Floods, frocks and final thoughts April 19, 2008

Well, the trip has ended and we’ve made it safely home (albeit a good hour and a half later than scheduled thanks to the Spanish aversion to a bit of a drizzle). Although, in many ways, the “holiday” ended for me on Thursday when I received a phone call claiming that our flat was flooded and leaking into the one below. Curiously, this supposed defect in our plumbing system came into being at exactly the time when persons appointed by our factor to carry out plumbing work were operating elsewhere in the building. How very coincidental. To cut a long story short or, more pertinently, to avoid litigious or “un-neighbourly” content, I will hold back on the rant that has been aired more than once since Thursday (for those who know me, I will of course be happy to replicate it verbally with full venom at any time in the near or distant future so, please, just ask).

Anyhoo, suffice to say that there was hee haw wrong with our flat and, at this stage, all indications point to problems concerning people who were not on holiday last week. Although it was a relief to come home to an un-flooded abode, I am still seething that my holiday was infringed upon by the threat of the Police breaking in to gain access and thoughts of soggy floorboards. My only comfort is that we didn’t shell out on earlier flights home, as being out of pocket would certainly have exacerbated my anger.

Faced with this gloomy intelligence, our only recourse was to hit the booze but not before sampling some ice-cream at the place recommended in our far from omniscient guide. I say “sampling” rather than terms usually applied to ice-cream, such as “gorging on” or “devouring”, since, at almost €3 a SCOOP (i.e. about the same price as a litre tub of Asda’s Extra Special stuff, now that it’s been rolled-back), neither of these adjectival expressions were a possibility. I accept that my mood may have been a factor in my appraisal but there’s no getting away from the fact that brownie isn’t just chocolate sponge and that, at €3 a scoop, that scoop should not contain actual ice chunks. Mercifully, as John has already noted, the alcohol did not (or “didnae” in our speak Ande!) disappoint!

Our last (partial) day was spent hung-over and, somewhat fruitlessly, souvenir shopping in the rain, which had been frequently descending since news of our neighbour’s downpours reached us. Defeated in our quest for a decent Dalí print (sorry Dad!), we headed back to the hotel to get our gear and make for the airport. On the way, we found an excellent bakery across from Sol metro station and bought some delicious bocadillos and empanadas, wrapped in fancy paper and tied with string. These were a blessing and fuelled our protracted wait for departure. I also got a chocolate truffle the size of a tangerine, which didn’t make it anywhere near the airport!

So, after a day of rest and secure in the knowledge of arid floorboards, I suppose it’s time to reflect on the Madrid experience. For people who have not experienced mainland or inland Spain, Madrid and its apparent lack of Rover’s Returns may come as a pleasant surprise. However, it seems to us that all the selling points for Madrid - the staying up late, going to a bar for a caña of beer and tapas and the warm friendly atmosphere - are not unique to Madrid. What sets Madrid apart is that it’s bigger, busier and a good deal pricier than elsewhere in Spain. What’s maybe a bit disappointing, particularly for a capital city, is that it lacks distinction; there’s no Edinburgh Castle, Big Ben, Tour Eiffel or even (whisper it) Sagrada Familia to distinguish it. The charm is in how Spanish it is but there are places that out-Spanish it. We’ve been conscious that our opinions might come across as anti-Madrileño but we actually did quite like it and enjoyed our time there despite the absence of wow-factor.

And, yes Lynne, I did manage to fit in a bit of retail therapy - funny how your navigational know-how improves when there’s a dress a stake! In between the icey ice-cream and the fine wine, we found our way back to the dress shop and performed the seemingly arduous task of finding a normal-sized specimen among all the anorexia endorsing garments. Embarrassingly, the same emporium where I purchased my Mama Cass-esque smock is also to some extent responsible for flooding Madrid with canary yellow denim, a most startling sight to behold!

Ouch April 18, 2008

Michty me, whit a day yesterday was. After leaving the flat to go and do some shopping, we were no sooner done poking our noses around El Corte Inglés, than we got a phone call telling us about some disaster that’s befallen our block of flats (dealt with, thankfully, and no longer a problem). We’re not the kind of people who like crap things to happen, and it took us till about four o’clock to deal with said situation. We were in the mood to get slaughtered.

Guess what!

