handed over an empty-looking wallet, which one of the ¨policemen¨ made a great show of examining and sniffing for drugs.

I simply refused to show my money to the other one. And instead of insisting, he said ¨you have no money?¨ to which I said ¨no¨ and they just left. And so did I, looking as I did to see if there was a policeman nearby to report them to. I saw some policemen 10 minutes later, as I was crossing the Caffe de Bailen bridge, but by that point it was obviously pointless to do anything, so I let it go.

Back to the tour. The Palacio Real was open, but only for 20 more minutes, so I didn´t bother paying to go in. I sat in the sun in the Plaza de Oriente, read the Herald Tribune, and listened to some buskers playing ¨those were the days, my friend¨ on violins. I crossed the Plaza de España, and walked along the Grand Via. I found another preciousss bookstore selling preciousss English books, spent a happy hour perusing, and bought Stephen Fry´s autobiography ¨Moab is my Washpot¨.

I stopped at the fancy Gran Café de Gijón on Paseo de los Recoletos for a Ruso, vanilla ice cream in coffee. I passed the Muso Arqueologico Nacional, which had been open in the morning but was now closed.

I walked through the Parque del Buen Retiro, Madrid´s answer to New York´s Central Park (or is that the other way around?) which was inexplicably full of people thronging around the lake, currently drained for repairs and hidden from view behind a seven foot fence, along with Mickey Mice and quiet, polite black men who tried to sell me hashish. I got a couple of artistic photos of El Ángel Caído (The Fallen Angel) with a hole in the clouds above in the background.

Finally, I walked back to the Atocha roundabout where I´d bought lunch decades ago (March 16th) on the way to Seville. And home to the hostal.

After a few phone calls on the public phone outside, I went on a ramble looking for dinner, and found an open, self-service laundromat, and eventually a hot meal with an excellent red wine. Finally, back to the hostal to wait for Mr. P. Golding to arrive.
posted by Tom at 11:03 PM | link |