TRULY, DEEPLY . . . MADRIDLY

EXTRAORDINARY EXTREMADURA!

2013-02-25T05:13:00.003-08:00

I feel a little guilty, because my blog is really dedicated to Madrid and here I am about to prattle on about the wonders of the Extremadura. But let’s face it, nine times out of ten, one is going to have to come through Madrid to make one’s way into the rustic stony heartland of the Spanish anthropomorphic, historic, culinary, meteorological and archaeological soul. So let’s start with exiting Madrid for the journey by road to one of those places that has occupied a place in my ambitions-chest-of- drawers since, well, as long as I can recall.

Little will prepare you better for the experience of ancientness, vastness, rurality or the weight of open sky thatn a healthy juxtaposition of a sprawling urban behemoth (such as the national Spanish Capital) with the brutal beauty of what might legitimately be called the “Spanish steppes”. Exiting Madrid is relatively easy. The motorway west effectively starts at our doorstep at Moncloa, so, with few junctions, an early Friday start and a cargo of crunchy breads, jamon, manchego cheese and other delicious sundries we set off into the wild blue yonder.

The drive direct to the Extremaduran capital and UNESCO world heritage city, Caceres, takes just under three hours. We arrive just as night begins to fall and the old medieval city’s illumination, in bronze and ochre light, swells up against an ultramarine sky. The night air is a crisp two degrees - perfect for a brisk walk through the meandering lanes and alleys, skirted by monstrous towers, lit in sienna coloured rock, slate and granite, most (the visible at least) dating back to the eleventh century (although Caceres was founded by the Romans in 30BC). After a couple of hours, we have already marvelled at the imposing Plaza Mayor - flanked by two towers worthy of Babel, delighted in the silent abandonment of the city (no tourists, no crowds) and scouted around several ancient Cathedrals. We climbed to the top of a tower in the Templo de San Francisco Javier and mourned with the dawning realisation that Storks are not in fact Parisien - a mourning sweetly tempered at the spectacle of these giant avian creatures nesting on huge bale-of-hay size nests crowning almost every city pinnacle.

All this wonderment required the soothing pat of a local Extremaduran vignoble on the oesophagus, the heart, the mind and the belly.

Just off the Plaza Mayor, away from where one might imagine crowds would gather, if there were any, we step inside a local taverna, where the barman, suitably coiffed and attired, as though he stepped out of a 40’s Cagney movie to polish glasses, approaches us with a broad welcoming smile. The local brew is recommended to accompany a selection of tapas, including Pig’s cheek, warm soft cheeses and local hams. La Taperia oozes authentic charm. Locals enjoy a caña and animated chat beside us. The warm oak bar and soft lighting add to the cozy warmth as we watch out a plate window at huddled pedestrians passing in the frosty night air. The sleepy meditative mood is broken for a few moments by a passing brass band, practising for the approaching Semana Santa. They march out of the stone walls and back into the darkness like a train passing through a twilight zone. Then a voice - Otro vino, Señor? Por supesto.

Caceres is an ideal city to base oneself for a tour of the central Extremadura region and from which to travel to the unmissable cities (towns) of Merida and Trujillo, where the delight and spectacle experienced in Caceres will be amplified again and again.

What little of Roman heritage is left visible to the naked eye in Caceres is compensated beyond imagining in Merida some 75 kms south. In fact, there is little elsewhere of ancient Rome to compare with the most incredible of legacies left by that mighty empire in the city named after the rewarded (deserving) soldiers of Emperor Augustus in 25 BC. The former capital of Lusitania is the site of some of the best preserved monumental constructions of ancient Rome including the theatre, which remains in use to this day. But perhaps that which is most stunning of all, though least visually dramatic, is a small stone plaque, which sits in relative isolation in the gardens of the Columbarium Funerario on the edge of the town. Dating from the 1st century, it celebrates the life of a beloved husband who died aged 38. Its final carved testimony is an evocative prayer, which speaks to the humanity of those people from so many thousands years past - it reads “Sit Tibi Terra Levis” (“May the soil be light upon you”). How little we have changed!

Trujillo, lying to the north west of Caceres, can be reached by a stunning circuit drive through the vast open plains of the region dotted here and there with olive groves and local evergreen oak. Characteristic whitewashed pueblos are scattered sparsely through the countryside, often only identifiable thanks to the local church bell tower. Here neighbourliness requires a forty minute walk. Trujilllo stands in marked contrast to the landscape to its west and south. Sitting on a highpoint at the start of a long gradual ascent into the Cordilera del Centro, the city is the birthplace of one of Spain's most notorious conquistadores - Francisco Pizzaro. Typical of many cities in the region, Trujillo was once a Muslim fortification, but its reversal to Spanish Christian control saw much of the pre-existing architecture absorbed into new buildings, especially those of the grand mansions of the “heroes” (such as Pizzarro and Orellana) returning from the new world with enormous wealth and bounty.

Today, Trujillo remains a compacted town nestled on the top of a rock promontory dominated by, amongst other spectacular sites, the Alcazaba, the time defying Plaza Mayor and numerous monumental churches and mansions of the era of the Spanish empire. The views alone from the north side of the Alcazaba makes this an essential stopping point on any Extremaduran trail.

Back in Caceres for dinner, we opted for a guide book recommendation - El Figon de Eustaquio - which was the right choice. An explosion of garlic infused dishes did not manage to over-power truly sumptious cuts of fine local beef and blood red local Iberian black pork ham all washed down with a well recommended local Coseche. Three of us ate and drank like medieval kings for €100 - a steal and an excellent replenishment in preparation for a protein stealing tour the next day.

In the Parque Nacional de Montfrague, the abundance of natural wild flowers, plants and trees and spectacular displays of elegant birds of prey is something that many might think is only accessible in the great wildernesses of America, Russia or China. Not so. Montfraque has for a number of years now been operating a successful bird protection and reintroduction programme, which means that trekkers and sightseers can enjoy a host of falcons, eagles, owls and other raptors gracing the skies over dramatic landscapes - at times reminiscent of Yosemite Park in California or the Perigord in Southern France. We arrive on a sunny Sunday afternoon and the park is virtually empty.

A short one hour trek fills our lungs with delicious arctic cold air as we climb to the old Arabic castle fort at 800m overlooking the vastness of the park and the meanderings of the majestic river Tagus, which will eventually make its way to Lisbon and the wide Atlantic Ocean. The park has an excellent network of long and short treks of varying difficulties. At the northern exit point, some 20 kms from the Montfraque ravine, there is the Placensia encampment, which is an idyllic stone village with cabins to rent and excellent facilities for those seeking a several day trekking experience.

For the drive back to Madrid, we opted to take the scenic route via the Valle del Jerte to Tornavacas and on to Avila. At its highest point, the route spirals up to 1300m over the valley offering truly stunning views from the snow capped plateaus. The setting sun, scorching its way through black clouds and leaving faint hints of a navy universe behind, is profoundly reminiscent of El Greco's brilliant skies over "Toledo": so much so, it is hard to imagine that he might not have sat and mused here at some point, pallet in hand. Soon that dreadful sky, however, closed over us. We had not planned on a blizzard to slow down our trip, but after a truly mind-blowing few days, what better way to bid farewell to the Extremadura than with bit of its extreme weather; a fitting bookend to an unforgettable and unreservedly recommendable journey.

Essential Extremadura in 3 days: The basics

1) Car Hire - Citroen C4 Picasso Automatic Diesel with cruise control. €120.00 (all insurances and CDW included) from Altesa Madrid (Auto Europe.com) (FOR: excellent visio-drive makes sightseeing driving a true pleasure, cruise control super on the empty autovias, automatic a major plus for the steep twisting climbs through the Cordillera. AGAINST: juttery reverse, automatic wipers) (Fuel and Tolls 120€ covering 1300kms).

2) Accommodation: Hotel Don Carlos in the old city of Caceres. Includes parking option. Big quiet rooms. Spotless, comfortable, central and ample breakfasts. 2 Nights B&B - €67 PPS with parking.

3) Entry fees to Museums and Sites. Everything is dirt cheap or free (most are ca. 2€ per site). Merida 1 day pass to six of its most important monuments including the Roman Theatre, Colosseum, Circus and Casa Mitreo is 12€. Montfraque Park is free entry.

4) When to go. I cannot complain about late February. It was chilly at night and indeed by day, but fresh crisp air, bright blue skies and having the whole place entirely to ourselves was just magical. Birdwatchers and trekkers might want to prefer March and April or September October for more favourable temperatures. Be warned - Summer in Extremadura is no less than BOILING HOT with temperatures in recent years hitting the mid to late 40s. Parks may be closed due to fire risk in extreme hot weather.

Do's and Dont's: Tips for your stay in Madrid.

2012-08-25T07:56:00.001-07:00

1. AIRPORT TO CITY CENTRE. A Taxi will set you back €30.00 so get the Metro. Here's how. When you exit Arrivals, take a deep breath. Even if you do not speak Spanish, it really is so easy to get to the city centre by Metro. It is also clean, safe and cheap (€4.50). Now follow the symbol for METRO. Once you get here, slide down the escalator to the station foyer with loads of tickets machines and bewildered tourists. Get in a queue. Woohoo, almost there. The touch screen machines all have little flags indicating the language options. Select your flag and follow the instructions in your native tongue (OK, so they don't offer Lingala,- complaints to . . . ). Select your ticket. There is only one option for the city (your destination should be the metro station called Nuevos Ministerios (the Pink Line - LINE 8) - this is also the last stop on the short journey to the city form the airport. Insert your coins, cash or card (oops - don't panic - sometimes the machines take cards only - no card? get in a new line). The trains are rarely more than 7 minutes apart. The trip to Nuevos Ministerios takes about 12 minutes! Once arrived, you are now in the hub of several metro lines from where you can journey to any part of the city. You will need a new ticket for the next section of your metro trip. Prices depend on destination varying from €1.50 to €2.00 (still cheap by European standards). All trains are very frequent and reliable with relatively short distances between stops. Bienvenida a Madrid!

