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Published: December 2nd 2017
Cesar Paternosto
This artist paints on the sides of the canvas.WT-fuckity-F?! CLOSE TO TWELVE HOURS OF SLEEP?! Whoa! So, it looks like jetlag got the last laugh after all. Nicely played, jetlag, if that
is your real name.
We awaken, stretch like kewpie dolls and peel our battered and fried bones off the floor level not-quite-a-Temperpedic-actually-better-then-a-Temperpedic mattress and celebrate the half-a-day. Coffee percolates in a Spanish percolator and we tame the ambitiously hot shower. Today there will be lunch and culture, hopefully not on the same plate.
Venturing out, we see to it we are properly bundled. The temps are crispy, but our walking distances are ideal; we will be getting warm just in time to need to. Since it’s already 2-ish (two demerits for anyone whose mind quipped, “Funny, you don’t look 2:ish”), we will breakfast/lunch before we hit our first museum.
A little about that. Here in Spain, or as the Spanish call it, “
Aqui,” lunch is the big meal of the day, so every day, close to 16:00, or as we call it, “
4:00PM,” pretty much the whole city heads into restaurants for lunch/dinner thing. A little about that… that. According to something we read, there is a restaurant for every 20 people in Madrid!
It may be true. We have seen an insane number of restaurants, many, ironically, seating about twenty, as we’ve walked the city for endless blocks. A little more about that… that… that. One great thing about visiting Europe is all the miles of walking. A plane ticket to Europe is an investment in great ass futures. Now THAT’S a travel slogan!
We find another place with vegan options. It isn’t that hard; they exist. And the service and food are still all Euro-cool! Lunch is too big and comes with dessert and wine or beer (Julie former, Steve the latter).
We enter the El Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza. Actually, it was the second museum we entered. The first was an accidental entry into the El Museo Tiffani Amber Thiessen, which boasts a beautifully displayed collection of intricately detailed dioramas in miniature depicting the perilous high school scenarios from which she was saved by a bell. El Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza was, frankly unknown to us because we are, apparently, Cro-Magnon. This place has work from EEEEEEverybody! Seriously, name a master and there is a sampling here. Dutch, impressionism, surrealism (located in the
Tiger Mud Cellophane Crutch Wart wing) and even
pop. Van Gogh, Rembrandt (and lots of Dutch dudes who are even better than him), Picasso, Lichtenstein; crazy.
Find of the day was Richard Estes who did New York scenes with lots of reflective surfaces that mirror the city around them. Awesome. We decided the place had to be missing someone. It occurred to us that we hadn't see any Seurat hanging amongst his peers and using the museum’s database checked it out. NO Seurat, thank you. What a dump. We get thrown out. Okay, the place closes at 7:00PM and it happens to be 7:00PM, but the manhandling was unnecessary. Note to selves; learn how to say, “Unhand me you neatly mustachioed brute,” in Spanish.
We swing back to the apartment to re-group for a bit, then hunger returns and now it’s late enough for the tapas crawl to begin. The webs of narrow alleys lined with busy, quaint tapas joints surround the Plaza Del Sol, which is essentially Madrid’s Times Square or Piccadilly Circus. One thing we’re noticing is that the Spanish somehow haven’t developed that knack for sidewalk collision avoidance all the other big, crowded cities have. We try going for a block without performing
some kind of upright-shoulder-limbo avoidance moves and collide with about five arms a piece! We can’t speak to their driving ability, but the Spanish are kind of shitty pedestrians.
We decide on a paella joint for dinner instead of tapas – mistake number one. The place is neighborhoody and the service is delightful, but the paella leaves much to be desired… like better paella for instance. We ask the waiter why the dish lacks socorrat; the crunchy overcooked rice that makes Paella
especial. The waiter has never heard of it and laughs, oh, how he laughs, “if we give this thing to our customers, they will be very sad,” he says. Apparently, the best part of paella is regional and this ain’t the region. So, we will state unequivocally that if the paella of Madrid once had “fuck” in it, it would have it no more, for Julie’s paella would have beaten said fuck, out of it. The local tap beer is San Miguel, an inoffensive light ale with a foamy little head, that Steve is getting used to fast.
The meander home is, again, chilly, but hardly painful, and plenty pretty. The real treat of the European
Gustave Moreau
The detail and colors on this piece were amazing. city hang is the city itself. And that wander home in the late evening, past the beautifully crafted, elegantly lit old buildings provides one with a glorious distance from all things “home.”
It’s 1:25 AM now, so maybe it’s time to pretend to sleep until the dream is real… Nicely played once again, jetlag…
LATE ADDITION: Sleep slapped us around with its tiny paws like a kitten persuing a tin foil ball until around 4:00AM when Ambien was called in to take its toy away. DAMN YOU JETLAG!
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Carol
non-member comment
Paella
So agree with you regarding paella. Even at its very origins, Valencia, it sucked the root. More like it sucked a salt lick. Hated it. Agree that Julie makes better! In fact had better in Sarasota a couple weeks ago. Interesting museum choice. Haven't been there but heard of it. Try looking away from pedestrians like you are enthralled with the architecture or anything but navigation and see if that helps. It has worked for us. Suenen con los angelitos amigos mios! xo