In Madrid one is compelled to eat

Yesterday was a travel day, mostly, today too, the last one, and tonight I will sleep in my own bed. Which will be both familiar and odd. I calculate that since leaving home I have slept in thirty-seven different beds.

In the morning yesterday Rachael made poached eggs for breakfast, which I don´t believe I´ve ever eaten before, so add another new experience to my two months´ journey, though I don´t suppose poached eggs are particularly English (or are they?). We rode the train together from Brighton to London Gatwick, where she was meeting her mother and sister, who were flying in from Australia, and where we reluctantly said goodbye.

I remained at Gatwick longer than planned as my EasyJet--an egregious misnomer--flight was delayed two hours. I was already feeling a a little unloved, since when I'd gone through security my backpack was singled out for full unpacking and inspection and general touching of all my things ("would you turn on your camera so I can see if it works?" and isn't actually a bomb?). EasyJet employs festival seating, and when the flight finally did board there was an unseemly rush to get on. The airline does divide passengers into two groups, A and B, but when the hoards of Spanish teenagers returning home ignored the rights of the A group and crowded the door, the agent gave up and let everyone through together. Bad parenting, that.

We flew over Brighton, and I could pick out the pier and the Marina, a park near Rachael´s rowhouse, as well as Cuckmere Haven and the Seven Sisters to the east.

As on my previous EasyJet flight a few days ago, the passengers broke into applause the moment after we had landed safely. I don't recall such a repsonse on other carriers.

In Madrid I experienced a couple stressful hours before I reached the calming oasis of my hostal. I first had to go to the train station to retrieve my other bag from the Left Luggage room, an operation that was much more complicated than one would expect. Rather than providing the lengthy and boring details, I´ll just say that repated trips for correct change and then a broken locker tested my travel resilience.

A couple changes on the Metro, a long walk down Calle de Fuencarrel, and I finally and with much relief reached the Hostal Don Juan, on the Plaza Vazquez de Mella. I had the good fortune to have booked a room in the gay quarter of town, which meant lots of interesting shops and good restaurants, as well as numerous hip people on the streets. The hostal was on the third floor of a large building, up a wide wood staircase and through a big door; oil paintings and faded tapestries covered the walls inside.

I soon set off again and walked west in search of a used bookshop that purported to sell English-language books, but the shop was not where it was supposed to be. I happily settled for the nearby Plaza de Oriente, bordered but not overshadowed by the ornate Palacio Real. Just to the right of that big white monster, the sun stood above a distant hill, bathing the park with late day yellowy-orange light. Madrilenos sat in the grass in small bunches talking and drinking and ignoring the many big statues of long-dead Spanish important people. I sat on a bench and enjoyed the sunset too. For the first time in sometime I was on my own for an evening, and while I felt melancholy, with leavetakings and endings, mostly I felt happy to be in Madrid with a few evening hours to look about and eat.

In Madrid there are literally hundreds of bars serving tapas and raciones, and it was no little challenge to choose one from among them. Indecisive, I wandered past dozens and dozens, nearly all of which looked appealing in some way, whether they were of the traditional sort, such as El Museo de Jamon, with rows of hog legs hanging closely nestled together overhead, or the supercool mod-modern style, such as at Bocaito, an undersea grotto lit soft blue and pink. In the end I wandered into the Huertas section and settled on Las Bravas, which, with its orange plastic motif, offered little in the way of aesthetic pleasure, at least of the visual sort. But I'd come for the tortilla, which was lovely. An older man served me a small plate completely taken up by the round tortilla, which he doused with Las Bravas' patented spicy, orange-colored sauce; he poured me a small glass of beer too, and I stood at a narrow counter looking out the window onto the now dark street and I ate, with great appetite and satisfaction.

I wandered onwards afterwards, thinking maybe I would top off with an ice cream. I passed through Plaza Santa Ana where several people dressed in pirate costume and standing in a fake ship were putting on a perfromance for a large crowd. Two policewoman ambled past me, both smoking cigarettes. Not for the first time I admired Spain's informality.

Later I was in Chueca, the gay section, walking along narrow streets where the bright shops were all closed, when I was stopped by a sheet of paper taped up in the window of the Restaurante Momo. It described an intriguing menu meal for twelve euros.... I wasn't really hungry, but it was eleven and my night in Madrid was winding down, and what else was I going to do, and why not, I thought, eat more good food. And so I went inside and sat down at a table.

Two men with close-cropped hair, notable biceps, and movie star stubble worked the front of the restaurant, and a few of the dozen or so tables were occupied by men too, mostly in pairs and mostly in sleeveless shirts and sporting tattoos on their arms. To start, a carafe of red wine, bread, and a nice salad, described on the menu as "Ensalada con queso de Burgos con salsa balsamica." Segundo, I chose the salmon a la mostaza (in mustard sauce), which arrived with french fries, of course, and was a success. But best of all was the postre, moco de chocolate, which the menu translated vividly but obscurely as "House's chocolate pudin--anti-depressive!" This was a piece of moist cake, almost a brownie, smothered in a thick chocolate sauce (which indeed tasted pudding-like) and topped with a perfect dollop of thick whipped cream. At this point I wasn't the tiniest bit hungry, but I ate my moco with great pleasure, slowly and with smaller and smaller bites as I proceeded, trying to stave off the inevitable finish.

At midnight I finally rose from the table and went back out into the night. I walked a bit more, but soon returned to the Hostal Don Juan, where the man at the night desk gently admonished me for not leaving my room key with him. Still at the end I have things to learn. Chastened, but not much, I went to my compact room, and lay down on my last foreign bed.