2. DON'T BE OFFENDED. Madrileños are no delicate flowers in the vein of Victorian courtesans. You can take your chivalry and Anglo-Saxon etiquette and park it in your hotel safe once you get here. Madrid is a city of over six and half million souls in a relatively tight and mostly hot space. Here, if you went about your days holding doors, stepping aside and indulging in fawning politeness, you will probably end up looking like Sols's wife and you won't see much of the Spanish capital as a result. No doubt about it, New Englander's, Confederates, the Irish, Japanese, Nordics and Southern English will at times find the attitude and bullish behaviour of Madrid society bordering on the downright rude. If you don't speak Spanish, there is a chance you might find yourself standing open jawed and horrified at the b(m)oorish manner Madrileños occupy street pavments, hog alleyways, let doors swing, seem oblivious to the the phrases, "please" and "thank you" and generally move about about slow moving bulldozers (not to mention the invariably attached leashes and dogs in which you are sure to become entangled). So are the Madrileños a bunch of ignoramuses? Of course not. So, ditch your prissiness! There is a presumption of politeness in spoken Spanish, which doesn't require the Castellanos to express pleases, thank yous and appreciations with same overbearing frequency of a New York corporate lawyer. The Madrid pavement is tantamount to an open plan living room in which Madrileños live a substantial part of their lives. They own the pavement in a way humankind from further north may never appreciate. So don't you come into the living room and try to re-set the rules. Move evasively for peace of mind. If you are blessed with an ability to communicate in Spanish, you will certainly find it difficult to disagree with the assertion that, aside from a heated temperament reflecting a hot and changeable climate, few cities boast such a helpful, amiable and enthusiastic people, largely genuinely interested in meeting and welcoming people from other cultures.

3. DON'T BE SURPRISED. If like most visitors you are dying to plant yourself on one of Madrid's countless terraces for an open air refreshment and soak up the warm breeze, people watch or just watch the day go by, don't be surprised if the waiter looks at you with a stunned look of disbelief when you order a gin and tonic at twelve noon. There is an unspoken "how to and when to" regarding what goes into your "vaso" and when. Unless you don't mind the occasional sneer for being an ignorant foreigner who hasn't a clue about the rules of engagement on the terrace, or you are happy to be taken for a blind roaring alcoholic, there are times of the day when you need to know what you can drink with impunity. Beer for instance is generally regarded as a water substitute in Madrid and can be drunk at any time of the day. But, to avoid loud chortling, it might be best not to order a "jarra" (pint) before 5pm. Have a "caña" (short glass) before noon, if you must and a "doble" (large glass up to 5pm). Order vermouth at noon and be prepared to perform CPR on your camarero! Down wine before lunch and accept the final Rites if the old lady at your neighbouring table offers them. There is hope however. "La caña de las ocho" - the almost religiously kept appointment for a pre-dinner drinks at 8pm in Madrid - marks the point at which you can leap with naked Scandinavian fervour into the entire drinks cabinet. Salud!

4. AVOID THE MENU DEL DIA AT YOUR PERIL. Eat your way into your wallet with the habitual lunchtime sandwich. In Madrid, a coke or beer with a sandwich will cost you the guts of the full traditional three course meal (with bread and drink) in which Madrileños habitually indulge from about 1.30pm to 4pm daily. The 'Menu del Dia' is a Madrid staple. Costing usually in the range €9.00 to €13.00, it usually consists of a starter, main, desert or tea/ coffee with bread and a drink (wine or beer) included (note - the 'Menu del Dia' on a terrace may involve a surcharge so most locals eat indoors). This a great way to sample standard Madrileño cuisine. The standards can vary quite a bit, but sticking to a gazpacho followed by a fish dish combo will usually yield satisfied tummy. Relax with the folk from the hood and watch the manner in which they relish the substantial lunch break as an opportunity to park work and engage in animated and lively discourse on everything from last night's Barca v. Real (don't mention the war!) to the health service (yawn!). Buena comida!

5. DO NOT JAY WALK. Madrileños respect the little green man like no other force of law and order on the planet. They may spray graffiti on every inanimate object they can find, skateboard down the right lane of Princesa street in the midst of maniac traffic and screeching cop cars, they may occupying vast swathes of the city in defiance of all reason to celebrate the opening of a match box, or drink "botellon" in giddy groups (plastic bags of various boozey contents) on every doorstep higher than 1cm and, of course, go on strike with the regularity of Sunday services, but dare you defy the little red man!! Of course, nothing is more certain to assure your untimely demise than jaywalking in Madrid. The orange light means nothing here. Only red means slow or stop. Since cars hurtle about the street here like they were fired out of a sling shot (there is always the possibility that the driver has a few cervezas on board), you are best to do as the locals (including the gum chewing chavs and the hard core tattooed rock teens - no one is too cool to wait for the little green man) and stand your ground.

6. GET OFF THE TIRED TOURIST TRAIL. An awful lot of people have an awfully limited view of Madrid during their visit. They skulk about a certain trajectory like a school of orphaned whale cubs, drifting bewteen the Royal palace and the Paseo del Prado taking in the centre highlights; Plaza del Sol, Opera, Las Letras, The Rastro (Sundays only), Debod, Gran Via, La Latina occasionally popping up for oxygen in other quarters. The foregoing is, in fairness, a lot to see in any break but for all their emblematic architectural and artistic value, this narrow central zone of Madrid is not really representative of the soul of the city. A good visit to Madrid therefore really should poke its nose around a few alternative corners. Suggestion are: a) La Tabacalera (Lavapies district). This 19th Century retired Tobacco factory is today a semi decayed monstrosity of corridors, catacombs, chambers, halls and offices, dedicated to the alternative arts seen with rooms and facilities for community and emigrants groups, circus acts, rehersals, jugglers, and an array of creative street and visual artists. Undergoing constant renovation and clearly in need of some love and cash, the Tabacalera is a fascinating insight into community, activism, art and the alternative scene in Madrid. Part London's Camden town or Portobello Market, part Copenhagen's Christiana with a shot of Rastarianism thrown in, this site is an institution and one of those surprising urban organisms that leaves a lasting impression. B) In the opposite direction, north of Gran Via, Madrid shelters a maze of old tightly packed and often cobbled streets between San Bernardo and Fuencarral streets. The area broadly known as Tribunal and Malasaña is the hotbed of Madrid night-life with endless bars, cafès and niche shops and craft stores where you can simply grab a drink in olde worlde (Madrid) style, learn how to sew over a coffee, or paint your own vase with a glass of wine. These back streets hide a myriad of thriving arts enterprises from sitting room sized theatre to retail fashion, books and coffee, and music clubs. Wander if you will.

7. SWIMMING OR RUNNING. It often amazed me in Dublin to see travelling folk and holidaymakers (who clearly were not locals) jogging around Stephen's Green early mornings. The Yanks (and my sister Neasa) are great for that kind of thing! Two days in Dublin and they bring their running gear. Of course, not being a super sports fanatic, the whole concept of working out on holidays is alien to me, but then, if somebody told me that you could come to a city like Madrid and have the possibility to lounge by a fine big, clean, spacious pool in thirty degree heat all day for €4.00, I would have scoffed cynically into my Guinness. Hello! The City Council of Madrid runs a number of public pools at the perimeter of the city (north, south, east and west), all within easy access by metro, completely open to the public and, for the princely sum I have just mentioned, you can come with your gear, pitch your towel and picnic bag (the latter not being essential as all sports complexes have subsidised cafès and bars, which are cheap and well stocked with anything from snacks to full dinners) and unwind. The best of such sports complexes is at metro Lago in the Casa del Campo only two stops from downtown. There is a large array of green spaces, sheltered tree lines knolls and parkland to set up your day camp. The centre at Lago has a choice of three pools you can wander between; an excellent olympic sized pool, a somewhat shallower and smaller Medium pool and (for those with little ones) a kid's pool! The centre houses excellent and clean changing facilities with hot and cold showers. It is spacious, safe and friendly with ample friendly ground, security and life guard staff. While it is always advisable not to carry valuables, you can leave your stuff on your patch while you go for a dip. Madrileños will often whine and whinge about the pools being too crowded, but over the course of this summer with the exception of one or two days, which were quite busy, I have had a really positive experience and lots of healthy swims to enjoy. The best times to come (and beat the crowds) are usually in the mornings before the high heat of the day starts to accumulate after 3pm. If you do stay all day, be sure to hide out of the high sun, which is extremely strong in July and August. Alternatively, if you cannot swim, but really fancy burning those cals before breakfast you can always don your pumps and head for Retiro for a consistent and mostly flat gravel track run. Better still, hit the gravel hills of the Parque del Oeste for a stiffer challenge to those pins. For those into distance or speed runs (or with tender ankles) there is an excellent 1200 metre astro turf track in the free Parque Santander (Metro Canal). Buen deportivo!

8. TIPS FOR TIPPING. This is the one every body gets all flustered about. True, isn't it? Firstly, taxis are generally not tipped. Hotel room attendants and porters are also usually exempted from obligatory tipping too, but, if you choose, €2 - 5 is acceptable. Madrileños do not as a general rule tip much and sometimes not at all. The Menu del Dia, for instance, is not generally regarded a tipping meal. If you want to leave a token for your very charming camarero, then 5% is sufficient for this lunch course. Drinks or tapas at the bar (standing) do not require tipping. If you choose to leave a tip here then it is typically a token or 2% - anything more is your call. Tipping on the terrace or seated indoors for drinks, similarly, does not involve a large tip, but if you eat on the terrace after 5pm, then, as with evening meals, 5% is considered a fair basic tip. A percentile or two more should be considered for good service. Service does not usually come included but do check the menu or with your waiter of you a large group to avoid doubt. Do not leave large cash tips in trays on the terrace table. Give it directly to your attendant and don't tip in salt or dollars. Spain is in the Eurozone (for now at least!). Buen provecho!

9. CON MEN. They are everywhere. While we all need to be vigilant, in the street and in the metro, as a tourist sitting on the terrace, chances are despite your best efforts to fit in, you look like a goose in long grass. It could be your knee length tartan socks, or your brash Tennessee drawl, or maybe even that mothball purple rinse you sport with pride. Whatever it is, there's a con man potentially eyeing the IPhone you have sitting in front of you or your swish Sony slimline 3D digital 20X zoom camera with built in soda stream (lucky you!). A well established Madrid trick, which continues to yield results for its purveyors, is to approach the 'Guiri' (Gringo - to you and me) table and lay a sheet of paper in front of him while distracting the poor sod with some rambling gibberish. While Mr. Mcleod-socks-man is trying to read the garbled hieroglyphs and understand the quasi aramaic jabberings of his uninvited attendee, the said hawk is busy using his invisible hand to pocket the shiny device, which caught his eye.