We decided to go back to Casa Lucas for dinner, where we’d been on Tuesday. After such a shitty day, we were in no mood for pissing about, so we went where we knew was good, and we weren’t disappointed. We started by sharing a ración of croquetas - potato croquettes with some jamón rolled in breadcrumbs and fried - and then shared a tuna tataki (we think this means raw tuna with seared edges) on a bed of apple puree. Outstanding, and just what was required. This was all washed down with a couple of glasses of very good red wine. The first of several.

We moved onto another place and witnessed something that must be a growing phenomenon in Europe, and something that sociologists haven’t yet named. We went into said place, and it was full of 30 and 40-something Spanish men having a glass of wine, or a beer. Unfortunately, the bundesbus must have showed up round the corner, and in the blink of an eye, the place was full of our Prussian cousins. In the same blink, it seems, every native of Madrid had left, and the only non-German speakers left in the pub were Gill, me and the bar staff. Incredible. The only plausible names for this phenomenon I could come up with were ‘blitzkrieg’ or ‘doing a Guernica’, but since neither of those are very PC, I won’t say either.

So the night continued, a glass of wine here, a cup of Basque cider there. A decision was made that we should go into the Canarian place we were in, to try the white wine, that the wummin said was brilliant. It really was. We had a couple of glasses of that, and a honey rum for the road. We were ready to go home, I think, and we were both müllered (much like the pub above - hehe!)… but something interesting caught our eye.

Parenthesis: Lonely Planet books, or any sort of guidebook for that matter, are a curse. The second one of them recommends something as ‘authentic’, ‘real’, ‘earthy’ or even vaguely good, it is automatically no longer any of these things. How can anything be authentic, when, by the very nature of appearing in such a book, it is guaranteed to be full of guiris at every turn? We think this is certainly the case with the flamenco bar we almost went to the night before, and doubtless a dozen other places we’ve been. Rule of thumb - if it’s in a guidebook, don’t bother with it. It’s for that reason that we’ve left most place names off of here, just in case anybody randomly finds this blog and makes us responsible for the ruination of somewhere that we’ve liked! (If you have randomly found us and really want to know, go ahead and contact us - we’ll try to remember!)

We passed a pub that still seemed to be a wee bit busy, and have a wee bit of action happening. We blundered in, got a glass of wine and went to the back to see what all the fuss was about. There was a wee man playing a guitar, and another wee man playing a fiddle, and they were making the most exciting, emocionante flamenco noise that I’ve heard. Really - it more than made up for what we missed the previous night. There was us, and maybe 10 other people in the place, all clapping and oléing along with the music - an incredible experience. Perhaps more incredible, the chap on the fiddle was called Ken and he was from Edinburgh. I drunkenly asked him to play Mairi’s Wedding, which he very graciously did, segueing into My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose - beautiful, though I’ve heard it sung better elsewhere. We had a wee blether with him before we left. A small world right enough.

My head’s bursting - more to follow.

The great flamenco misadventure. April 17, 2008

Cardamomo the book said. Real authentic flamenco, nae pish mind, just Spanish folk having some drinks and getting into the music. Sounded good, so we decided to form a holding pattern round about it until it opened and busied up a wee bit. We had dinner in pretty rowdy pub with a huge party of shitfaced Erasmus students at the back. We had potatoes in two sauces (one was tomate frito, the other, garlicky sour cream) and ‘grilled chicken’. In all honesty, we weren’t quite expecting ‘a grilled chicken’, just some. Portions were massive, and cheap as patatas fritas. Though it didn’t sell itself as a restuarant and we expected to just have a nibble, we were both quite pleasantly surprised.

After dinner we head down past Cardamomo again and saw that it was dead, having just opened. No way were two peely-wally tourists going to be the first in there! We’ll let the local aficionados in first, then we can worry about that. We went to a place on Prado St, where we had a lovely glass of wine and a squizz at the Spanish Cup final that was on the telly. Afterwards, we passed the flamenco place again, still dead, so our arms were twisted into continuing our crawl. We ended up in a crackin wee pub where we got another wine and feasted our eyes on the beautiful pintxos that were on the counter. Just having eaten, we didn’t bother with them, but it was a chore. Valencia had just gone 2-0 against local favourites Getafe. We both quite like the place, but unfortunately, the Spanish smoking ban isn’t quite as extensive as at home, and we found ourselves beset on all sides by the iniquities of people with cigarettes. Eyes nipping, we made a break for it.

