A Tale of Two Markets

We've been living in Spain for four and a half years, and I last visited Madrid eight years ago.  Somehow it's always been too hot, or too cold to go; we are too busy or too broke.  But recently time and temperatures, money and motive all happily coinciding, we decided to spend a weekend there. 

Motivation came from Fred having a few of his photos included in a showcase collection sponsored by the Junta de Andalucia. Cipriana Soto Toro, who sells Fred's photography at Galeria Toro in Granada, asked if we wanted to meet up with her there. It seemed like fun-with-a-purpose, so we said yes.

Meanwhile, friends David and Shujata Dry of Los Piedaos had just returned from Madrid.  They raved about the comfort, convenience and economy of leaving the car behind and taking the coach.  We checked out the Alsa site and were sold.  It was easy to book online and get e-tickets straight away.  And €28 for each return ticket was less than the price of one petrol fill-up.  The whole trip, from parking our car right outside the Granada bus terminal, to being dropped outside our hotel in very central Calle Arenal, took about six hours.  Six hours with loads of legroom.  Six hours to read, talk, look at the views.  And instead of arriving exhausted after an extended battle with Spanish motorways and non-existent parking, we were ready to go out and explore.

Saturday morning, we took the clean and efficient Metro to the Arco fair.  The queues were longer than at Disneyworld, but the fascinating mix of punters more entertaining than Mickey.  Ahead of us in the queue, a well-dressed couple handed their nice-looking teenage son his wallet.  On it in big yellow letters, the words 'Fuck You'.  (English logos and legends on Spanish outerwear is a whole other blog I must do soon).  Once in, there was plenty to gawp at as well as walk past.  We were particularly struck with 'Big Ping-Pong' by Li Song Song, sculpted in stainless steel. It certainly raised some important questions, chiefly, 'why'?' After six hours feeding our eyes and on our feet, we literally could not stand any more, and beat it back to our hotel.

Next morning, we set off for the famous Madrid Rastro, or street market.  I was anticipating a delightful stroll through long avenues of antiquey charm, keepsakes, old photos, vintage clothes.  What we got was the usual sad selection available in any Spanish town: belly dancing ensembles in dayglo colours trimmed with dull coins; a row of deerstalker hats on blind-faced dummies, lined up like traitors on Tower Bridge;  acrylic blankets printed with bikini-clad blondes beckoning you to Tahitian seascapes, all done in sludge browns and mustards. 

There was art for sale here too.  Lionesses stalking their prey, leopards draped across tree limbs against impossible sunsets, soft-focus Gardens of Eden set in a parallel world.  All viewed by a constant stream of people, shabby, tired, unshaven and unwashed in the cold grey light.  The most fun we had was playing 'Spot the Pickpocket'.

The best surprise of the day was Cerveceria Alemana, in Plaza Santa Ana  (Metro Sol/Sevilla).  With its wood panelling, plain furniture and worn floors, it can't have changed much since Hemingway was ordering his tapas there.  We got a seat right at the back, the better to see the whole noisy, happy, full house in action.  Even the light coming through the windows was sepia, tea-dipped. Afterwards, you only have to weave across the square to equally antique Cafe Suiza for coffee and cake.

  After we got back to Granada, we agreed that we hadn't seen anything like enough of Madrid.  We'll go back, to stroll through the Retiro Park and visit galleries. And when we do, we'll take the bus.