10. Madrid is waiting, What are you waiting for?

WHY MADRID IS STREETS AHEAD

2012-06-14T06:33:00.002-07:00

Forget about about recession for a minute. Life goes on, however awkwardly. Things keep on going and Spain's Federal Capital is no different. Well, that is not quite true. . .

Madrid is divided into "Barrios" (here is a link to the handiest zonal map of the city that I've seen around - http://moving2madrid.com/best-neighbourhoods/). Getting a grip on the general layout of the city through knowing its neighbourhoods is a great way to start orienting yourself, until finally you get familiar with the street networks, where they link, where they start and where they end. Why would you want to become so fluent in the streetscape of any city? ((particularly one of five million souls - well two million in the inner conurbation)? Well apart from the fact that Madrid is the most pedestrian friendly of cities, it also one of the few great large Capitals of the world that is so compact it really can be walked in its entirety (and it deserves to be).

Everybody who comes to Madrid comments on its spectacular architectural heritage. I have written about this before and all I will say here is that if you have visited cities like Vienna, Paris, London, or Rome you are still in for a big treat in Madrid. Even Barcelona, which admittedly has a bit of a coup in Gaudi's great stone, ceramic, tile and plaster adventures, stands in second place when the full measure of Madrid's expansive wealth of magnificent buildings (like the jawdroppingly handsome Casa Gaallardo) are weighed against those of its irksome rival sibling to the North East. Where on earth outside Madrid do you see breath taking construction, which houses not the central bank, nor any bank, not even government ministries, but the modest little dwellings of the ordinary citizen?

Madrid by foot! The rewards are truly worth it because it is a city which lends itself to having favourite squares, streets, lanes, avenues, parks. There is a spot in this city to reflect almost every personality and every mood, whether it is lounging on the clay slopes of the docile Plaza Paja watching a crystal moon through shimmering trees, catching up on Proust (or Kelly!) in the company of Sabatini's magnificent royal garden sculptures, dozing peacefully and quietly in the shade of a giant spruce in the magnificent Parque del Oueste, practising your Ukelele along side The Egyptian Temple of Debod, sipping Sangria or Vermouth somewhere along or off the Calle de Palma, or skipping along merrily through Calles Huertas, Funecarral, Lavapies or who knows how many other bustling parades.

Madrid and fountains go hand in hand and while they may do big elsewhere, they do them better here. The obvious atttractions are the grand old twin sprinklers on the Paseo del Prado (Cibilles and Neptune Fountains). Then there are the tall buttressing fountains of the Plaza de Espagna and nearly every Glorietta (Roundabouto has a spout of some sort at its centre. But there is a royally impressive fountain hidden away from many the tourist eye which merits special mention. The Fountain of the Paseo de Gomaens sits at the end of a steep sloping hill just off the Paseo de Pintor Rosales, near where the Parque del Oeste meets the Parque del Templo de Debod. On Sundays this thoroughfare past the fountain is closed and the street is taken over by hundreds of Madrileños doing what Madridleños love doing - skateboarding!! Park yourself under a shady slope on the green lawns skirting the fountain and marvel at the accidental juxtaposition of the posh, ambitious grandeur of this magnificent 19th Century fountain with its veils of water falling like fine lace down beautifully sculpted pillars and basins while around its base whizz and spin gangs of death defying flat-board speedsters in hoodies, baskets, baggy pants, screeching down the hill out of sight. It is at times the best free circus in town and what a setting!

If you are one of those people who like colourful, quaint and village like, you might be forgiven for thinking that a former Imperial city like Madrid can only have achingly wide boulevards and neck strainingly impressive monuments. Well you are right and, thankfully, wrong. The great charm of Madrid is that lurking behind many of its grandest and most glorious architectural outbursts, are sheltered discreet communities thriving like independent states within the greater metropolis. If Madrid were a big fish it would have many pilots nibbling at its underbelly.

One of these underbellies is the heady, left-field, alternative, arty and edgy Malasaña -Tribunal area through which the delightful, colorful and bristling Calle de Palma passes. Starting at a scrumptious sweet shop off the Fuencarral, Calle de Palma runs east to west over towards Calle San Bernardo. Along its span you will find tiny amateur theatre, pottery shops, art shops, second hand clothing, innumerable bars and café's (urban steps - a fetish . don't ask), tatoo shops, pet shops, more café's and more bars catering to everything from the traditional Tapas to post- punk. Here is where the so called "Hipster" culture was born (a cross between Teddy boys and Punk)

(NOTE TO SELF - If there is a God up there, these far-too-precious, pretentious and unoriginal fame-hunters will trip over there pumps and disappear down a drain sooner rather than later. But I digress).

At the intersection of Palma with Calle San Andreas, a whole labyrinth of streets and squares present as opportunities to explore and get lost. Never far from the chance to grab a chair on a terrace or kick back on a bench under a shady tree ( The Plaza del Dos de Mayo is good for both) and soak up the busy bee like atmosphere, this is (despite the Hipsters) very much the artistic nerve centre of Madrid.

Although it is a mecca for tourists in Summer, and the areas close to the museums on the Paseo del Prado (of course), and areas like Las Letras do get quite mobbed, these central communes are still quintessintially Spanish and a must-stroll-through. OK the terrazas will rob you blind with exploitative prices, but that should not stop you from wandering around the streets of Leon, Huertas, Sta Maria (finding all those former abodes of Spain's literary giants (Lope de Vega, Cervantes etc) and all those other tightly knit streets and cobbled alleys between Calle Atocha and the parliamentary chambers on Calle San Jeronimo. Despite the obvious tourist traps on squares like Plaza Sta Anna (lovely, but why would you want to pay 7€ for a beer here with so many other options?) and Plaza Angel, there are plenty of little bars and cafes, which will serve you up local fare in local company at local prices if you look carefully. One of my little favorites in the area for a quick beer and tapa is Los Gatos on Calle Jèsus.

No stroll through Madrid is complete with a visit to the Rastro, Europe's longest running and biggest open Sunday Market where you can buy everything from a scarf to a garden shed. Do't be fooled by the hoards of tourists. There is good value here and as many locals as visitors make their way to this Southern Madrid institution weekly. Word of advice - get here early! The market closes at 2pm and the crowds are peaking at about noon - mostly.

OK, lets get away from bars and shopping for a minute. So you want to know where to go to get a nice pic, or a different view, or a shady spot to really let your senses know you are in a different land. Well there are so many places that can do this for you but its hard to beat, for example, hoping over the fence on the edge of Calle de Moreira into Los Jardines de Las Vistillas at dusk and sitting to watch the sky descend from bright yellow through violet and ultramarines as the sun goes down over the vast and impressive peaks of the Sierra de Guadarrama, while in the foreground the hulking mass of the Almudeña comes into its own in a twilight illuminated spectacle. Bring your lover and some bubbly - everybody else does.

The Casa de Campo, which sits on the doorstep of Madrid, is its vast and virtually empty (Monday to Friday) playground with endless cycling and running tracks, picnic benches and forest walks (there is a Zoo and a theme Park too!). There is even a wondeful lake where you can hire a boat and go rowing! But it at its entrance on the open plaza where the Avenida de Portugal crosses the Manzanares river (more like stream) that the full sweep of Madrid's impressive Imperial character and economic legacies are best observed with eyepoppoing views of the Torre de Espagna, past the Almudeña and on to the Royal Palace. Few Cities boast a place where you get such a uninterrupted view of their most iconic constructions.

There is another corner of Madrid to get the best views of the Sierra. This is the least glamorous part of the city, but a great walk through another side of Madrid nonethless, and one which gives you a view of the different realities the Madrileños of all types live. To the north in the area called Valdecarras about an hour walk along Calle Bravo Murrillo, through Tetuan, and then to the right walk along the shanty and slum lined streets of Paseo del Dirrécion until the intersection with Calle del Capitán Blanco Argibay. The conditions in which people survive is quite startling (especially when compared to the affluence of Salamanca and Ibiza districts) and equals degrees of deprivation in many third world countries - it is not a pretty sight and stands as a poor testament to Spain's socialist past, yet as ever the people here are friendly and engaging and delighted to share their neighbourhood's spectacular views of the Gaudarrama. They might not know it, but they could be sitting on prime real estate waiting for someone to realise the asset they have, well, if not for the minor issue of the property collapse in Spain. Did I say forget the recession at the start of this blog? I did, did I not. Ok, well just look at the mountains then. Can you see Escorial???

SAN ISIDRO . . Don't just get angry - dance!

2012-05-16T06:04:00.002-07:00

IT is hardly a coincidence that the eleventh century patron saint of Madrid, Saint (or San) Isidro, was a farmer renowned for his goodness to the poor and animals. After all, Madrid is home to a population whose adulation for pets, particularly of the canine variety, is legendary and it also home to the 'Indignados' (the movement widely reported for its activism and opposition to austerity). So when the Madrileños celebrate their patron saint, it is with unfaltering abandon, adulation and a festiveness worthy of perhaps both the barking and the genuinely mad.

Such enthusiasm and pride, however, not only brings the city back to an idyllic and romantic past, elegantly riposting the uncertain present through the comforts of nostalgic fanfare, but they expose the city's exotic personalities, the contradictions between its religious and cultural yearnings and the kaleidoscopic freneticsm of a turbulent modernity. There is probably no better time, then, to see and experience the diversity and complexity that defines Madrid; a festival that makes Madrid one of the great conurbations on earth and, possibly, the loudest exponent of all that is both brilliant and inadequate in the human condition. San Isidro is not just a festival - it is an outpouring.

On the eve of the 15th of May, thousands, possibly as many as thirty thousand citizens gather in the muggy starlit evening. In front of the imperial collonade, (Riera's monumental tribute to Alfonso XII and a stark reminder of a time of plenty), the crowds converge. They come through several of the grand Retiro Park entrances leading to the central lake and over which the gigantic bronze horse-mounted Alfonso appears to summon his citizens as though to some grand calling. (If only the Indignados had such a plausible director for their energies!).

The night air bristles with excitement. The lake is bathed in a rainbow of morphing light cast up the lengths of imposing columns as Mozart blasts out over the eager spectators. Then, signalled by a single canon shot, the sky explodes in a spectacular fireworks display heralding the commencement of the San Isidro festivities and wowing the throngs into awed amazement. Bedazzled by fire and thunder, we are all stood unified in the nourishment of this simple spectacle, which at once reduces us to mere children . Here we stand compacted, huddled embracing with childlike innocence the magic of an exploding symphony. For a short while, all woes are abandoned for a tiny piece of joy, a moment like no other here, in Madrid, in the night, on a small planet drifting in the great infinity of darkness and starlight .