We then made our final sweep of the flamenco gaffe. Horror of horrors - was there not a 30-strong party of bum-bag wearing guiris in brightly coloured clothing lining up outside. They were interrogated, then ushered inside by the baw-bag of a bouncer, while he went on to ask some others outside when they were free to come back - maybe next week? Unwilling to face the indignity of similar, having been through it too many times outside Hamilton Palace in my youth (Gill wants it noted that she never faced such at Hamilton Palace or elsewhere [except maybe this one time outside the Garage {but she just changed coats with her pal and went back later and it was fine «thank goodness for multiple brackets!»}]) Anyway, we digress. Rather than flamenco, the sound system of Cardamomo was polluting the street with naffer than naff South American Europop (if such a thing is possible). We took stock of the situation, and decided that Cardamomo could away and raffle.

So we decided to go back to the pub, heading over to La Latina like we did last night. It had been raining slightly, and we got the impression that the city that doesn’t sleep was in its bed - cafes had their tables pulled in before 11pm, and a lot of places were dead, shutting, or shut. We managed to fit in a couple of drinks in a couple of places, but I think we’d had enough. It’s a long day you know! We weren’t sure if it was a Wednesday thing, or if last night was a Tuesday thing, or whether the rain is to Madrid innkeepers what snow is to Scotrail trains, but it was a deeply puzzling experience.

Gill wants it known for the record, that she still has not got her dress. Could be a long wait!

More high culture April 16, 2008

After our extensive pub crawl in La Latina, we fully expected to wake up in a bit of a shambolic condition. Despite the efforts of our noisy neighbours of indiscernible nationality, however, we woke up feeling no bad and ready for another swatch at Madrid. Our new-found optimism compelled us to undertake another cultural visit, this time to the Centro de Arte de Reina Sofia.

Unlike the Prado, there was no queue outside the Reina Sofia and we were admitted with less of an airport routine (i.e. bags were still x-rayed but we were spared the trip through the metal detector, which had yesterday forced some highly accessorised fellow visitors to shed bucket loads of belts and bangles). There was less of an up-tight feel to the whole place, perhaps as a result of the absence of the fear-of-god artwork that dominates the Prado.

Rather, the Reina Sofia houses mainly 20th Century work by mainly Spanish artists, most notably Picasso and Dalí. In addition to the permanent collection, we were lucky enough to visit at a time when the Paris Picasso museum had loaned the Reina Sofia four halls’ worth of material. Some of this pretty much constituted early doodles that wouldn’t have got you through Standard Grade Art but, nonetheless, provided insight into the foundation and progression of Picasso’s style. Also interesting were his more conventional portraits, particularly those of Russian ballerina Olga, which demonstrate the core artistic competencies that allowed Picasso to go on and subvert the rules to such great effect. The stand-out attraction was, of course, Guernica.

The Picasso exhibition alone would have been worth the €6 and, for me, that was certainly the interesting bit. The Dalí stuff was all a bit too mental for my liking and difficult to get excited about when his finest work is displayed in the West End of Glasgow (take note Reina Sofia!). Many of the other artists on display seemed to be to cubism what Menswe@r were to Britpop (i.e. derivative also rans jumping on the coat tails of somebody else’s idea). Particularly guilty of this was Joan Miró, although John was less convinced of his chancer status!

All that art left us somewhat peckish but determined to avoid the tourist traps surrounding the gallery. A few blocks away we were enticed into the restaurant equivalent of a 1980s bachelor pad by a rather attractive menú del día. It was here that I was unceremoniously disavowed of the notion that it is impossible to fuck up soup! Expecting a cream of pumpkin variety, I was presented with a snotter-coloured liquid which tasted like mega salty fish stock. John fared better, having opted for a tuna salad. The main courses were a vast improvement; my roast pork and tatties were a welcome treat after the bogey gruel and John’s halibut gratin with prawns hit the spot. Not in the same league as the food we’d eaten the previous night but a fraction of the price so can’t complain.

In other news, constipation is no longer an issue.

The Real Madrid (hehe) April 16, 2008

It was with some trepidation that we glumly left the hotel looking for somewhere to eat. During the course of the day we had managed to visit most of the surrounding barrios and, as we noted, we were largely unimpressed. By process of elimination, we decided to head out to the west of the city centre towards La Latina in pursuit of some food.

