Dearest Comrade,
My spirit is freed in Valladolid. The journey from the high Basque region is long. Nearly three hours. I sit in front of girls who have faux-American accents. They examine pictures of each other, and exclaim in high -pitched squeals how cute each other looks. Over and over. The new phrase used is that they look ‘snatch’ in photos. I am so not down with the kids. The guy in the seat next to me wears black leather and a red bandana. I reckon he enjoys the mosh pit at a thrash metal gig. He is playing a game on his phone where he wields a sword and lops the heads off orcs. Outside the window, mountains covered in firs drift past. High peaks shrouded in cloud. Then dark heathland and the occasional milky river. I am heading south once more. I have wanted to visit Valladolid for many years, and am genuinely excited. I always considered that a trip here means that you have come in contact with ‘real’ Spain. I don’t know why, except that it is a great city that has played an important part in the history of the country. It appears in so many histories and stories of ‘ye olde Espana’. But I have never met anyone who has visited. I find that strange as it's an important place. The capital of the ancient land of Castille y Leon. Occasional home to the Spanish royal court. There is a royal palace in the centre of the city. Miguel de Cervantes was born here. Christopher Columbus died here. There is a museum dedicated to him[1]. I visit it and practice my Spanish comprehension as nothing is in English at all. The buildings are vast medieval edifices. Built to withstand political upheaval and earthquakes. The streets run under arcades, supported by stone pillars and lit with lamps. There is a sense of ancient stability. People are well dressed and about their business. The restaurants and bars are long-established and smart. I decide to up my game so have a shower and award myself a change of socks.
A warm coat I need in Valladolid. For it is raining. A hard steady rain. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. But it falls heavier on Valladolid. Valladolid is a mini-Madrid. And it is almost as beautiful. It is certainly more intimate. Cold and serious with big squares and grand buildings. It has a stern beauty; none of the cheekiness of Barcelona or Seville. Valladolid is a patrician city. It could cane you for being naughty. The churches are magnificent, and all in good use. I gatecrash at least three masses; one mid-sacrament. Body of Christ and me tottering up the aisle, taking photos. Lovely, lovely Jesus, and clerics in cowls. There is a church holding an exhibition of Picasso exhibition posters. This exhibition also has a poster. A poster for posters. It is maddeningly confusing but highly enjoyable. It is also well-attended. The locals love to get out and dip their toes in culture in Valladolid.
There is a strong scent of weed in Valladolid. I stroll along the river. Gangs of lads with nothing to do like me, are getting baked on benches. This city should definitely be visited, but not in February and definitely not on a fucking Monday. Everything is closed. The cathedral, all the museums, EVERYTHING. I take to walking the streets in the biting wind. They are beautiful. The parks are lovely. Particularly the Parque Campo Grande. There are more red squirrels than I have ever seen. They climb your leg; they are so tame. There are peacocks proudly prowling the park. It’s a baby Retiro Park. Flowerbeds are being planted out in expectation of summer. Beautiful but chilly. ‘London in February’ chilly. I stop in a park by the river and enjoy the scent of a real river. The first smell of nature that I can relate to in months. The acrid urine scent of home. When the sun comes out there is a welcome flash of warmth. But this is sporadic. The river is a milky white colour. The palm trees in the park seem strangely out of place against the damp lead sky.
There is great wealth and greed in Valladolid. It is a well to do place. The shops are busy and smart. I sit in cafes and listen to people discussing the size of their families. Food in cafes is served with a small glass of complimentary orange juice. A welcome treat. Valladolid is a little up its own arse. But after a week of aggressive communism, it’s nice to swing with the capitalists a little. It is a serious city that means important business. There are no CNT tattoos or regional languages here. It’s Castilian Spanish and Royal family all the way. There is barely any graffiti even. Tomfoolery is frowned upon. I am severely reprimanded by the Guardia Civil for moonwalking outside the regional parliament. The wide boulevards are busy. There are no charity shops or estate agents. Just stylish clothe stores for pretty people with easy credit.