On the Calle Baja and all around the topsy turvy streets and shadowed alleys of La Latina, (those narrow lanes spared the harshness of the blazing sun by tall buildings), more crowds gather - dispersed clusters - and amongst them drummers and floutists are belting out familiar tunes, which at once sound of both a medieval whine and Belle-Epoque tunefulness. Ladies are dressed in tailored full length gowns, shawls and head scarves topped with a red or white rose; colours stolen from the fireworks. The men are decked out in perfectly fitting three piece suits and brilliantly polished shoes. Who has conspired to bring this theatre to the streets where the population act as though the city, this megalopolis, were a mere village in which everyone had a part in some Joycean fete. In a city of five million! How can this be? Is it pride? Faith? Hope? Folly? Out of each and every lane, alley, street, and avenue they pour. Mostly, but not always, the elderly adorned in vivid colour and dress and merging casually into a new universe for a day.

The news on the News is not news for any man's ears. It is toxic at the moment. Thanks be to God I am Irish (well kind of). At least I have heard the record already. I know how this one plays out. But to this people of a sunny and boisterous disposition, the News may make for a cold summer. They had better dance.

At the Plaza del Sol, the heat of San Isidro, the heat of impatience, the burning heat of trouble to come, sets off another dance. Thousands compact the sloping square focused upon some invisible core as though pleading for an Alfonso on horseback; giant, capable, leading a victorious charge. But all there is, is a lumpish mound; the roof of Sol metro, the Samsung Galaxy metro as it is now labelled. Irony?

Hands float aloft in the air. Pots and pans bang. Tired dogs hide beneath their masters' legs. On other days they would bark and howl at such nuisance, but they are outnumbered by this pack, this strange menacing herd. While the ladies in the lace dresses fluttered by on other streets and squares, here the clutter of dark legs and bruised voices is nothing to be toyed with. The brown flicking uncertain eyes of a sheltering Alsatian say it all. An unpolished man sits on a makeshift stool beside a treehugger. Unlikely bedfellows, their fireworks are of another sound and colour. The old man's shirt reads "Retirees fighting for their rights". The treehugger nods to the rhythm of the clanking pans and drags on his joint. He looks at the old man as though to say " I am with you, man". The old man looks at the treehugger as though to say " Whatever, mate." Another man stands with a copy of "The European Constitution" - upside down in his back pocket. Someone is trying to be heard. More Irony?

Most people are either banging pans or rolling their arms with impatience. Most are well equipped. How come so many upset people have great digital cameras? At the far side of the square, a few timid "Chulapos" are skirting the indignation in blue and crimson dresses as they head for their dance, gripping their shawls.

Looking down the street, with a hopeless anxiety for want of business, a scattering of street prostitutes dare to challenge the midday sun. Their numbers are down today. Are they protesting? Perhaps. All the same, there is business to be got amongst the Indignados; perhaps amongst the retirees; perhaps amongst the few passing women in the fluffy dresses and roses (amongst their husbands). The crowds float down from Callao toward Sol like driftwood on a fast flowing river. In the excited melee, a tall athletic young man stops by a voluptuous dark skinned woman. He toys with her hand. A black-tie waiter wipes a table before lighting a fag and disappearing momentarily behind a cloud of smoke. The young man seals a deal and vanishes into the throng with his purchase. At the end of the street, the pots and pans clank louder. The police are distracted by the swirling throng, enough for a paperless black boy to spread his sheet on the pavement to sell pirated films. His eyes dart left to right as he polices his trade at the Samsung Galaxy metro.

On the far side of the Plaza Mayor, San Isidro sits atop a chaparoned carriage. Mantilla bearers, boys and girls, marching bands, soldiers, widows and others float past in solemn duty-bound procession. Uniformed guards in sumptuous uniforms and silver helmets with brilliant purple plumes guard parade marshals who sport long black cloaks and multicoloured tassled head dress. They nod and bob past with an air of means. One man likes his tassles to sway; his Golden yellow tassles. Far from the clamour of indignation rattling out on beaten pans, here the citizens applaud as the parading faithful cry out triumphantly "Viva San Isidro, Viva Madrid!" There is a familiar prevalence of digital hardware. A blind shoeless girl with a palsy arm, whose sign reads "TENGO HAMBRE", can see neither the adulation nor the indignation around her (nor the cameras). The applause grows louder and prouder as the tank-like carriage is tilted up the steps into the church, bringing San Isidro home. The beautifully turned out custodians of the city's nostalgia, nod gracefully as the Mayor passes, waving knowingly.

TAKE FIVE . . . THEN TAKE THREE . . .

2012-04-12T06:28:00.001-07:00

I have not got enough time on my hands to go all out on what I think about all my latest forays around the city of Madrid. I am indeed a little fearful that on the not so touristy side I might go for the jugular on, for example, the state medical services (good grief), more strikes (heavens above) or residential building standards (for goodness sake). Anyhow, I will (more calmingly) just concentrate for now on three discreet little places worth poking your greedy little nose into when you come visit the fabulously unorthodox city that is Madrid. Buen Provecho!!

There are no end of traditional Tavernas in Madrid which do a fine job at a great price. The further way you get from the touristy core though, it is fair to say that things only get better, both in terms of service, product and price. The traditional taverna is a place where you could effectively camp out all day and have breakfast dinner and supper and then grab a few beers and pass the rest of the evening stuck in garrulous conversation while throwing your eye over the large screen TV blaring out the commentary on the latest league match. Frankly, I hate soccer. My unabashedly biased view is that there is an unhealthy addiction to it in Madrid. It seems to act as some sort of tribal mechanism whereby Madrileños get to pound their chest and express their collective masculinity in an overtly tactile manner and without a care in the world as to whether they are causing disruption or disturbance or nuisance to other citizens. Well at least there is one taverna where the TV is mostly OFF. Yahoo. But that is not the only reason to like the Taverna de Moncloa at 45, Calle Andres Mellado. They have totally delicious, (sinful even), croquettes, Andalucian bread with tomatoes and garlic, great jarritas of beer, a gregarious and friendly staff all day and night, a buzzy friendly mixed clientele old and young and . . . well, they just have a great thing going on. Their coffee and pulga breakfast deal at €2.20 is a real treat to start the day (that is a cafè con leche, a slice of warm freshly made tortilla and a fine fat sandwich of your choice (the patè is my favourite!). The best time for supper is about 8.30pm (you need to book!). Yummy yum yum. Come out stuffed, sated, fed and watered (read "beered") on great home cooking for as little as €10.00! I do not know how they do it, but I just hope they keep on doing it (and without the football blaring!). Now where is my wallet . . . (You can book on Tel: 91 549 11 43)

Love Italian? Love Sapori di Sicilia at 15, Calle Francisco de Ricci. This might be a bit of a long shot for most weekend visitors to Madrid as it is about a thirty minute walk north from Plaza del Sol. But if you are looking for great, authentic Italian cooking at a great price, then you really need to do yourself a favour and stretch those legs. The boys in Saperi are the real deal; from the kitchen to the front door Italian all the way and they have taken a huge big leaf out of Mamma's cook book and applied it deliziosamente! The hand made parcels of home made pasta filled with pear and spek in a creamy Gorgonzola sauce was the nutritional equivalent of a year of psychotherapy. And only a toothless, gumless, aardvark could turn a nose up at the Canelo with its crisp cracking biscuit coat wrapped around a glorious fondant interior. Holy St. Francis of Assisi! As though I was not near enough the point of ecstasy, they had to deliver a little shot bottle of Limoncello on the house. Table for two and with wine less than sixty euro in all! Some might say this may be heading a little north budget for Madrid but, for quality product, I say unbeatable (www.saporidisicilia.org).

These days when you a signpost for Sushi (I am using this as the generic term for all things fishy, raw and Japanesey!) hanging from an Asian restaurant, there is every chance your getting some chancer the business, but I like my sushi as authentic as it gets (being on the wrong side of the planet and all). If the chef ain't Japanese, I might even settle for a Korean take on the classic eastern delight, but please spare me the big ricey-eggy-fakery. NIPPON at Calle Los Madrazos is a Japanese/ Korean affair with a fine menu from hot authentic Kimchi dishes to Teriyaki and, Yay!!!, great sushi, fresh, perfect temperature (not warm but not too cold) and the best tasting fish. Shared platters are anything from €20 to €50 and all are adequately generous. The friendly waiting staff (polite as only the Japanese can be) had little English when we visited and some only had broken Spanish, (no complaint as this could be your chance to practice your Japanese!). Service is prompt and efficient. The surroundings are aptly decored with woven table matts, dark wood furnishings and sharply contrasting light and angles. The tables have ample room between them for diners who cherish their own intimate space or there is an option to eat traditional style (cross legged on the floor). This is abit uncomfortable for those of us with long gangly legs and creaking hips, but it is a delight to watch the traditional service, including the removal of slippers, bowing and reversing. All great I suppose for the yoga addicts who like to practice while they eat. Meanwhile, I say stay focused on the scrumptious menu offerings. Next time I must remember the Sake . . . (http://www.nipponmadrid.com/)

Now about the health service . . .

HOW MADRID'S SOUTH CAN KEEP YOU FROM LOSING A HAND!

2012-04-02T11:14:00.001-07:00

It seems mainly the Senegalese lead the charge - on Sundays particularly. But West Africans of all hues come out to occupy every available bench, wall, pillar, sill - you name name it. They line the courts of courtyards, basketball yards, squares, junctions, crossroads and intersections. They hang from balconies, stair wells, door steps and lean-tos. The patina of magnolia and pale grays that typifies the back streets of the Lavapiès district are suddenly awash with ebony, crimson reds, vibrant greens and yellows and, as well as the boys sporting those traditional knitted caps, others float around in body length garments, mainly silks, of such vibrant colour and design that they might just as well have walked off the set of JOSEPH or AVATAR.

When the hats are off, the spectacle of hair do’s abounds with a platted intricacy so complex as would make Star Wars casting directors weep and spiders turn to a life of accountancy. Such is the splendour that fills the sun drenched morning streets of southern Madrid. And the people, such beautiful people, with skin the colour of polished umber, tall, elegant, striding, gather in groups to converse, discuss, argue banter, chat and chide, often in the rhythmic dialects and languages of west Africa. For the Senegalese this means (mostly) Wolof and it is no wonder that a country such as it, with its profusions of indigenous languages, ancient and poetic, would give the world the likes of Youssu N’dour, Baaba Maal, and of course the incomparable Ismael Lo (cut and paste this link to hear Ismael; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_SAWiSPkZaM&feature=related).