We made our way over and decided to settle for Casa Lucas, as it had been recommended in our Lonely Planet book, and because the gang of Germans behind us had gone on somewhere else and we didn’t want to risk bumping into them. The whole atmosphere of this area was decidedly different. It was much more relaxed, we heard less English being spoken and much less English signage too. The streets were quite busy and full of madrileños out for a bite and a drink. It was much better already.

We liked Casa Lucas a lot. We went in and sat at the bar, and we were impressed with the good variety of wine available. A glass of Rioja and a swatch at the very adventurous menu later, Gill opted for pan-fried chicken in soy sauce on a bed of toast and caramelised onions, topped off with sweetcorn mousse. I had salt cod in an aubergine stew with a cheese topping. Both were absolutely delightful. We stayed and ate, then when we left, we passed Casa Lucio next door. It turns out that that’s the one the guide recommended and the place where we went wasn’t in there at all - a real victory for serendipity!

We were really taken by the area, so we decided to move on, and get wellied in the various establishments that lined the street. Imagine our delight to find that the tradition of tapas is alive and well in Madrid. We had a variety of wines and tapas in a host of places, most notably a bar specialising in food from Extremadura, a dustbowl in Spain’s southwest, where we got wine in tumblers and some excellent chorizo, and another place that specialised in food and drink from the Canary Islands. We’d never even heard of Canarian wine before, which is a shame, because it was absolutely excellent, if a bit pricey (€3.80 a pop!). The hostess in that place also gave us a Canarian honey rum on the house as well, which was delicious also.

By this point, Gill was absolutely canned, so we headed off to the Basque place across the road for a Pacharán before rolling up the road. That place was a bit of a shithole, truth be told, and the barmaid was a bit up-herself (or ‘a sour-faced bitch’, depending on how you want to phrase it). But the Pacharán was a nice end to the evening.

Gill spotted a nice dress shop on the way home, that somehow seems to have wormed its way into our itenerary for the next couple of days. Joy of joys. [At time of writing, the cafeteria in the hotel has just started playing a muzak version of 'How Great Thou Art' - Hemmingway never got inspiration like this!]

Like Morrissey once sang, this night has opened my eyes. I think we both got the point of Madrid last night. It’s a city of hidden beauty, and that beauty is not to be found in its buildings, or its institutions, but more in the pubs and restaurants. It’s a city that seems to love life. We like it here now.

Madrid Malaise April 16, 2008

This morning we got up and had breakfast in the hotel. It was quite good, though perhaps not an entirely Spanish experience. We were holding out for tostada de tomate much like our favourite, El Tren, in Granada offered. We’d also have liked Churros con chocolate - truly the breakfast of kings. Churros are like straight bits of doughnut, which are rather sneidy on their own - a bit like a Greggs Yum Yum without the icing. However, they are to be dipped in a thick, gloopy hot chocolate which transforms them from mediocrity to delicacy, in one fell swoop.

Anyway, none of that here, so we settled for a croissant and a custard pastry, with a cup of traditional muddy Spanish coffee and a glass of (boak) diluting orange.

The cultural quotient of our break was despatched at the earliest possible convience. Spying our window of opportunity, we hit the Prado museum before 11am, and before the queue had become unbearable. There were round-bottomed nymphs aplenty, though unfortunately, of the painted variety. (As I suggested writing that, Gill perceptably rolled her eyes - lucky it’s my laptop, eh?)

The Prado was quite something, and certainly worth the €6 entry fee. The whole history of European art was represented there, and probably worth more than a couple of hours of our time. In particular, we enjoyed El Bosco’s Garden of Earthly Desires and some of his other, darker work over the puritanical God-bothering that abounds in much of the displays. Also of some interest to us were the many artists who were creating replicas of several of the works on display in the exhibition rooms. They were all at different stages of the process, which was interesting for Philistines like us, who wondered where Rubens had started on some of his larger murals. (Or, as my beautiful companion summed it up ‘Tits or arse?’)

Some things less good about the Prado: for the lay visitor (ie, us) it was a bit overwhelming - after seeing so many beautiful things, we became inured to them (read: bored), and it would have been better perhaps to split the museum up into 3 hour long visits a day, which is not really possible when you’re only in a place three days. Not the Prado’s fault, admittedly, but let’s not let the facts get in the way of a good moan. Likewise, there were too many guiris in there, although for the record, it was never allowed to become prohibitively busy - take note Kelvingrove!