Coffee costs more here than the rest of Spain. Valladolid is another city where coffee shops have dropped out of the sky from 1961. Checked floors, wooden stools and sad tapas. Marble-topped tables and gambling machines. Locals in the uniform puffa jackets carrying plastic bags. ‘Buenos dias’ is preferred to ‘hola’. One addresses the café owner as ‘Senor’. It feels comfy and there is a sense of community though. They appear to have not shelled my egg before making my tortilla, but no matter. This is a sober place but friendly. People drop in and know the cafe owners’ names. The staff know their clients’ orders. There is an easy familiarity that I am jealous of. I think of the future. I will soon be back with the impersonal. Drinking vats of coffee in anonymous chain stores. Lurking in towns where no one gives a fuck about anyone else. Modern coffee shops give anonymity but not friendliness. Nobody could say a Starbucks forms a centre of community life. Spain wins versus the UK when it comes to community cohesion, hands down. But I do think that I prefer life a little bit faster than here. At least for now. What I don’t understand is why some cafes are for breakfast and some are for lunch. Yet they look exactly the same. That is a Spain secret that I will probably never understand.
There is a need for speed in Valladolid. My bus to Madrid departs the bus station at seven- thirty a.m. The station is on the other side of town. The town is dark and deserted. I have a coffee standing at the chrome bar of the bus station cafe. Probably my last in a real Spanish cafe this side of Blackfriars. The grizzled old dude behind the counter evidently does not like his seven in the morning start. He slams down my cup and hurls me a croissant. He then waddles off to turn on the fruit machines at the wall. There are only people for the Madrid bus here. Maybe twenty; wrapped up from the cold and half-asleep. There is nowhere else to go. The wind whips around the bus stands, but luckily the bus is on time. It is warm on-board and I pass out, my head bobbing about like a bodily function on a stick. The bus crosses high mountains covered in frost and snow. Heathland like Scotland. Sheep scouring the chilly plains for grass. Then after two hours the bright lights of the big city begin to appear. The final destination.
This is my seventh visit to Madrid and it is an old friend. I have pals here, and even an office should I decide that I want to go to work. Or if I need emergency assistance. The temperature is about fifteen degrees warmer in Madrid. It is busy. It is always busy. My hotel is close to the Prado gallery and I have stayed here many times before. A comfortable suite of rooms in a sturdy 19th century block. It is in the literary district, and two minutes from a Starbucks. Mauricio, the owner, throws his arms around me and greets me as a son.
Once settled I have a few hours to kill, so visit the Thyssen-Bornemisza museum[2]. This is one of the greatest art collections in the world. And it is busy with well-heeled lunching ladies, rubbing extremities with grungy art students. I disappear into a gruff interior monologue, and stare at the pretty pictures. Later, I make arrangements to meet a contact in the Malasana District. I require local news and my contact requires beer and tapas. We meet in a pretty restaurant that serves excellent Spanish fayre. He tells me of the local political situation. Who is in, and who out. We discuss the intrigue of the silver clasp-knife. And whether Senior Rodriguez ever really made it to the castle before the prince died. Later I descend into the dark streets of Lavapies. A shady place with plenty of shady goings on. I enquire about having my nipple pierced; to teach me despair. I procure a small bag of mushrooms for vitamin C purposes. I pass through rooms plastered with half-torn flyers. Trestle tables covered with the detritus of sessions. Pink strobe lights shone down deserted stairwells. Hard techno music blaring. I meet armed Venezuelans with dreadlocks and revolutionary agendas. Plots and assignations. Danger. Then it is time for bed.
I awake early, and meet a friend for a trip to the Monastero de San Lorenzo de El Escorial[3]. This is a palace and monastery an hour or so from Madrid, up in the hills. It was built by Philip II with the great wealth that was pouring in from the new world. It also holds the remains of the royalty of Spain. A remarkable building. The great church is breathtaking and the corridors and galleries seem to stretch on forever. The icy wind blows through this high town without mercy, but the views from the gardens are magnificent. One can see all the way to Madrid in the distance. A magnificent spot on the Spanish tourist trail and a breath of fresh mountain air.