I have not been to Senegal although it is high up on my wish list, but I can think of no better way to spend a Sunday than drifting through the lazy back streets of Madrid’s southern Lavapies barrio to soak up such sights, rhythms, sounds and smells as might readily bring you some inclination as to what must be the magic of the legendary west African markets. And what better day for such novel exploration than Palm Sunday, the day of which the Spaniards say: "Domingo de Ramos, quien no estrena algo, se le caen las manos" (the hands fall off him who fails to wear something new on Palm Sunday).

Of course there’s is more to Madrid’s heady mix of ethnicities than the Senegalese or indeed Africans. Around Calle de Embajadores, generally, you will find every walk of civilisation from Bangladesh to Bolivia and from Laos to Libreville, which is why - if you are looking for for some decent ethnic fare to sate your taste buds - there really is no better place to take a wander and find a table to indulge your culinary fetishes. (Note: While there are plenty and varied ethnic eateries, good Indian, for example, is definitely not easy to find in Madrid. The Spaniards (unlike their Mexican cousins) no likey the spicy! Bizarrely, the Madrileños often refer to Indian food as Hindu food!!! (OMG - LOL), does that make Tapas Catholic or Fish ‘n Chips Protestant? Anyway, modestly decent Indian food can be got in a number of places especially around Calle Lavapiès. But die-hards, please note, both Ryanair and Easy Jet have regular flights to London and Dublin for spicy nourishment, alternatively the fastest-cheapest way to India from Spain is via London. (Ah, that might explain . . . duh!).

To walk off the calories, there is no better exercise than heading down to the banks of the Manzares River. Here you will find opening up before you one of Madrid’s favourite weekend playgrounds. The magnificently reinstated river basin has been decked out in parks and walk-ways, children’s play areas, resting spots, nooks, crannies, knolls, and greens; every conceivable machination of space has been given expression to make what must be one of the finest public recreation areas in Europe and all a few minutes walk from the city centre. Whether you want to sit back and people watch, rollerblade, stroll, cycle, slide, jump, hop, skip, ramble or crawl, there really is a route, a means and a place for all comers here. Spectacularly, there is no evidence of much (if any) anti social behaviour (boozers, hobos, drugs, beggars etc), which it has to be said renders the place unusual on a European inspection of similar public recreation areas. Of course, it also can make the place a little sterile at times, but mums with little ones will not be complaining.

Along this fabulous airey space, (albeit quite packed with Madrileños on the weekends) you can work your way eastwards from the Crystal Palace, with its wonderful zoned gardens of tropical and sub tropical plants, towards the impressive Puente de Arguanzuela with its mighty polished steel spirals. Further on you will pass the renowned home of Athletico Madrid (Estadio Vincente Calderon) and finishing up with a stroll through the magnificent gardens of the Campo del Moro by which time you should just about be ready for a nice blob of italian ice cream (OK its not Italy, but hey no compromising on ice cream!) in one of the stalls inside the shopping centre at the revamped Estacion de Principe Pio. By the way, that little walk (about an hour and a half) follows part of a cycle track that circumnavigates Madrid for over 50 Kilometres (one for the bikers!).

The evening stroll back to home brings us into collision with a traditional Palm Sunday procession (around Opera Place) and a biting question. Why do so many tourists head to Seville to see the famed religious processions (with the bearing of the Virgin, the streams of mantilla wearing black clad custodians of the faith and penetant candlebearers in peaked caps)? The by-times errie religiosity of these events reaches a fervour and level of spectacle as, if not more, impressive in the Spanish capital where the crowds are far less over whelming. Oh well, somethings escape explanation. Anyway, here is good short video of what that is all about:-

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8lFmYLqdAs

So there you have it. A day on foot starting in the gritty vibrancy of Lavapiés and ending in the shadow of the plush Royal Palace gardens. It just goes to show what a wonderful place a city can be when it welcomes difference, communities, ethnicities, cultures of all kinds. Madrid is a true leader in this game. Check out this worthy cause:

http://malugu.org/

EPILOGUE

There is another little matter I have not mentioned on the journey through Lavapiés and it is “La Tabacalera y el Laberinto de Miradas” . . . but that is such an amazing find, I have to go back myself to make sure I was not dreaming. To follow . . .!

MADRID GOTHIC . . . .

2012-03-23T06:54:00.001-07:00

I could not stop thinking about Grant Wood's American Gothic last night. Then it dawned on me. Recently, I had been meandering my way through the absurdly silent Malasaña and Tribunal backstreets (on a Sunday night, all the mad Madrileños had migrated south to La Latina for their ritual collective end-of-weekend debauchery - did I mention that Madrileños move about in great shoal-like waves? anyhow . . ). I was struck by this little tavern, which for all the world, could have easily sat on a small town high street in middle America 100 years ago, or just as easily in Paris in the 70's or as it does now in the middle of this Spanish urban maze.

The high bar with confessional like panels subdividing it, large brass taps, a massive inclined mirror reflecting a chequered floor and oak barrels all cloaked in a dim ochre light had a gothic hue worthy of any Roman Polanski set. A solitary couple, he beareded, thirty, drunk, clasping her; she wrapped in large black collared three quarter length, red lipstick, auburn wavey hair, heeled, tipsy, giggling at his rabid kisses, turn and stare.
LANA TURNER plucks her purse from the counter and stomps towards the glass doors. She stares. Pulls out a cigarette. Quick flicker. Plume of smoke. James CAGNEY? No. STEWART; Beautiful, awkward, trundles after the moll. Door swings shut. Another cigarette. Giggles. Kissing. I enter the bar. Unfinished Riojas, black, sit. Waiting. I pass the confessional and grab a stool.

There THEY are then, behind the bar.
"Si, Señor?"
"Un Ribero de la Casa, por favor"
"Si Señor"
HER back is turned. HE leaves the bar. The TV is on. SHE cuts bread. Some socialist politician is thumping the podium. A full bottle of wine, an advertisement, sits on the bar. 1978. The wine has turned to treacle. The bottle cloaked in dust and grease. The vineyard? Who knows.
The Brass taps sparkle. Polished. Owned. A plate clanks on the glass surface. I turn. Hot toasted breads with tomatoes, anchovies and garlic. Dainty, sweet smelling, knitted deliciousness. HE returns with the wine an pours. SHE stands with her back to me always. Her hair is cropped. She wears a black knitted cardigan. Her shoulders are risen as though she is holding a sigh in her bosom. Is SHE? HE folds his arms, leans beside her and stares at the TV. I look across the empty room.
The SOCIALIST blathers on. "Compañeros . . . blaa blaa blaa. . .". Is this a movie? HE turns down the sound.
"Compañeros, compañeros!". HE sighs.
SHE turns. Resting against the counter she looks out. Her shoulders fall. SHE smiles. HER eyes are THAT blue. Then the smile fades.

The Doors crack open. Giggling. The STARS are back. Glasses clink.

HE with his small grey pony tale unfolds his arms. He rubs HER arm up and down. Up and down. UP and down.

"Señor" a drunken voice calls out.
SHE turns to cut some bread.
HE, "Si".

Spain is facing years of economic hardship but the timeless TABERNA MAYRIT, one suspects, will always be found at Bernado López Garcia,11.

A ROYAL F$%K UP???

2012-02-16T22:01:00.004-08:00

The (almost on-the-run) Duke of Palma's name, Iñaki Urdangarin, also spells: "Dangr, Iñaki a r...ruin". Is there a message there, one wonders???

A PIZZA FORGIVENESS . . .

2012-02-16T04:53:00.001-08:00

I am feeling bad about having given La Vaca Argentina a bit of bashing, so I have been thinking about how I can make some sort of gesture of amends towards the land of the 'Gaucho'. And guess what? I did not have to go far. Not a stone's throw, up the street (Huertas Street, that is), we stumbled upon "Il Piccolino della Farfalla"; A Little Butterfly that set my butterflies all a flutter!

Here we have another Argentine restaurant with an Italian soul that simply oozes out of its rustic warm cream interior of old parlour chairs, benches, cushions, painted panels and curtains, but, more importantly, from every dish on the menu. It does not boast anything other than your standard Italian fare and to be honest the prices are so ridiculously cheap that you would be forgiven for thinking you might have hit upon the local student diner (pizzas under €8, deserts under €5, a perfectly agreeable house red wine for €6 - the bottle!). But do not let the prices fool you. Il Piccolino is as good an Argo-Italian diner as you are likely to find in Madrid as it turns out. Everything it does it does scrumptiously well; dishing up pizzas, pastas, meat dishes, salads and deserts as only your Italian Mama might.

All about us patrons' faces are lighting up like those crazed excited medieval diners or jesters you might see in a Brueghal work. Tables surround us with 'reserved' notices; it is no wonder. At the door, eager would-be guests are turned away one after the other; no surprise there either (the place has queues on its bookings list). Part of the kitchen area, at the entrance to this deceptively sizey place, immediately announces that this house is all about the food. The good humoured staff bounce about the place with the confidence that only a good consistent kitchen can give them. There will be no complaints here. Our stone baked pizzas (with fine Spanish chorizo) were crisp and hot severed up on wooden palates. The mozzarella was soft and oily. Perfect. And desert? Well, no disappointment here either (Somebody should have sent the pastry chef down to La Vaca to show them what a real Tiramisù is all about).

The general air of happiness was only briefly interrupted. At one point, a grumpy Porteño behind us hollered for a digestif, catching the attention of the whole restaurant. "Have you anything decent?" he cries out as a chirpy waitress passes his table. "I have something to put a smile on your face, Caballero!" she tweets cheekily. The old fellow grunts, unimpressed. In seconds she is back with a label-less bottle she has swiped from the 1950's fridge beside us. She pounds a miniature tumbler in front of the retired dictator and begins to spill a yellow syrupy substance up to the rim of the glass. "Now, try that!" she chirps confidently. The grump looks at her suspiciously with the face of man who can never be made happy. He sips. "Ah, que rico!" He exclaims, catching himself by surprise with his miserable face betraying a tiny glint of satisfaction. The Waitress tops him up again and then pounds the cork into the bottle with a pop. "De la casa!" she says with a wink and whips the bottle back in to the cooler before disappearing into the kitchen like a non-plused surgeon passes through swinging doors after a successful heart transplant. Judging by all the faces here, the warm cheeks and warmer bellies (OK, we had some of that glorious Limoncello too!), she just might as well have completed heart surgery on us all. Did I mention the Tiramisù?

