Jesus and the Germans, and enjoying crapas in Madrid

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www.theredquest.com

Culture

Despite visiting over one hundred countries, I'd never been to mainland Spain. I'd toyed with the idea before, of course, thinking of Barcelona or maybe Grenada, but with so many other places vying for my attention, Spain was a neglected outpost of Western Europe for me.

My only other flirtation with Spain had been, like thousands of other young Brits, the Canary Islands. In the mid-90s, jetting off to Tenerife had seemed so exotic, especially armed with a wallet full of pesetas, and a jug load of suntan cream. Back then, riding on a banana boats before hitting the bars of Playas de las American had seemed the height of sophistication; the epitome of carefree fun. But now that was all in the past. No longer did I crave the full-English breakfast while reading an expensively imported British tabloid, and nor did I relish the prospect of seeing the Union Jack flying on a beach full of pot-bellied lobsters. No, now I craved culture, and therefore chose Madrid as a city break for my wife and me.

Confusing Underground

Even though we had negotiated the underground systems of cities such as Tokyo, New York, Rome and even Taipei with ease, for some reason the Madrid metro became a place of confusion and misery. The first issue was getting through the turnstiles with our luggage. Angela's suitcase handle ended up caught on the metal barrier, and while I considered this from my own turnstile (which I successfully got through) I realised my suitcase was still on the other side. What the rush-hour commuter traffic thought of us blocking two out of the three lanes could only be guessed at. In the end, a man in a blue uniform let us through a special side barrier, and we eventually made our way down to the platform. We boarded the wrong train.

"Bloody hell," I said through gritted teeth as we sped through the blackness. "How did we get on the wrong train?"

Angela shook her head, clearly as annoyed as me.

Jesus and the Germans

When we eventually trudged through the hotel entrance an hour later, Jesus and the Germans confronted us. The trio of elderly Germans had gathered around Jesus to hear what he had to say. We listened too.

"Your room is on the third floor," harked Jesus, standing behind the desk. "And the lift is over there."

The Germans seemed to consider this. Finally one of them spoke, a bald individual with a pair of leathery lips. "Thank you for explaining zis to us, but vee have many more questions."

Jesus looked pained but managed a thin smile. He evidently had the patience of a Saint. The questions were all mundane but they came thick and fast. "Vill there be toast in the breakfast buffet? Will wee be able to check out late? How many plug sockets vill the room have? Are we able to wear lederhosen for evening dining?"

I huffed and puffed as they asked their silly questions. Eventually though, Jesus beckoned us towards him. We went, humbled by his presence and his gift of a key card. "Sorry for the wait," he said. "But that is the Germans for you."

Seeing the sights

The next day we set off to see what the city ad to offer. Madrid was full to the brim with large and beautiful buildings. Everywhere we looked was an architectural sight to marvel at. Some buildings had horses and chariots on the top, others had golden orbs, and almost all had statues somewhere.

The city was a cosmopolitan one, with a healthy mix of olive-skinned Spaniards, white-faced Europeans and a large contingent of people from the Far East. Men in suits, teenagers in crop tops, students with iPods and tall black men selling fake handbags and sunglasses filled the busy streets of downtown Madrid. After a walk through Plaza Sol, a large square surrounded by arterial shopping streets, and street performers, Angela decided to stop and look at some of the fake handbags.

The tall man in charge of the impromptu stall gazed around the streets with a practised eye. Madrid had a heavy police presence, and the man knew if they caught him, they would move him on, and possibly confiscate his goods too. Other black men were wandering around with large white bags slung over their shoulders. Whenever they found a suitable spot, they would lay the contents down for a quick-fire selling opportunity.

Angela pointed to a brown Prada bag. The man picked it up and handed it to her, keenly eying everything around him. His height helped with this; he was like a sentinel surveying the land for barbarians. While Angela inspected the bag, the man explained how good it was, and showed how the strap could be adjusted, never once taking his eyes off the street.

"How much?" Angela asked.

"Thirty-five euro," the man said, looking over his shoulder.

Angela shook her head and handed the bag back.

"How much you pay?"

Angela looked at me. I shrugged. "Twenty," I said.

"Twenty-five," the man countered, standing on tiptoe to see over the crowd of head ambling along the street.

Angela nodded and handed him the money. The man passed the bag over and we went on our merry way. The whole transaction had taken less than one minute.

