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Published: November 7th 2015
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Ah, the flamenco! The rhythm, the passion, the music!! The driving beat of the castanets, the wailing essence of the gypsy soul!
How can I begin to describe it to you? What mere words can hope to convey the excitement, the sheer throbbing drama of it all?
Beats the hell out of me.
Especially since we didn't actually, in any sort of, you know, literal (and geographic) sense actually, um, make it to the show. Or even close to the show.
All because SOMEBODY left the apartment patting the pocket of his jacket and saying,"oh, I forgot the map. Well, I don't really need it. I know where this place is."
Part of that was true. I had forgotten the map. And I almost knew where the place was. See, it's about 600 metres roughly due south of us. Call it six blocks. Critically - stay with me on this one- it is to the southwest of Madrid's major plaza, the Plaza Mayor (and now're learning Spanish, too!). It is NOT to the southeast of the Plaza Mayor.
I discovered this about 8 last night. The fact that the show had started at 7:30 was
Presenting flowers at the shrine, cathedral square
November 9 is the fetal day of the Virgin of Almudena, one of Madrid's patron saints. This temporary shrine is set up outside the cathedral and thousands bring floral offerings. a touch problematic at this point.
We had been walking for an hour. And, no matter, what Susan might tell you we were NOT walking around in circles. Oh, sure, we had been on same of the same streets 45 minutes before but we had long since passed into new and uncharted territory. Hence, NOT circles. Don't take my word for it. One clue was when Susan mentioned that the stores we were passing were very interesting and she had never seen any of the stuff in them before.
You know that I could forget which square was which but for Susan to forget what antiques she had seen in which window.
Forget it. Not happening. That girl knows her merchandise like no one's business. Who else do you know who can look in The window of an overpriced vintage handbag shop in Paris and tell you how much lower the Canadian market prices are for the same goods?
Right. So now it was time to give up on the masculine fantasy that I could find where we were going. I was not quite ready to surrender the idea that I still knew my way around
well enough to get us home. Nope, not me, I'm still in control of the situation.
Well, I was. I thought.
Let's go down here, I said. I'm sure the way to the palace is just down here. Susan humoured me and off we went thataway.
And I was right. The way to the palace was just over there!
As long as you weren't fussy about finding the shortest way to the palace, that is. It was indeed A way to the palace. Kind of like going from Paris to Rome by way of Calcutta. When we found ourselves on a kind of concrete shelf gazing out over a steep valley full of traffic, I decided that the best thing to do was to find a cab stand and let somebody else figure it out.
It was a brilliant idea that Susan had suggested a half hour before. Hey, I had stopped twice and asked for directions. It's not my fault nobody east of the Plaza Mayor had ever heard of anything west of the Plaza Mayor. Those people should carry maps. Honestly. One was a cop, too!
One thing we could see from our concrete eyrie was a hotel in the near distance. Hotels often mean cab stands. Cab stands mean drivers with GPS. Which means . . . You see where I am am going with this? he said without any irony at all.
Sure enough, we found a cab at a stand, driver quite happy to take us on board.
(By the way, a good word about Madrid's cabbies. The guys in the official cabs are excellent. I say this sincerely and without reservation. Get in at a cab stand and the metre goes on and they take you by as direct a route as can be managed. The fares are reasonable and the cabs are clean. The airport route is a flat rate and they mean it.)
He got us where we wanted to go: within a three minute walk Tapas del Rey, our other favourite restaurant close to home. There Raphael, the English speaking waiter, pulled up the location of the nightclub we had been trying to get to on the computer.
Do you still want to go, he asked. Or can I get you a glass of wine?
No, I said firmly, taking control for the last time in the evening. Bring us a bottle!
The dinner that followed was excellent and Raphael insisted on pouring us each a second glass of the dessert wine that we had for, um, dessert. Susan didn't drink hers. I made sure it did not go to waste.
And today? Sunny and 23 degrees. Cava (Spanish term for their champagne) at a cafe overlooking the Plaza de Oriente and the palace, followed by strolling in the park, souvenir shopping, lunch at La Mi Vida,more park strolling and the home to prepare for our last dinner at El Mollete.
A hard life. But it is much better when I know where I am!
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