"Il Piccolino della Farfalla" at 6, Calle Huertas (just off Plaza Santa Ana) is open 2.30pm - 4-30pm and 6.30pm - early hours of the morning every day of the week. 091 -369 4391 - Booking advised.

SECRET GARDEN TRUMPS SICK COW

2012-02-13T02:59:00.000-08:00

‘La Vaca Argentina’ (http://www.lavacaargentina.net)

is a chain of restaurants around Madrid of which there are maybe ten or eleven establishments. The one we sampled is close to the Paseo del Prado behind the Palace Hotel in the Las Letras district. (Handy when you are in sudden need of a steak and close by!) The Argentines rarely disappoint on the meat front so ‘Vaca’ seemed like a reasonable bet at short notice. The interior of the venue we chose was inviting with a wooden barrel reception and a dark green interior warmly lit with professionally laid tables of crisp napkins, shiny polished glasses and cutlery glimmering against oddly Chinese looking silver and gold painted wall panels. Each to his own, you might say. The sizable dining room was quiet when we arrived with only a handful of tables taken, but at 10pm we were probably a little early for this city of midnight diners. Anyway, our orders were taken promptly if a little gruffly. But when the handsome and succulent steaks arrived, they did not disappoint; cooked as ordered (if ever so slightly but forgivably (just) over seasoned) and generously sized at reasonable prices. There, however, the good story ends. The service was really so nonchalant and dismissive that our waiter at one point was only stopping short of flinging cutlery and plates onto the table and dripping wine from the clumsily opened bottle. We were not alone. Our neighbouring table of guests were given to sighs of disbelief at the slack and inattentive (disappearing even) staff and . . . oh hell, I won’t even bother going on about the “service”. Back on the food front, the side orders did nothing to add to the meal (note: bad fries - nasty really), so we figured a shared desert might sugar any disappointments and kill any gaps. Whatever. OK, that CAKE was not that bad for what it was, (whatever it was supposed to be), but how on earth can an Argentine establishment, with its umbilical connectedness to Italy, stand over a ‘Tiramisu’ that is in fact an ice cream sponge cake? It beggars belief. In the end, the bill was the fatal nail in this sick cow's coffin bloated as it was by additional charges for bread (€3.50 - ouch) and a cheeky attempt by the waiter to add a tip to our card without our sanction (a big no-no. Very Big). This was no ‘off-night’ (admittedly, they do happen everywhere). This place smacked of a general carelessness that most likely comes from taking tourists, who flock to the area, for granted. For that attitude, there is a price to pay. Hasta Luego? I think not, Che!

A man's appetite can be ruined by the memory of a shoddy dining experience. Good luck to bad rubbish I say. Luckily, Madrid has such an array of options for dining-out that you are, thankfully, certain not to be left long nursing a sour taste in your mouth. So the Gods must be thanked (and the owners and the staff) for the existence of the very lively Secret Garden (‘El Jardin Secreto’) at Calle del Conde Duque. This thoughtfully and engagingly decorated cafe-restaurant and bar at the top of the steps at Plaza de Cristino Martos overlooking Calle de La Princesa is not just a blissful distraction in interior decoration, with antique toys, voluminous lamp shades of sea shells, and crystal, stone, shell and beed wall hangings (like some kind of mystic gypsy fortuneteller’s emporium) but the food and drinks are dished out with equal inventiveness. Here there is a tangible attention to detail and a clear underlying passion for delivering a fun restaurant service in a consistently excellent manner. The staff is friendly and engaging and the menu bristles with hints at flavours and concoctions begging to be sampled. So, when you have been jovially guided to your table in one of the many cosy alcoves or window seats you can expect what comes next to be just as pleasing.

The chocolate menu is reason enough to drop by this blissful find. Try the hot chocolate with real forest fruits marinated in liqueur, yes OMG, or even OMG-er, the hot chocolate laced with Dulec de Leche; pure unadulterated deliciousness. Madrileños know a good thing when they see it and taste it and this place is invariably packed and rightly so. For dinner (with an extensive but inexpensive menu of traditional and original offerings) booking in advance is essential. For chocolate, there is almost always a queue, but the wait is soooooooo dribblingly worth it whether its minus 10 or plus 40 Celsius. If Michelin did fun this place would probably qualify for a big twinkly star with chocolate smothered lips, but it is just as well Michelin do not get their paws on places like this. Hasta Luego? You bet.

NO ME GUSTA 'THE PINT' . . . ABROAD

2012-02-09T05:44:00.000-08:00

In spite of the Irish propensity for the gargle and being a loud and boorish lot at times, we are well and truly beaten into the outsider ranks on that score by other more populous nations, especially a certain few to the east and north. We can equally rest assured that 'Paddy' is in no way to blame for the travesties of holiday destinations that are Benidorm, Santa Ponsa and numerous other coach-crashes that have morphed from demure seaside villages on the Mediterranean coastline into seasonal free-for-alls where urine and vomit flow down streets like an incoming tide; where tango-ed Geordie breasts and the blue-white arses of raucous Brummies or Hamburgers are as likely to assail you in the street by night as a sunbeam by day. The wreckless developers and local city planners did not conspire to build these cheap thrill ‘Gomorrahs’ for a few thousand Paddies; they were throwing out the red carpet for the hundreds of thousands who flock, principally, from the UK and Germany.

All that said, I about to commit an act of treachery. Despite their inferior numbers, the Irish have a lot to answer for when it comes to the pervasiveness of the so called “Irish Pub” abroad. Frankly, it is bad enough that the Irish social, environmental and psychological landscape is blighted with them, but does it have to be the rest of the planet too? Who actually thinks these little temples to Paddy-whackery in Hong Kong, East Timor, Chile, France, Spain or where ever are actually genuinely Irish, except maybe for some parts like the odd temporary bar staff in black tee-shirt with a harp on it? (something you are unlikely to see in Ireland as it happens). Why is it necessary to experience a little bit of (non) Irishness in Spain for example? Is Madrid such an intolerable place bereft of the comraderie, wit, booze, banter and wood panelling to which the Irish seem inextricably attached? How have the back streets of Madrid then become a breeding ground for the evil pseudo Irish neo-Dutch-German-pine-church bar-stool bastardisations; pubs, in fact, the like of which would be more at home on the holo-deck of the Starship f@#king Enterprise, Holy God. If you are Spanish, go to Ireland. If you are Irish, go home to a proper pub for chrissakes (God, knows they need the custom by all accounts). Buying into the Irish pub abroad is worse that sporting a fake Louis Vuitton handbag. It is the ultimate insecurity statement. It is Ireland’s no-can-do answer to ‘made in china’; effortless copycat tack.

Who on earth are the Irish then to whinge about the deconstruction of Irish identity at home by the preponderance of multinational corporations and globalsied high street retailers when the viral infestation of the planet’s cities by “Irish” pubs is singularly responsible for stripping streets and squares across the earth of any semblance of unique local-ness. I thought it was McDonald’s that had that claim to fame? Yet, the truth is that for the last decade across historical Europe, while McDonald's has been progressively sneaking behind discreet local architectural frontages, “Irish” pubs have been pouncing out with unmistakable Baggot-Street-shop-bannerishness, hammering themselves onto the likes of medieval Moorish streetscapes in Madrid with unblinking abandon (Hell, did I say they have even managed to do it in the city of Jerusalem?!). One cannot help being aghast at local authorities for playing the Santa Ponsa card so unthinkingly. The sight of it calls for a large stiff one. Get me to an airport (albeit with a police escort, I suspect).

FRUIT FOR THOUGHT . . . .

2012-02-08T03:43:00.000-08:00

This morning I went to my local market and bought a bag of (Spanish) fruits for three Euro. Over my breakfast, I happened to click on highlights of the latest EU report on the recent presidential elections in the Democratic Republic of Congo. How boring, you might say. But, having gorged myself on several plates of fructoses and sucroses, I was set to thinking . . . . .

State visits are often great occasions for political leaders to exchange niceties about how two countries - with absolutely nothing in common -  are actually some sort of socio-geopolitical set of twins separated at birth. The strands that are found to bind the respective nations on such occasions are often so nebulous as to leave invited guests wondering if they have arrived by accident at a fundraiser for the unhinged. But it does not take deluded state visitors, trading wildly speculative commonalities, to  find the ties that bind  Ireland and the western part of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Forget that Roddy Doyle infamously announced in “The Commitments” that the Irish were the ‘blacks of Europe’; the Congolese would never buy that anyway. What ties these two seemingly polar opposite territories is something terribly plain and simple. It is so obvious that every man and woman, of both these distant lands touching upon the great Atlantic sea, is likely to cheer in a unified congress of Vitamin C starved souls. We do not have any decent fruit. The bits that we do have are not ripe, ever.  And the bits that are faking ripe are either rotting or bananas.  

Let’s face it, is a banana a fruit in the same way that a luscious peach is? Or a ripened mango whose rivers of sugary liquid drench every chin as they explode in an Igazù of flavour the second teeth burst them? No, we Irish and Congolese have no sumptuous Khakis that make you feel like you are french kissing Angeline Jolie and eating macaroons from Ladurée at the same time. When did an Irish apple ever make you feel as hot as Djimon Hounsou? (OK perhaps after 10 pints of Bulmers, but that is not the same thing). Where would you find the Lingala or Gaelic for ‘fresh ripe pineapple’? Not on Google translate I'll bet. Does either land produce a fruit equivalent to a blood grapefruit so salivating as to make you fore-go a chance at sucking the face of Charlize Theron or Ryan Philippe? The Irish claim to have great strawberries and the Congolese shout about their mangoes, but have you ever tried them?

The former - at the best of times - is like eating an unshaven leprechaun and  the latter is like munching into the softened bark of a .  . er, well .  . . a bark; pleasures both for trolls, crocodiles and aardvarks perhaps. So there you have it - a gift to the respective departments of foreign affairs of Eire and the DRC should ever an exchange of leaders arise, the buffet lunch will be a great occasion on which two countries can celebrate a fruitless shared heritage.

Mind you, I would give up my bowl of Huelva lemons any day to see Michael D. (Yoda) Higgins blabbering pompously across the dining hall table to Joseph (where did I leave my Vertu) Kabila about ethical  sustainabiliity and creative intellectual paradigms (over a  bowl of Galway gooseberries and Bird’s Eye custard of course).  Meanwhile, to the rest of the Irish and Congolese, the wonder of fresh succulent, slobbering fruitiness awaits you  . . .  in Spain.  Which brings me to the point of all this. 

