We have finally departed the great continents of the Americas and landed with two feet firmly in Europe. After being overly cautious for 3 months about losing our stuff we were looking forward to relaxing a little, kicking back and soaking up some European sun and culture. After all, mainland Europe is a place we rarely get to see, as time at home is strictly reserved for family and friends. Turns out the warm and safe embrace of Madrid wasn't quite what we expected.
We flew over the pond with Swiss Air, an airline we have never flown with before but one I now wholeheartedly recommend. Nothing obvious made them brilliant, more their understated attitude and calm demeanour. 'Would you like an extra croissant?' Sure. 'And here's a spare pillow for you'. At one point Ais asked for another glass of wine, to which the air hostess responded, 'I'm sorry, we've run out of white, but here's two glasses of champagne - it's the good stuff'. Now, that is an airline after my own heart. Unlike Qantas, who on our way to Mexico told us to reign it in and drink water after three glasses of red. Really?!?
Anyway, back to Madrid. We found our way to our hostel, laid down our bags and went to check out the local scenery. All very beautiful as you can see.
Plaza de Armas, Madrid style
Boating at sunset
Big glass house
Rather fancy hotel (where we weren't staying)
After a well-deserved lie-in we planned a relaxing day strolling through the streets before visiting the Museo del Prado, Madrid's largest art gallery showcasing classical artists such as Caravaggio, Botticelli and Holbein along with a host of others I've promptly forgotten. As we stood outside the front of our hostel working out a route a guy approached us, flip-flops in hand and asking for water. He pointed towards Ais's water bottle and a split-second later was legging it down the street with her phone in his dirty paws. It all happened in a flash, but Ais was not to be deterred. Before I knew what was happening she'd hot-tailed after him shouting THIEF. They disappeared round a corner, while I looked on stupidly open-mouthed holding on to the rest of our valuables. I raced back inside to inform our hosts who of course could do nothing and got the address for the local cop shop. Ais was nowhere to be seen and my mind started to race - had she wrestled him to the ground, punched him in the junk and retrieved her phone? Was she lost or lying in a pool of blood somewhere after being attacked? I started to grow increasingly fearful - I had no idea where she was and I couldn't exactly phone her. Ten minutes later however, she returned triumphantly with her phone in her hand and an exhausted look on her face. The thief had not escaped. Two men, on hearing her plight, gave chase and pinned señor mugger to the floor and retrieved the phone. Minutes later police were on the scene (know what I mean?) and the guy was sat miserably handcuffed on the floor. When we returned to the scene of the crime, we were told we had to head 'downtown' to make a statement. What we (or I) didn't expect was to have to sit next to the guy in the police car with nothing but a small divide between me and Mr criminal and strict instructions 'not to look him in the eye'! Apparently this is perfectly normal. Normal?
To my relief two hours later we were released and on our way. Unfortunately so was our new friend, as they don't hold people in custody for such minor offences, so we spent the rest of the day watching our backs and our belongings in case he wanted to enact sweet revenge. The morals of the story? Just because you're in Europe it doesn't mean you're any less likely to be mugged. The second moral is, don't mess with the Irish!
We finally made it to Museo del Prado, although I'm ashamed to admit I can't really remember what we saw apart from Carravaggio's David and Goliath and Velaquez's Las Meninas, along with 1000 of paintings of Jesus in various poses. Christ, did he get around...
After this rather stressful day for poor Ais it was time for a well-deserved cervesa or three. We finished off the evening at Madrid's most famous churros bar. Deliciously warm doughnut sticks served with thick hot chocolate that wasn't too dissimilar to the texture of San Pedro, but tasted a hell of a lot nicer. We began to meander back to our hostel when we heard a tremendous commotion coming from the next street. As we turned the corner we were greeted by the biggest street party we have ever seen. At least 100,000 people were lining the road dancing, drinking, chatting, peeing, kissing or hurling. Huge bars were set up in the middle of each street selling pints of vodka and gin. Sound systems vied for audio space as music came at you from all directions. Portaloos overflowed with the excesses of party. And we had just walked right into the middle of it all. Without a clue as to the reason for this massive celebration that seemed to have every citizen of Madrid beside themselves with drunken splendour (turns out the next day was a public holiday, which means the people of Madrid get off chops the night before in celebration. Makes perfect sense!), we entered the foray and settled ourselves in for the night. To say the rest of the evening was a blur would be a huge understatement, although we vaguely remember following the masses home, walking round and round in circles, aimlessly looking for our hostel. We eventually stumbled into bed at about 6 am.
And boy did we feel bad the next day. I'm guessing the vodka is not of top-notch quality when it's sold by the pint. I woke up wearing a hat, which I have no memory of procuring and a thumping head that was not dissimilar to someone drilling a jackhammer through my left ear, out the other side and into the ground below. Ais was fairing no better and I'm ashamed to say we didn't emerge from our cage until 5 pm in the afternoon (the only consolation being that Spanish cities don't really get going until the evening anyway, so actually we were just doing what the locals do). We planned to visit Madrid's MOMA, which was free after 7 pm. Perfect timing. As we departed our hostel, Madrid pulled out its next treat for us. We walked up the road and were greeted by a man coming towards us. We instantly knew something wasn't right, but our eyes and our brains were clearly off the eight ball and it took us some time to realise that señor chappy was playing with his chappy as he approached us. The trousers were open, the flies were down and he was merrily banging one out to the beat of his drum, while gesturing wildly to all and sundry, who happened to be a very hungover Lucy and Ais. WTF! After he'd walked past I think it took Ais and I a full 30 seconds of dumbfounded silence before one of us gingerly said, 'did you just see the same thing as me?', for fear that one of us was hallucinating. Now, my understanding of flashers is that they stand in dark corners wearing big overcoats, which they open up to unsuspecting passers by. Not walking down the street in broad daylight juggling their balls and inviting people to join in. In hindsight our 'cock and ball' experience was mightily funny, and has ensured the memories of Madrid will be firmly planted in my brain forever. I can't unsee what these eyes have seen!
MOMA was great of course. We have now seen more Picassos than I can shake a stick at and Guernica was particularly impressive. But sadly, instead, my lasting impression of our time in Madrid will be of a thief and a joker who couldn't keep their hands to themselves.
Next stop Granada. Surely the walls of the Alhambra won't harbour such degenerates!?!
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