You guessed it, we've traded pubs for tapas bars, depressing rain for
the luxury of the siesta. Another day in Kinsale and Ireland might have
been forever tainted. Thank god we got away. But don't get us wrong, we
are grateful for what we learned in Eire. Having gained citizenship, it
meant a lot to give Ireland a try, made more special when we chose to
settle near Cobh, the town of my patralineal kin. Working in the kitchen
at Fastnet only wetted my appetite for a change of careers; and now that
we know we can work together in business endeavors, cooped up in a tiny
apartment/office and not kill each other, perhaps some day we’ll
open that little restaurant we’ve always talked about. We know now
that small-town living is not for us. And that Chicago really is the city
we call "home". But we haven’t gotten Europe completely
out of our system, so stick around.
This morning over a little café con leche, Cheong asked how I’d describe Spain’s capital. Madrid is a city of art and dwarfs. It’s vibrant without being colorful. Nondescript, but inviting enough to instill lasting memories. I absolutely love taking a coffee while standing among the throng at a bar. The Spanish eat late and often, but usually in small portions. Restaurants don’t open for dinner until 9:30 or 10:00, so an afternoon nap makes perfect sense.
But what I like best about Madrid is the art. The Prado ranks up there with surfing as one of the things you must experience before you die; it may even usurp my all-time-favorite-museum-in-the-world slot. And what a relief, because at the start I was worried. I’d heard so much about the museum I was afraid, like the Louvre or the Tate, that it couldn’t possibly live up to the hype. I figured the modern Reina Sofia – where Picasso’s Guernica is housed – was more my style. But no way José, I this is one museum that’s got it right. It’s amazing for its depth, not breath. The Prado’s collection, while massive, covers a relatively narrow in scope, covering European art from the 12th to 18th centuries. You’re not going to see Egyptian sarcophagi or the sexually-fraught neon work of Bruce Nauman. If you want the world, go to the MET, but if the dark and often religious-themed paintings of Velazquez, de Goya, El Greco, Ribera, Bosch, Titian, Rubens and the like are more to your liking, than the Prado is for you. What a whacked out time these boys lived in.
Take de Goya for instance. The prolific bastard’s got a split persona. Call it the public de Goya, painting portraits for the royalty of the Spanish court, and the private de Goya who painted scenes of death and dismemberment on the walls of his country house shortly before his death. Expressionism and Surrealism owe much to the absurd, violent and irrational world of these “Black Paintings”.
It seems a shame that Madrid rather than Brussels gets to house so much great Flemish painting, but who cares. The Garden of Earthly Delights alone warrants a trip to Spain. The gloomily Gothic wonders by Bosch, Brueghel and their contemporaries kept us in one small gallery for over an hour.
By the end our feet were aching, our backs tired from standing, my finger hurt from snapping all those pictures (galleries are forthcoming), but we couldn’t tear ourselves away. We ate in the museum cafeteria and went back for more.
The other thing I like about Spain is that it’s cheap. It’s hard to blow through money here. The most expensive bottle of wine I could find in the store cost under $4. Taxis, while death to a pauper in a city like London, are mere centavos here. Coffee is a dollar, bottled water practically free, entrance to a museum a few coins. And with all the great menu items we can't read costing next to nothing, why not order by sound and volume?
God bless Spain, it has revived my love of travel.