Madrid has many many enclosed and open street markets, which you are likely to happen upon as you stroll through the city.  One of the smaller slightly chaotic - but very local markets - is close to Anton Martìn Metro. It really is amazing at times the sense of closeness of Spain to its Moorish past as well as to North Africa. It is in the faces and the mannerisms and the sounds and smells of the Madrid markets. No better place then to get to the soul of a city. Buen Provecho!

My hot Madrid markets of the moment are;

1. Mercado De Maravillas is as it says - a marvel. Near Quatro Caminos Metro, this big market has all the best and freshest Madrid has to offer.

2. Centro La Paz, in the well heeled Salamanca district, affords visitors the opportunity to wander with their glass of Cava or Rioja and feast at over 100 stalls of food (and of course fruit).

3. Mercado Chamratin at Metro Colombia is spread over two floors and offers all that is good about La Paz and Maravillas, but it gets busy for that reason. One for the early risers!

Una cerveza por favour. . . no make that six please

2012-02-06T05:51:00.000-08:00

In an effort to suppress my raging desire to airlift our property agent off the planet on the end of my boot, I could think of nothing better to do over the weekend than find a new bar. I know one is not supposed to deal with negative emotions by drinking alcohol, but as my knees have finally succumbed to the wear and tear of walking 200 kilomteres about Madrid in the last 10 days, I am left with little choice. So back off Shirley Temple! On the plus side, I can now update you on where you might get a decent sup at a decent price and also avoid wallet-molestation.

Let us start by killing off one old drone once and for all. Gran Café Gijón claims to be the grand old dame of Madrid traditional coffee houses; something akin to Bewley's in Dublin, or Tortoni in Buenos Aires, or as Mèlange is to Vienna. In fact, somewhat unashamedly, it proclaims itself (on the rear of its menu) as no less than Madrid's "cathedral of humanities and letters" (I kid you not), boasting of a past populated by distinguished artist, writer, actor and philosopher clients. There is little sign of them today however. Even the portraits hanging on the wall are so diminutive as to seem like an embarrassed acknowledgement of a questionable assertion. Four anorexic white columns support an uninspiring flat ceiling suggesting, at least on a architectural level, that Gijón is more diocesan office than Gothic emporium; a place where a genius might have come reluctantly rather than religiously. Alas, the floor space does little to alter the perception of pretentiousness. The unspectacular square room with the odd potted plant and uniformed waiters (as you would expect) do nothing to entice the ghosts of a purported literary past out of the smoky wood panels. And, with nothing to really distract the novice visitor, except perhaps the preponderance of the local wealthy blue rinse brigade, all that is left to do here is startle at the shockingly over priced coffees, teas, beers and sandwiches. Expect to pay over €4 for an espresso (a novelty indeed in a city where the average price of the same drink varies between €1 and €2). For that price, I would expect a word from the spirit world with Garcia Lorca. In the end, you will not even be convinced your bum might have warmed the same piece of wood as Míro, Machado or Turina. The big spend might be worth it if the service exuded any of the personality suggested by the crisp white uniforms, however, even by Madrid standards (where service with a smile is a sometimes infrequent and erratic occurrence), the waiters are just a bit too smug and snappy. You be the Judge (http://www.cafegijon.com/). Next.

The Good thing about scampering away from Gijón is that you could end up in the excellent but wholly different La Brocense at 30, Calle Lope de Vega. It has far more understated claim to fame describing itself modestly as "the cocktail bar for friends", but what a find! Inside the curtained door, a cosy bar on the right points the way to a turn of the (nineteenth) century parlour to the rear. The furniture, with its enticing air of antiquation, renders the room reminiscent of the incarnation of a Dutch master's painting; a feeling accentuated by the ochre candlelight gently illuminating traditional crotchetted tables cloths and curtains. Yet, could this place equally be an homage to a particular traditional Catalan living room? The bathroom doors are shielded by Chinese panels, which lend a certain charm and irony, standing opposite a brilliant copy of Salvador Dalì's pre-surrealist Girl Looking out a window (1925). The tributes to early Dali are subtle and continued throughout this charming premises with hanging nets and wheat sheaths and even the delph in the cabinets. It is not difficult to imagine an invented past here where Salvador and his beloved Coco Chanel huddle in the flickering amber light - he exciting her wild superstitiousness with his even wilder imagination.

While friendly and attentive staff tend to your order, there is plenty to feast the eyes and the ears. The clientele are mixed (mostly local) and the atmosphere is one of mid-volume joviality; mutterings, musings and laughing overlay a soundtrack of off-beat Gótan or café orchestra tunes, making this a perfect stopping point for fittingly priced after dinner drinks or early evening banter. And here you do get the feeling that if the walls could talk you never know what voices you might hear popping out. How fittingly surreal. Salud!

MI CASA ES TU CASA . . . . .EVENTUALLY

2012-02-03T02:47:00.000-08:00

Dear Lord, give us patience. How on earth do humans manage to make things so difficult for themselves. Take house hunting in Madrid. So you find a place you like (and therein lies a whole other story) and you now want to seal the deal. So what would you expect except a barrage of bureaucratic hoops and loops designed to frustrate any possible semblance of expeditious contractual satisfaction. Apart from the requirement to organise a deposit (nothing unusual there so far), the landlord will also require a bank guarantee for several months rent (ok, getting a little onerous, but manageable maybe) and to cap it all off you, yes you the tenant, must pay the Letting Agency for the privilege of them having been found by you. Where else on God's little green earth to you pay for a product and then get charged a premium for having the brazenness to like it in the first place? Hallloooo! Would it not make more sense for one to drop by any old letting agency and throw them a couple of grand just in passing? "Hola querido, I just came out to buy some huevos for breakfast and ye know what, I felt like shafting myself - so there you go pet, a grand for you and we are all happy now".

That's not the end of it.

Agent - Can ju please make sure de deposit comes fronn a Spanish bank, graaciaaaas.

Frazzled tenant - What the hell does it matter if it came out of a lemur's backside if its real green-back, por favor?!

Agent - Oh and de guarantee too, graaciaaaaas.

Frazzled tenant - does it matter which Spanish Bank? oh, forget it. And your fee . . . the shafting charge?

Agent - And do not forget de VAT, Graaciaaas.

Frazzled tenant - Would you like me to suck a grenade?

Agent - Ju need a resident card to open a bank account.

Frazzled tenant - Of course I do, luckily for me I have three nipples. Any other conditions?

Agent - It takes two months to get a meeting with the immigration office for ju to get a residency card, Si.

Frazzled tenant - But the lease is supposed to start next week!!?

Agent -

Frazzled tenant - I am European Citizen . . .

Agent - Ju need to have an address too to get a residency card and ju need a letter from jour landlord to say ju are a resident. Evidamente.

Frazzled tenant - How could I have overlooked such an obvious prerequisite? Silly, me. Ok, Alice, lets go back through the mirror and start again.

Agent - Que?

(Tumble weed blows down the street as Agent walks to car drives away into the distance).

THYSSENS a cure for techno-torture.

2012-02-01T10:45:00.000-08:00

Some guys have all the luck, but I am not sure I am one of them. Yesterday, as I was just about to conclude what I thought was a jolly good old spout about the nice and clever things to do if you ever manage to get Argentina, I inadvertently deleted the whole bloody thing; just like that! Eight hours of work gone before you could press ‘ctrl’. There is a lot to be said for the quill and ink. God be with the days when a house had to be torched to the bare black earth for one to lose one’s . . . apologies, I am rambling. So how does one deal with the aftermath of techno-agnst-rage? Why, an afternoon in Madrid’s Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum of course.

To be honest any hiding spot would have been good for me yesterday, including a padded cell. Thankfully, I found myself in the less austere surroundings of the aforementioned gallery and now that the rage has been dissipated by the distraction of one of the great private collections (European and American paintings spanning over seven centuries), I find myself having to share with you some thoughts about art galleries, visiting them and in particular the Thyssen museum.

No one in their right mind actually visits a gallery of art to see all the paintings in it unless they are a) an art student b) the owner c) mad d) Rose Dugdale (WIKI her if you don't know). So you need not worry if you thought you had to sidestep your way around every wall-hanging looking like an all-knowing art afficionado. Collections are not in fact meant to be approached like the fat kid in a sweet shop. Hell, you don't go into a library and start at Aaa - do you? There is no need to pause in front of every single work staring like an owl with an arrow stuck in the back of its head.

So, before going off to see any art collection (particularly to national collections or ‘Goliaths’ like the Louvre in Paris or Thyssen), it really is a good idea to cast off expectations and preconceptions before you head - excuse the pun - in .

Whether or not you think you like art, you probably do have a favourite colour; shapes might tickle you fancy; textures might remind you of your childhood blanket (or your first date’s knickers/jocks); you might pine after a place on earth but be far away from it (hopefully still on the planet nonetheless!); or you might like Sudoku but despite being useless at it still spend hours gawking at that box in the newspaper.

Truth is, we all have a particular tick, some internal bell, which goes Briiiiiiiig, when it sees something it likes - setting off mental fireworks, sending the serotonin levels hopping. Yet, you will not likely get that bell ringing in an art gallery by following a prescribed route involving a rigorous inspection of each picture you pass (I ask you, since when did torture involve a sensation of well-being?). The art buzz is more likely to hit by allowing oneself to roam randomly as one might on a dance floor. While the conscious mind might be predisposed to trotting around in formulaic goose steps (a guaranteed recipe for crippling boredom in any museum), the subconscious mind on the other hand is the inner 'freewheeler'.

Unless you are training for mastermind, roaming randomly means that instead of seeking out the obvious or feeling compelled to see everything, your inner radar is freed to draw you to the images that reflect your emotional likes and dislikes.

And you do not need to play inspector Morse. If the paintings are hanging on the wall of a museum, you can rest assured that some 'anorak' (bless 'em) somewhere has passed them 'technically' as being a quality item. After that, they just hang there waiting to be appreciated and sometimes loved. Random engagement ensures that each one will be loved by someone. Even if you emerge uninspired, at least you will not feel like your brain has been bashed up by skinhead art dealers, which is sure to be the case if you opt to follow the see-all approach.

