We reached our final city, Madrid around midday. With only a slight hitch with our hotel, we were free to do as we pleased for the afternoon, before going on a Friday night party. The time difference with Brazil was just 3 hours and it worked in our favour allowing us to stay up late, as is the Spanish way, but feel like it's still only 9pm (our usual bedtime these days). As El has been on business to Madrid a few times she took Kieran on a whistle stop tour of the 3 major points of interest, the Plaza del Sol, which was a building site; the main enclosed square, which was pretty, and pretty touristy; and then to the Palace, which was, well, a Palace.
Once we'd got the formalities out of the way it was time to do what the Spanish do best: drink Rioja and eat tapas. We found a delicious little eatery that when we asked for coffee, scoffed and poured us a large glass of red wine instead. Aha, our kind of place. It had the most amazing seafood including this spectacularly yummy-looking octopus that had our name all over it. mmMMMmm. We successfully scoffed and glugged for a few hours until exhaustion overtook us and we headed home for a late siesta....zzzzZZZzzzzz....
By 7pm we were back on our feet, and back in the bar. We decided to explore a particular street recommended by the lady in the tourist office which had lots of bars! We also thought we should try and see a flamenco show as I have never managed this, and we've seen some brilliant dancing in South America and flamenco must be no exception.
After a few guzzles and nibbles more, we found a cheap flamenco show, bought a bottle, and settled in for the night. The dancers came on, and with grim determination started their foot-stamping, hand-clapping moves. I say grim determination because that was the overwhelming impression we got from them: grim-faced, with comedic costumes, looking like the very last place they wanted to be on earth was dancing flamenco to a bunch of tourists. And the wine tasted like shit. We decided to cut our losses (which actually were quite large cos the wine cost a fortune) and headed back to the more local-infused bars nearer our hotels. After (yet) another glass and a small tortilla for good luck, we realised that we were utterly pished and at 2pm had respectably had our first big night out since we left Thailand (in May).
Only two more hours, love, and you can go home
Ah hangovers. It's no coincidence that the first Spanish word we learnt in South America was "Barracho" (means drunk). Never could remember the one for hangover but we had so much practice drinking in the previous 3 months that we crawled out of bed at lunchtime just in time to crawl into the cafe opposite (this one did serve coffee, thank God). Saturday, we decided, was going to be our last day of high culture and that we were going to visit 3, yes 3, art galleries in one day.
Our first, with a completely unpronounceable name (spelling? forget it, I've got a hangover remember) was a mixture of classic to modern - something for everyone - all displayed chronologically. Kieran really liked it because of the way you got a good understanding of the progression of art. He was also surprised to find that 15th and 16th century religious art was far better than wishy washy impressionists like Manet. El got bored as she prefers modern art - gimme lines and shapes any day.
A quick coffee and we went to the modern art gallery, Reine Sofia, which El has been to tons of times and although it's mostly crap has got one or two great pieces including Picasso's Geurnica, which she thought Kieran ought to see for his art education. Kieran liked the building. Nuff said.
A quick expresso later, hangovers practically gone, we headed for the famous Prado, possibly the biggest fine art gallery El has ever been into (she's only ever managed to get around the first floor). As we walked towards the entrance we wondered if there was an event going on. Then we realised it was a queue. For the entrance. To a bloody art gallery?????? With about 500 people in it. Well, much as we like art we're certainly not going to queue for more than 2 minutes to get in. Sod that, let's go out for a drink instead.
We found ourselves back in the Octopus, coffee-scoffing bar again, and, this being our last night away from home, we decided to splash out with champagne. Two bottles of it. Gulp. Well, it was a celebration, and by the time we got to the champagne it was about 11pm and we were already slightly smashed on red wine and octopus (hang on, has that got alcohol in it?). We celebrated how we are still talking to each other!! Engaged even! We talked about all the things that have made our trip what it was. We speculated on the near and distant future, and how we were really looking forward to going home tomorrow (home being El's dad's place in France).
We even celebrated with the slightly bemused barman who we insisted join us in a glass of bubbly, before booting us out the door cos they had already cleaned up the bar around us, everyone else had gone home and can we piss off quietly now. Piss off quietly we did and crawl back to our very last night in a hotel, made sure we set 5 alarms so we didn't miss our flight to Geneva the next morning. And tried to drink as much water as we could stomach to minimise the damage the next day.
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