As regular followers will know, my mum and I have recently returned from our annual cocktail-guzzling, shop-till-you drop, leave-the-men-behind break in Spain. I normally look forward to these annual mother and daughter jaunts to the Iberian peninsula, but this year was different. Why? Our destination was Madrid – a city with which I share a bad history.
My previous trips to the Spanish capital have coincided with strikes, flight cancellations, torrential downpours, bouts of food poisoning and a Spanish royal wedding (meaning most of the sights were closed for security sweeps). As a result, I’ve tended to falsely think of Madrid as an austere, grey-tinged city. I was determined that this time would be different.
Things didn’t get off to a good start: within an hour of landing on Spanish soil, somewhere between Barajas airport and our hotel, my mum lost her passport. After retracing our steps (and even searching bins – not a pleasant experience), we resigned ourselves to spending our first day filling in police reports and going to the British Embassy for a replacement – rather than wandering the narrow streets in the old town and stopping for a cerveza or two as we’d planned.
After breakfast the next morning, we duly headed off on the metro, my mum trying all the while to make light of the situation while I sat on the train sulking (I admit) like a grumpy teenager. My glum mood continued as we queued for the security screening at the Torre Espacio (‘Space Tower’) where the embassy is located – about the same time that my mum decided (in hindsight quite fairly) to stop talking to me.
But then things began to brighten up: passing through the x-ray gates and stepping out of the lift on the 35th floor, we were greeted by sweeping views of the city and the Sierra de Guadarrama beyond. While my mum went through the necessary formalities, I sat by the glass wall of windows, gazing at the bands of shadow and sun rolling across the dark green hills in the distance while suited-and-booted workers scurried around in the streets far below (I don’t suggest you lose your passport in order to get a chance to see this fantastic vista, but if you do happen to then never fear – you’re in for a treat).
It was at that point that I decided to grow up, apologise to my poor mum and get on with the business of enjoying our holiday. The next few days passed in an increasingly happy blur of shopping, museums, food and wine (more on the latter to follow in a separate post), with a big dollop of good luck. We unexpectedly came across the Museo del Traje (Costume Museum), which charts the history of Spain through fashion, from the flamboyant frippery of the French-influenced Bourbon years to the austerity of the civil war period. We also happened upon a fascinating – though at times rather haunting – open-air photography exhibition amid the colourful plants of the botanic gardens, made up of pictures of 100 key moments in 20th-century Spain.
And, unlike my past trips, the sun shone throughout. We enjoyed slow ambles under solid blue skies through the vast Retiro park, dined al fresco on lantern-lit patios and sunned our faces over coffee on the Plaza Mayor, laughing as a busker dressed as a chubby version of Spiderman tried to entice passers-by to pay for photos with him. The evenings were particularly enjoyable, filled with balmy strolls through the happy throngs on the Gran Via, with Madrid’s monumental baroque architecture lit up against the dark sky around us.
As we sat on the Plaza del Oriente on our last day, slowly sipping on glasses of wine while watching tourists swarm around the grounds of the nearby Palacio Real, I decided to forgive Madrid. It turns out I actually quite like. Perhaps I’ll even brave a fourth visit one day…
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- The Costume Museum
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- Madrid at dusk
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- Plaze de Cibeles
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- The Retiro Park
