connect spin the globe
76 AFAR SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 2019
75-degree temperature. The afternoon sun hangs low. It’s magic hour.
Or maybe it’s just magic.B
Y THE TIME I return to the Room Mate Alicia hotel, it’s almost
8 o’clock. The place is adorable, like the dorm of your dreams.
My room is cozy, with a thick platform bed and striped accent
pillows. My instinct is to lie down, relax with a book. But here
I am, child-free, my agenda my own, and now I’m gripped with a new
anxiety: Fear Of Missing Out syndrome. With some weariness, I change
into a dress, apply my makeup. I’m going out to see a show—after all, I’m
in Madrid.
Flamenco is a dance of passion, frenzied and percussive, and the
intimate atmosphere of the club Cardamomo amplifies this experience.
Rhythms are clapped, snapped, stomped, slapped; the performers’ bodies
are used as instruments. Skirts swirl, the stage shakes, the energy in-
tensifies until it feels like trying to contain a stampede of bulls. Soon the
drummer in me cannot stop tapping my fingers, my feet. I want to move.
After the show, I wander outside. At 10 p.m., Madrid comes to life,
and with the streets and plazas buzzing, the allure of my platform bed
fades. I realize my day’s sustenance has consisted of three churros, a
croissant, and two chocolate pastries. So I find a seat at La Vinoteca and
ask the bartender which tapas she recommends. An American wearing
a tuxedo downs a shot, rushes out. A stylish Italian couple in the corner
expresses affection via enthusiastic high fives. That Iberian pork ten-
derloin is tasty. It’s late. I’m out. I feel alive.D
AY TWO, I’M heartened by how readily wonder revives when
everything around is new. Without the distractions of antsy
children, I lose myself in the expansive gardens of Plaza de
Oriente, where a guitarist strums Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway
to Heaven,” and I imagine royals sashaying down the steps of the Palacio
Real. I expect Catedral de la Almudena to be “just another” Gothic church
but am awed by its strikingly modern interior. The ceiling is tiled with
handpainted rectangular panels,
hundreds of them, it appears.
I stand, stare, crane my neck,
noting that each tile has its own
unique, colorful geometric pat-
tern—no repeats!
That afternoon, I board the
high-speed train, on time to
the minute. What visit to Spain
would be complete without
seeing the architectural marvels
of Antoni Gaudí? A few hours
later, I’m strolling down
the wide avenues of Barcelona,
alongside cyclists, boutiques,
pop-up bookstores, flocks of
chattering schoolchildren shar-
ing candy bars. After a quick
stop at La Boquería, a busy market where food display, like flower arrang-
ing, has become an art, I head for Gaudí’s multicolored Casa Batlló. A
princess’s castle studded with candy jewels, I think, whereas Casa Milà,
with its fanciful curves, reminds me of a cake, heavy with icing. I must
be craving dessert.
But it’s on Day Three, when I’m flooded with rainbows of light
streaming through the stained glass windows of La Sagrada Famíliamanaging an endless stream of chores—yet none of it feels important
enough to warrant the energy it consumes.
The volume of this mental load becomes apparent when I try to
extricate myself for my seven-day trip. With no family to call upon, I beg
fellow parents for favors, juggling who can take which kid to which soc-
cer practice or birthday party, who’s available to meet the bus. Each time
I’m certain every detail has been arranged, some other minutia pops up,
leaving me frazzled and feeling hopelessly incompetent.
“This trip is almost not worth it,” I confide to friends (a statement that
confounds everyone except mothers of young children, who nod).
Almost.
I
T’S 7 A.M. WHEN I land in Spain and pitch black outside. The
airport is quiet. I find my way to the Metro, emerge from the
underground an hour later at Puerta del Sol, and am greeted by
Madrid. I’m struck by the sky, dawn’s watery hues, the plaza de-
serted except for workers in fluorescent yellow vests emptying garbage
bins. Tío Pepe, it turns out, is a 27-foot-tall neon image of a sombrero-
wearing beer bottle, ready to party, though at this hour, the city center
still belongs to its calm sounds: the squabble of pigeons, the low idle
of a van delivering Coca-Cola to the bodega, the swish of a broom out-
side a bakery.
I pass by a shop devoted to jamón (ham), another advertising fried
calamari sandwiches (initially, I mistake them for onion rings), a curious
store window filled with potato chips. The sun climbs higher, illuminat-
ing the facades of Plaza Mayor, the lustrous tiers of Juliet balconies in
the alleyways. But the only bustle I find is at El Kinze de Cuchilleros, an
old-school barbershop where a line of white-haired customers already
sits in wait.
As stores begin to open, I forge on. I come across Home Ideal, an
indoor bazaar that draws me in with its dense array of plastic flowers and
keeps me intrigued with its 12 varieties of vegetable peelers, 16 styles of
tutus, 30 kinds of insoles, hundreds of different-colored shoelaces.
By late morning, the city is
fully awake. Thanks to Google
Maps, it’s now impossible to
get lost, but as one small dot on
one small screen, I also never
quite know where I am. I wind
from Centro to Lavapiés, but
whether my hotel lies to the
north or south, I couldn’t say.
Best thing about a trip
planned in haste: I have no
preconceived notions of what
my must-sees actually look
like. After checking in at my
hotel and visiting a bakery,
I enter Retiro Park, the
Central Park of Madrid, where
sprinklers make rainbows
and turtles sunbathe on rocks (a few engaged in strangely placid acts
of copulation). When I glimpse Palacio de Cristal, I let out an audible
Wo w! From a distance, the glass pavilion looks like it’s made of cut
paper. But my favorite spot is Estanque del Retiro, the shimmering
lake dotted with rowboats, where I’m serenaded by guitar, then
trumpet, then the voice of a young opera singer. There’s a softness to it
all, the lapping water, the mellow breeze, the deep-blue sky and perfect
What else can I see? What else
can I do? Increasingly,
I feel energized. Maybe a part
of my old self does still
exist, the one that’s game,
curious, excitable.