EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALDecember 31, 1998
Madrid
New Year’s Eve
This is teamwork. I successfully navigate us into the centre of Madrid
and find a place to stash Alfi in the middle of the pre-lunch rush-hour (when the traffic
cops arrive). Rich is handling the madness beautifully. Old Madrid, where we have found
ourselves, is overwhelmingly breathtaking and bustling. Madrid is Spain’s capitol,
and its population of 3 million, plus a load of other Spaniards and foreigners here for
the New Year’s Eve festivities, are out in full force. Madrid is also Europe’s
highest capitol, at 660 metres above sea level, and the air is crisp.
We walk along the Gran Via, with its colonnade of medieval
Argonese and Catalan architecture and Art Nuveau theatres. Hotels are booked and we feel
ourselves to be at the edge of a possible accommodation crisis. The Turismo sits at
the heart of Old Madrid, in the Plaza Mayor. It’s a 17th Century
square with three-storey balconies, Castilian dormer windows and steep slate roofs.
Bullfights, trials and executions by the Spanish Inquisition and pageants all took place
here. Today it is packed with merchants selling masks and hats and firecrackers. The
fellow in the Turismo gives us a short list of hotels in the centre of town with no
guarantees for vacancy.
We trudge through the heart, all the while taking in the big city and
dodging the crowds, wondering where we will sleep. Every hotel answers with complet,
until we reach the Hotel Opera, a modern touristy hotel next to Madrid’s Opera
House, and the Royal Palace. Our room is luxurious—there’s even hot water.
We’re on the eighth floor, overlooking the city. Crisis averted.
Now we must tackle the daunting task of food. Things are easier with
all of these tourists. The restaurants are open all afternoon.
The Museo Prado contains the world’s greatest assembly of
Spanish painting (Valesquez, Goya). It’s closed this afternoon and tomorrow, as are
all of the museums. Our first trip to Madrid will not include much of the world’s
greatest collection of Spanish painting.
A walk through Old Madrid is a fine alternative. Alfi is tucked safely
away in a covered garage near the hotel. From the Prado we pass and drool at the
entrance of the Hotel Ritz—said to be Spain’s most extravagant. It was
commissioned in 1906 by Alfonso XIII, who was embarrassed at the lack of swank rooms in
the city for his wedding guests. Each room is decorated in a different style, with hand
made carpets from the Real Fabrica de Tapices (The Royal Tapestry Factory, founded
in 1721-Goya designed for them at one time).
New Year’s Eve
There’s a tradition in Madrid. On New Year’s Eve all of Spain focuses on the Puerta
del Sol. At midnight crowds gather and swallow a grape on each chime of the clock to
bring good luck for the coming year.
The Puerta del Sol (Gateway to the Sun) is Madrid’s centre, used as a
meeting place and a thoroughfare for surrounding shops, cafes and sights in the Old City.
The square is the sight of the original eastern entrance to Madrid, once occupied by a
gatehouse and castle. A succession of churches, the city’ post office, and during
Franco’s regime police cells have also occupied the square. The uprising against the
occupying French forces began here on May 2, 1808 (the crowd was crushing by the
well-armed French troops). Now there’s a symbol on the ground marking Kilometre Zero,
considered the centre of the entire country’s road network. The square is the hub of
Madrid’s café life, with lots of bars and shops.
We buy some grapes. We buy some champagne. We buy some chocolate.
We’re sitting in a bar with a crowd of wet merrymakers. Outside it pours. The
drainage system is such that the three storey medieval buildings drizzle great streams of
water, shooting out from pipes, into the centre of the Plaza. One has to avoid these
waterfalls. We’re soaked and stand at the bar with the jamon munchers. Jamon
is cured ham that hangs on a rope by a hoof behind the bar. There’s a cheese called Manchego
that everyone eats in generous slices.
A gang of Frenchmen befriends us. We’re happy to revert to French and have a
conversation about the Internet, and the Pays Basque, Canada, and the Euro.
The fellows are very excited tonight because tomorrow marks the beginning of the Euro.
This is a wonderful thing for France and Europe and who needs the British anyway.
At midnight the clock at the Puerto del Sol chimes twelve times and with each
chime we, and the crowds around us, stuff grapes and cheer and take in the scene around
us. The square is saturated with crowds and police. People carry flags with rainbows and
statements in Spanish. There are big, colourful hats, and masks, and some very clever wigs
like Pippy Longstocking except hot pink and sparkly foil-type headdresses. At the end of
the chiming, groups form and dance, singing, and the square rains with champagne. Unused
grapes fly through the air. Fireworks sound like gunblasts. Then a circle forms and people
are throwing their bottles into the centre of the square. There’s a tremendous mess
of green glass, smashed on the cobblestone.
A long lineup starts at the cluster of phone booths. It seems the Spaniards are
constantly at the public phone booths, and things are extra busy at a quarter after
midnight, New Year's Day. We funnel from the Puerta towards a narrow artery.
I’m behind Rich and the crowd is dense. There’s a fellow pushing against
Rich’s behind. I’m thinking to myself, "Is this what I think it is?"
Next thing, the man is giving Rich a thorough leg massage while his friend frisks the
bottom of the pant legs. For a split second I think Rich’s pants are on fire and
these nice gentlemen are patting the flames. Then Rich, exuberant in his Madrid
intoxication, but frigid to the frontal fondling (his wallet is in the front) swings
around and pushes the two fellows, simultaneously to arm’s length, all the while
exclaiming, "NOOOOOOOOO, MOOOOOCHAS GRASTHIAAAAAAS, AMMMIIIIIIIIGOS!"
It’s a good 24 hours, and well into a hangover, that the attempted pick-pocketing
sinks in and Rich must come to terms with the perils of the big city.