In the afternoon I lose myself in the coffee shops of El Barrio de las Letras,[4] the Madrid literary district. I stroll and write, and generally show off the erudite elegance of the Englishman abroad. I do worry though that the local people are wondering; ‘why is that mincing twat taking so many photographs?’ I visit the museum of Madrid history.[5] A fascinating free museum with a large number of paintings and drawings of Madrid from its beginnings. A city that has grown exponentially in the past four hundred years. There are a wide range of exhibits of city life. It is a pleasant palate cleanser from 20th century art. The Madrid contemporary art museum[6] was another interesting little spot to wander the halls. In particular there is the preserved study of the writer Ramon Gomez de la Serna[7]. He was evidently a man of eclectic tastes and had a study that I would die for. There is also a free meeting area for groups that wish to hold literary discussions at the back. I waited for others to join me but sadly remained alone. People prefer to chat shit online, rather than face-to-face these days.
In an attempt to drown myself in art, I spend three hours each in the Prado Museum,[8] and the Reina Sofia Museum.[9] I arrive at the Prado ten minutes before opening, and am the twentieth person let in. While the nineteen others all start studying the art at the entrance hall, I make a rush for the Goya section and the black paintings[10]. One floor down and at the back. I am pleased to spend fifteen minutes alone with these masterpieces. Well, alone apart from an eagle-eye guard who shouted ‘NO PICTURES!’ at me, when I tried to take a sneaky shot of the empty gallery. After fifteen minutes four tour groups turn up, so I head off to see the ‘El Greco’s. His real name, Domenikos Theotokopoulos; in case you wondered.
While I explore this mighty capital city, I take time to think over what I have learned over my time in Spain. Travel is impersonal. It is a journey through the worlds of others. It can be voyeuristic, occasionally intrusive. But can give a great perspective on another nation, and on ourselves. It is looking without involvement. There is no skin in the game, just another train to catch. Little experience, just images through a lens. And it can be lonely. We all need people, community, colleagues, friends, lovers. A life needs human connection to have meaning and value. And that takes effort. Without it, we just stand and stare at the lives of others. I enjoy seeing the bizarre and unruly, the beautiful and the strange. I find pleasure in kicking over the stones of life to see what will crawl out from underneath them.
I have also learned that leaving somewhere elicits change. But only change of the environment and of the people one is in contact with. As much as one may wish to leave ‘it’ all behind, there is an awful lot one carries with one. Change is primarily an internal process. Any external changes are periphery moves. And change is hard. We are creatures of habit, and characters are what they are. There is a need for a daily routine. For that is a life. A world that we know and are familiar with, even if we find it boring and annoying. Supermarkets and doctors’ surgeries. Looking for a parking space and waiting for a bus. A world where neighbours getting on our nerves is just one of those things. In order to mock the dull lives of others, one needs a dull life of one’s own. It’s only fair.
This will be my final correspondence. I now return to some sort of a reality, although what that is I am not yet clear upon. Hopefully it is a reality where the weather is warm and there are always fresh tomatoes for lunch. But I doubt it. It will likely be chavs and chaos. I hope that you are in good spirits and that your aunt is in rude health.
Yours,
[1] https://www.valladolid.com/casa-museo-colon
[2] https://www.museothyssen.org/en
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Lorenzo_de_El_Escorial
[4] https://www.timeout.com/madrid/things-to-do/the-best-of-the-barrios-barrio-de-las-letras
[5] https://www.esmadrid.com/en/tourist-information/museo-de-historia
[6] https://www.esmadrid.com/en/tourist-information/museo-de-arte-contemporaneo
[7] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ram%C3%B3n_G%C3%B3mez_de_la_Serna
[8] https://www.museodelprado.es/en
[9] https://www.museoreinasofia.es/en
[10] https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2019/jan/30/goya-black-paintings-prado-madrid-bicentennial-exhibition
'I enquire about having my nipple pierced; to teach me despair' - lines like this and phrases like 'sad tapas' make this blog a must read