Plaza Mayor

Madrid's most famous square, Plaza Mayor, was close by. Like Plaza Sol, it was home to a number of street performers, including one man dressed like a matador, and another whose speciality was blowing giant bubbles. But the most striking entertainer was a fat man dressed in a Spiderman costume. His belly had been crammed inside the blue and red Lycra suit, and he looked ridiculous, obviously the effect he was aiming for. A young woman approached him and after the pair had conferred for a moment, they both walked to the edge of the large square. While the woman stood with the camera, Spiderman pretended to do battle with the woman's boyfriend, freezing mid-punch, and then posing for another with the poor man in a headlock. After collecting a few euros the overweight superhero wandered back to his box in the middle of the square.

We found a seat on one of the overpriced cafes around the edge of the square. Men selling sunglasses, women selling stringy trinkets, and penniless beggars approached our table. We waved all of them away. Across from us, the pretend bullfighter was flinging his cloth with gusto, but our eyes were drawn to another man. He looked like a homeless person - all scraggly beard and unkempt clothes, but instead of bothering people in the cafes, he stood some distance away and produced a tiny flute from his pocket. The tune he played was something from Star Wars, and he played the same refrain repeatedly. People walked past him without giving him anything, but I went over to the man and handed him a two-euro coin.

Crapas

That evening Angela persuaded me to go for a tapas meal. We found a quaint little restaurant along from Plaza Major, and perused the menu. When the waitress appeared, we ordered three dishes called Spanish stew, tomato toast and forest sausage. The first thing to arrive was a plate full of thinly sliced pork. It was covered in a layer of oil.

"What's this?" I asked, as I regarded the greasy mess.

Angela grimaced. "I'm not sure."

I tentatively picked up one slither of meat and watched as the oil dripped off. Never a fan of oil (at home I mopped up bacon with kitchen roll before setting it inside bread) I flopped it back down on the plate. It quickly became submerged in a layer of oil.

The next plate arrived a minute later. It was a ceramic bowl full of red oil. Swimming inside the bowl were a few slices of sausage.

"Oh my God," I announced. "This isn't tapas, it's...crapas."

The third plate arrived and was a piece of toast with the thinnest layer of tomato sauce gracing its surface. Oil had been drizzled over the orange coating, which made the toast glisten.

We both stared at our tapas meal. Angela spoke first. "We have to eat some of it. Pass me the napkins and I'll mop some of it up. If I dry the pork, you can put some in the bread."

I nodded uncertainly. The bread was the only thing edible of the table, and I wondered where the nearest McDonald's was. And where was the Spanish stew? Surely the greasy pork was not it. In the end, I managed to eat some tiny fragments of pork, and even took in a few bits of sausage, but only after I'd used four napkins to dry them out. When the waitress came to give us our bill, she asked whether everything had been okay. Like millions of other Brits, we nodded and said it had been fine. We left the restaurant still ravenous. Ten minutes later, we were gorging inside an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant around the corner.

More sightseeing

The next day we visited all the usual tourist hotspots. The Royal Palace was bigger than we expected, but we arrived too late to see the changing of the guards. We passed by pretty squares and even prettier buildings. We even had a walk past the oldest restaurant in the world. Botin Restaurant first opened its wooden doors in 1725. Apparently, painter Francisco de Goya had once worked there as a waiter. It looked closed when we walked past. Perhaps the grandest building we saw was the spectacular Palacio de Cibeles, once a simple post office headquarters but now City Hall. It was a huge white edifice, full of towering spires, arched windows, and a large fountain in front.

Behind the palace was the expansive Buen Retiro Park. The Spanish monarchy had used the park as their own private retreat until the late 19th century. It was full of people strolling arm in arm. Because of the passing trade, more black men had set up stalls along the lake. "This is nice," commented Angela as we walked around the park. Even the troops of boisterous schoolchildren couldn't spoil the ambience of the green areas around us. "A good way to finish our tour of the city."

And it was. Madrid might not get the tourists that Barcelona or Paris did, but it was still worthy of a visit.

If you've enjoyed reading this, then perhaps you will be interested in my travel books.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Red-Quest-Travels-Republics-ebook/dp/B00B2LKKRE/ref=sr_1_7?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1358540575&sr=1-7

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