After all that, it seems frighteningly contradictory for me to even suggest any paintings worth a look in the Thyssen Museum, so I will not. On the other hand, I have no hesitation is telling you what rocked my boat. But when in Madrid, do yourself a favour and have a random wander around The Thyssen Museum. If nothing else you will be able to say you saw the art collection of the single unluckiest husband on earth (no less that four wives predeceased him . . . that's randomness for you!)

_________________________________

My Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum of Art highlights are in RANDOM order (some images attached for your pleasure or irritation).

John Singer Sargeant - Portrait of the Duchess of Sutherland, 1904

Richard Estes - People’s Flowers, 1971

Claude Pissaro - The Cabbage Field at Pontoise, 1873

Francis Bacon - George Dyer in the Mirror, 1968

Michael Sweerts - Boy in a Turban, 1655

James Rosenquist - Smoked Glass, 1962

Paul Gauguin - Dogs Running in a Meadow, 1888

Eduard Degas - Swaying Dancers, 1879

Emile Nolde - Summer Clouds, 1913

Il Bronzino - Portrait of a Young Man as St. Sebastian, ca. 15thC

John Federick Peto - Tom’s View, 1903

Francis Silva - Kingston Point, Hudson River, 1873

Georgia O’Keefe, New York with Moon, 1925

Edward Hopper - The Martha McKeen, 1944

Michael Andrews - Portrait of Timothy Behrens, 1962

Heindrick Bruggheim - Esau Selling his Birthright, 1626

Moving about Madrid Style

2012-01-30T08:05:00.000-08:00

I've got to drag myself away from the calories for a minute just to mention some other bits and bobs that make Madrid such a buzzing city. You will spend - however long you do when you get here - a fair bit of time staring up. It is not that Madrid is a very tall city (although the Telefonica Building on the Gran Via has a certain New York stature to it), its just that, by and large, especially in the central districts, the streets are very narrow (often barely the width of a single car) and the buildings,- averaging a good six stories-, are some of the most beautiful you will find lining the streets of any city in the world. This gives many city quarters a very busy, compact, villagey feel and, at weekends especially, its hard to get away from the feeling that you are moving along in an enormous procession of gallery visitors but never quite getting to the the end of the exhibition. This is no bad thing. Madrid is a bristling city full of energy and a delightful aspect is that despite it being a city overflowing with young people, the crowds some how manage to keep an even profile of young, old and everything in between, including of course dogs to which Madrileños are especially attached - by lead and soul. There is something for everyone here so if you are feeling like you need to start taking over-fifty-pills or want to get down with a southern brat pack, then re-invigorate yourself with a trip to the home of hot chocolate, deep fried bread sticks and popular revolt. Here amongst its cobbled alleys, granite boulevards and eclectic architectural ornamentation you will find a park bench, a café lounger, a bar stool, a grassy knoll, a square of pavement or even a demonstration to thrill your senses.

Madrid is the ultimate weekend city. This has become even more the case in recent years with the explosion in low cost air carriers (boo! and yahoo! in equal measure). The result is a city frequently packed with visitors trying to stuff in the city's many tourist features. (Odd that, since many of its most attractive features are often by-passed in the process). Most visitors tend - by and large - to hang about in shoals, drifting between the west side of Retiro Park and its Gallery district (featuring the Prado Museum (http://www.museodelprado.es/), the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum (http://www.museothyssen.org/en/thyssen/home) and the Queen Sofia Museum (http://www.museoreinasofia.es/index.html), up along the Gran Via to the nearby bustling districts of Las Letras, Cuecha, Sol and the Plaza Mayor and across to to the Royal Palaces along Calle Bailen. But guess what? Stick with the masses on this one! These are all essential treats. Indeed, one of the City's great sights is a dusk view of the Metropolitan Building across from the Fuente de Cibeles, both of which are spectacularly lit up as sun goes down. However, when you are done with all that and wonder if there is a certain somewhere to sneak away and discreetly muscle in on the locals turf for a refreshment or some tapas, dinner or just a mooch around, then you need to be thinking about hot footing it to one of the following areas....

1) La Latina is located in a corner of south western Madrid still inside the old Moorish walls. Check out the maze of tightly knit streets between Calle San Francisco and Don Pedro. The masses of tourists have not quite found it yet, but they soon will and before they do, you need to experience the smart sophistication of inner city Madrid life in places like Delic (http://www.delic.es/el-sitio.php) on the lower side of Calle Baja and in the miriad of small squares reminiscent of the Trastevere in Rome, (but without the melee); a must for romantic strolls through some of the better preserved older quarters of Madrid.

2) On the west side of Fuencarral Street, the 'in' young crowd, the party people with the edge on the rest of us, have created a whole new maze of nightlife (woohoo!). The area near Tribunal is an endless network of bar lined streets, with red hot inns, clubs, music venues and new art workshops and outlets. If there is going to be a new art movement (or a new absinthe!), you get the feeling it just might come out of here; after all this is where Los Indignados got all fired up. And if you do not who they are, then you probably are not aware that there is a global economic recession in full throttle or that Amy Winehouse is dead almost a year (I apologise if the latter is breaking news to you).

3) For the gay boys and girls amongst us (and their loyal fans), Soho is still to queerdom what Mecca is to Islamists, or Coke to fat teenage mall-hogs, yet it is still a very grave one of the seven deadly gay sins to visit Madrid and not leave some pink shillings with the brothers and sisters in Chueca. Ok so its clinging on to its hard core sling for dear life and all in all a bit tired these days, but some vicious old trannies and oiled up bears are still pounding out the beats and slosh about the cocktails with the same vigour and Bette Davis (kiss you or killl you) GLAMURRR as in the pre-equality times when THE FIGHT was on. But these days, the homOs and homElles are marching up the isles all over queer old Espagna and although the new right wing "popular" government is murmuring about repealing Spain's dramatic gay marriage laws, such a move is unlikely. In the meantime, gay couples abound in mainstream Madrid life and Chueca, clicks her heals, whacks her whip and trundles on.

4) Chamberi is to Madrid what the lower east side is to New York. Duh! There's the odd ex-pat here and there and maybe a lost tourist, but apart from that it is José all the way here. The Chirpy, cheapy, fag hanging out of the mouth, beer at 11 O'Clock, Tapas from 2pm to midnight, siesta from 2pm to 5pm . . . Madrid; where the good old locals live up to their reputation for foul mouthed humour making the Irish seem demure by comparison. What??? Yes, well, have a Caña for a euro, get over yourself and suck it up. Questions?

5) Want to know how the posh residents do it Madrid style? They shop on Calle Serrano and live on the other side of Retiro Park. Just be careful you do not get hit by a Ferrari crossing Avenida Menendez Pelayo as you try to gate crash their party. Which brings me to a concluding observation worth bearing in mind. The Madrileños do not only drink and drive, but it is not unusual to see a small sized car parked up with a dozen people inside, music pumping and having a full on rave with drinks (read cocktails) being served (ice included). Particularly in the early hours of the morning, it is worth making sure the little green man is green and the traffic has in fact stopped before you put a foot on the street. One thing Madrileños do not do is pre-empt the little green man or jay walk. Alternatively, you could tap gently on the window, offer some cigarettes and flash your casually handy bottle of Smirnoff with limes (a local favourite) and you will be sitting on someone's lap with your head pinned to the ceiling of that 1992 Seat Ibiza before you can say Ritmo de la Noche. Ole!

Tips for Tapas

2012-01-29T06:37:00.000-08:00

You know, it is almost ridiculous to suggest venues to savour the tastes of a place that is on the whole synonymous with eating and dining. It is so much easier and potentially appropriate to simply counsel a fellow traveller to go to Madrid; explore and enjoy. It might in any event border on the vain-glorious to nominate any of the thousands of fine establishments that a novice visitor ought not to miss or at least try not to miss in this wondrous Capital city. After all (al fin y all cabo!), where does one begin? But, then there are many who have taken the arrogant road of boasting their favourite spots, the latest trends, the hottest chefs, the quirkiest emporiums, the best churros to be found in the city of seven million souls with probably the same amount of diners, bars, food halls, markets, cake shops, fruit stalls, fishmongers . . need I go on? So, although I am tempted to say that on every corner there is something new or marvellous to behold or ingest (ok there is!), I am not going to break with tradition. There are some things that ought not to be missed. But if you do miss them, then at least know this; what ever you will have experienced by the time you depart the City de Los Reyes Catolicos, you probably will have left with your own piece of magic anyway. So here is just a flavour of some of mine!

1) Madrid is not often associated with the cold, but believe it not on those clear skied January nights, when stiff chill desert winds fill the midnight air on the plateau, the temperatures do drop to zero and below. So what better way to rosy those pinching cheeks and broil a drying oesophagus than with a classic 'Carajillo Quemadito'. Now you can stop just about anywhere for the scalding blended aromas of cognac and coffee, but it really is so much more special when it is made with the spectacle, tenderness and pride that you might imagine Goya applied to his paintings and which you will now rarely find except in the understated but amply trendy surroundings of Cafe Bellanca. Watch and wait in spellbound anticipation as the expert bar staff apply the precision of a watchmaker to the coffee blending, the burning, the sugar carmelisation and the pouring over roasted coffee beans. Oh, and did I mention it costs just two Euro? You know what? It is worth it even - quite possibly - on a Sunday afternoon in August (Just have the ice bucket on standby). Cafe Bellanca can be found at 86, Calle Garcia De Paredes (www.bellanca.es).

2) I need to tell you about my mother's potato stuffing for the Christmas duck, but if I do, I am afraid I will have to answer for the hoards of salivating zealots banging at her door next year for a slice of the action, no can do I regret. Instead, you might find a somewhat similar culinary ecstasy (although I have to qualify that comparison a tad just to avoid the maternal pan across the back of my head!) in the gloriously satisfying 'Croquettas con Jamon' to be had in the genial and atmospheric Rayuela Cafe on Calle Moreria (8), just before the grand Viaduct on Calle Bailen. If you trot down there in the late afternoon, you can take in one of the finest viewing spots for sunset in Madrid before or after you have tucked into your hearty delights and then begun to wonder how you might track down my mother. I suggest you might have more luck meeting Queen Sofia on your a brisk walk back to Cafe Bellanca (see above). Rayuela also hosts frequent art and photographic exhibitions from new artists and with free wifi it is an excellent space for spending an afternoon doing a bit of web browsing, people watching, writing or just chilling. It also has a great bar space downstairs, if you fancy hanging out and working off those potato pies with the party crowd later in the evening! Ole!