Back to the hotel for a Siesta, then for a walk around the Salamanca barrio. By this time, we were wondering what all the hype was about. Salamanca is like el Buchanan St in the sense that it’s where all the fancy shops are. That said, it was a bit pish, with none of the good bits and all of the wankers. We got out of there as soon as we could.

We were tired of Madrid. Disillusioned. All of the good things we read were not being bourne out by what we’ve found. We have been ripped off, or at best overcharged everywhere we’ve been so far. The hotel have been pissing us off with their broken lavvie and fucked hairdryer (both of which we managed to get repaired thankfully.) All this time, Gill’s constipation was worsening, and is still a pressing concern at time of writing.

At last! We’re in Madrid! April 15, 2008

Hi everybody!

You’ll be pleased to hear that we are now firmly ensconced in our hotel in bonny Madrid. The journey was a bit of a pain in the chookeroos. We got to the car park and left our car, but they good people at Edinburgh Airport’s Cheap-O-Park hadn’t any record of our reservation because we hadn’t made it until yesterday morning. I was a bit peeved about this, but they dealt with it quickly enough, and I was too pleased to be going on holiday to bother with getting my moaning head on.

Anyways, we got to the airport and had a couple of beers in the pub before heading over to the departure lounge. Our gate was changed at the last minute to accomodate a Saga Air trip to Cardiff, and we were herded off to another part of the airport for the last queue in Scotland. Those of you who know me will be aware that I love Spain. I really do. Absolutely everything about it. But I will say one thing (Gill’s heard me say this a dozen times): Spanish people are really the worst queuers in Europe. In their defence in this instance, they were being ordered around in English by some EasyJet nyaff, and had already been shunted from one gate to another. But generally, I don’t think it’s a concept that goes down well with our Iberian cousins. Eventually, in a moment of no-prisoner-taking, we got onto the plane, sat on it and flew to Madrid. Incidentally, we watched a couple of episodes of Dirty Sexy Money while we were onboard, and it is excellent. You really should watch it.

On the way to Edinburgh airport, I remarked to Gill (I didn’t just go ahead and say it) that travelling by air is like a modern equivalent of Dante’s Inferno and the Seven Circles of Hell. Bear with me here. Leaving the flat in sunny Glasgow was the first part, you lock the door and you have surrendered control of that. The second stage of that is leaving the car at the car park - with every step you lose a bit more control and deal with a little bit more beauraucracy. This continues through airport check-in, security, getting through the gate and finally, the ultimate loss of control - letting some guy (who might be drunk) balance you 30,000 feet in the air for 3 hours. The fun just starts there though, because once you land, you have to contend with getting your bag off of a carousel with 200 of Europe’s most impatient citizens around you, get through passport control, then find your hotel and get into it. Only once you have been through each and every one of those stages can you truly say that you are on holiday.

And thank goodness, we are now. It had taken us about 20 minutes to find the metro station at the airport, then a further forty or so to get to the city, encompassing a couple of changes as well. The Madrid metro was impressive, certainly very clean and spacious, though this did alter slightly once we were off the brand-spanking-new Airport Line and into the more central lines, but all of this augured well for the trip ahead. Once we got off at Sol, we had a furtive look in our Lonely Planet and a quick discussion before heading off in the right direction for our hotel. We managed to do this quite inconspicuously, because nobody really wants to be carrying a rucksack and a guidebook in an unknown city after midnight. Inconspicuously, I say, because nobody tried to jump us at least.

We were both impressed with how busy the place was, even after midnight on a Monday. Compare that with Glasgow, where the city centre’s normally pretty dead on Mondays, bar a few jakies, and maybe some waster students up the Garage. Bags down in the hotel, and off out for a bite to eat in a local bar (it having been some time since we last did so). We found a place that sold us a round sandwich, which they filled in two halves for us - Gill got jamón with a garlicky tomato sauce, and I plumped for the morcilla (el black puddin), which tasted remarkably (but not quite) like haggis. Yum!

Then, twas to bed. Unfortunately, we’ve bollocksed up slightly, and I don’t think we’re able to put pictures up while we’re here due to a missing piece of hardware, but we’ll endeavour to fix this. If not, we’ll put them on Flickr when we get back and those of you and such of you can have a swatch when we get home.

Further updates to come!