I’ve been visiting European capitals for 35 years, and Madrid is one of the few to have changed so dramatically during this time. And the only one to have changed for the better.
Just like 35 years ago, our hotel is in Gran Vía, a major central thoroughfare. The two hotels are remarkably different: the current one features a constellation of stars and offers things like bathrobes – a nice touch even though the garments are too small for me. Our hotel 35 years ago was a third-floor walk-up that featured one lonely star and offered hardly any bath towels.
You might say we’ve moved up in the world – but not as much as the street itself. When we first saw it and for at least 20 years thereafter, Gran Vía was a grimy grey avenue of rundown blocks, dingy greasy spoons and down-and-outs flogging useless trinkets on the pavements.
It’s now an elegant avenue lined with rejuvenated buildings impeccably made up in subtle pastel shades. Suddenly one realises their belle époque architecture is quite beautiful, and where has it been hiding all these years?
It’s not just Gran Vía either. The whole city has received a thorough makeover, which, Penelope observed archly, was funded by the EU. Probably. But this is one instant of the EU spending its money wisely.
Madrid is easily the cleanest European capital I know. I wouldn’t go so far as to eat tapas off its pavements literally, but one certainly could do so figuratively. That’s an amazing achievement in a city that bustles with life into the wee hours of the morning every night. Buildings in central Madrid are outnumbered by bars and restaurants, and each one is heaving chock-a-block after dark.
Outside of the Prado, one of the world’s greatest art collections, Madrid offers little to a culturally inquisitive tourist in search of architectural landmarks. The city was only founded in the 16th century, which makes it an infant compared to Paris or Rome.
And I’ve spent less time in Madrid than in the other two or in Amsterdam, each of which is more beautiful, objectively speaking. Add all of my visits to Madrid together, and you won’t get to three weeks. Yet it took the first three hours of the very first visit for me to know Madrid was my favourite European capital. I just felt at home there, and I still do.
Madrileños aren’t as ostentatious as Parisians or as flighty as Romans. They are serious without being grave, hedonistic without being decadent, polite without being obsequious. They just live as they please and let you do the same, provided you don’t litter their streets.
Politics is never far from the streets of a city devastated by a civil war less than a century ago. I myself went political in Madrid years ago and managed to get away with my life, just.
Penelope and I had had a boozy lunch in the Salamanca area, just a few hundred yards from the Prado. When we alighted into the boulevard running past the museum, we found ourselves in a million-strong crowd waving placards and chanting slogans. Penelope, who is fluent in Spanish, made discreet inquiries and found out that a socialist government had let some ETA terrorists out of prison, which Madrileños found deplorable.
Now – and I realise this is a failing of mine – I find all political manifestations to be mildly humorous. The copious amount of the Rioja consumed at lunch turned humorous into hilarious, and I joined in, marching with the crowd and chanting, in bad Spanish, “No más concesiones a ETA! Viva España!”
Something in my demeanour made my fellow marchers doubt the sincerity of my feelings, and they began to look at me askance, not to say with growing hostility. Penelope, who had let me have most of the Rioja at lunch, managed to whisk me away before those inflamed Spaniards tore me apart limb from limb.
This time around we’ve seen only two political manifestations. One involved some 50 Cubans demonstrating outside the Cortes building yesterday because they didn’t seem to enjoy equal rights in Spain. Since that was before lunchtime, I didn’t feel sufficiently inspired to join in. And anyway, what’s Cuba to me, or me to Cuba?, to paraphrase Hamlet.
Actually, the demonstrators didn’t look especially different from the local population, which reminded me of something else that sets Madrid apart from other European capitals. The place isn’t nearly multi-culti enough to satisfy the exacting demands of progressive people, among whom I proudly don’t count myself.
The other political display was provided by several Ukrainian women who took a permanent position outside Madrid’s major department store. They waved the blue-and-yellow flag, exhibited photographs showing Russian atrocities and collected money for the Ukraine.
Now that cause is close to my heart, which is more than I can say even for ETA terrorists prematurely set free, not to mention downtrodden Cubans. I gave them some money, offered the stock battle cry “Slava Ukraine!” (Glory to the Ukraine) and received the stock reply “Heroyam slava!” (Glory to the heroes).
Judging by the pile of banknotes in the women’s jar, Madrileños sympathise with the cause. Perhaps the memories of their own carnage of 1936-1939 are still fresh, and they haven’t forgotten the role Russia played in that one.
But enough politics. Let’s get back to my favourite European city and my poor feet. They are sore from some 25 miles we’ve clocked in walking its gorgeous streets, each leavening Habsburg seriousness with Latin ebullience. That’s one medical problem I’ve suffered in good cause.