Madrid: Follow My Leader
You’ve seen them swarming around monuments in holiday destinations.
You’ve seen them following flustered-looking leaders, who hold up
umbrellas. You’ve seen them and shuddered. But here’s a look
at a whistle-stop, package tour of Europe, from the inside.
Bob strides through the sliding doors of the hotel. He crosses the marble floor of the reception area, and sits down beside me. He is wearing a face that tells me something has happened. I brace myself.
“Well, Ruth, you were right to put us on our guard. This here city’s full of…” he leans towards me to say “Gypsies!” in a whisper which is nonetheless loud enough to turn a few heads.
I am poised for a trip to the police station. But then Bob laughs. He goes on in his Texan drawl, “You shoulda seen the look my wife gave them! I could see the scoundrel, plain as day - his hand was practically in her pocket.” He leans towards me again, an angry gleam in his eye, “So I got 500 bucks out, held it up, and I said ‘You wannit? You wannit? Then you’re gonna have to come and GEDDit.’ Then the store lady saw what was going on, said something to them in Spanish and they were gone.” Bob clicks his fingers. “Course, ’most all the people in the square were watching us, but I didn’t care.”
I cringe inwardly. He enlightens me:
“See my philosophy is…”
It is the first of a twelve-day “educational tour,” taking in Seville, Granada, Cordoba, and a corner of Morocco; beginning and ending in Madrid. I am the tour guide; they are a muddled bunch of 38 teachers and students from Texas, California and North Dakota.
While Bob rambles on, I inwardly recover from the day.
Included in the price of the trip are four “walking tours” of the cities we visit. It is my job to plan these and carry them out. Where I take them is up to me, but it must not cost the company a cent.
I could have taken them to any number of obvious tourist attractions, but as Bob had just indicated, they would find them without me.
So I took them to the Retiro. This was a beautiful park that they wouldn’t find without me, not because it’s difficult to find, but because they wouldn’t know it was worth looking for.
I chose the the Retiro to show them where Madrileños flock in their
free time.
It is an alternative reality to the rest of the capital. Life outside
the park bustles along; inside, it strolls, taking its time. City life
rages around it; in here, the mood is content, the pace unhurried.
I led my straggling flock through the entrance. It had been a ten-minute walk from the hotel, and I could already hear the murmur being passed around like Chinese whispers:
“What? Are we walking? All the way?”
I remained confident that they would forget the trials of physical exercise when they saw the treasures of the park.
I showed them the world’s only public statue dedicated to the devil: Lucifer cast out in agony on the rocks, gazing upwards, reaching out to the heaven he has lost.
Joggers and cyclists went by, a man on roller-skates circled the statue.
I showed them a palace made entirely of glass – a vast birdcage of a building, whose reflection floated alongside two black swans on the pond in front of it.
I took them through the trees, the manicured gardens, the sunspots and
the shade. I took them past Madrileño families having picnics,
and lovers publicly displaying their affection. Peruvians played panpipes,
weathered men picked classical tunes on Spanish guitars.
And finally I had brought them to the park’s focal point: the lake,
blue boats swaying on its crystal surface and a majestic crescent of white
pillars behind it. A flight of steps swept down to the water’s edge,
where froth poured from the mouths of stone serpents.
I turned around and beamed at the group, about to tell them the history of the park and the dramatic sight in front of us. No one was looking at it. They stood panting, sweating, hands on hips, staring at the ground. Some of them had folded themselves onto benches, their backs to the lake. I decided against the history lesson, instead saying,
“You can hire boats and go rowing for €3.85 between four of you.”
No response.
“That’s less then a euro each.”
Still no response.
“And it’s really good fun.”
One of the larger members of the group looked up at me, self-pity etched on his chubby face, and said,
“Can we just grab an ice cream and sit in the shade?”
Someone from the back piped up, “When do we get to go shopping?”
The day continued in the same vein. A few spent hours in the Prado; others bypassed it entirely. A few had tapas for lunch; some had McDonalds.
Back in the hotel, Bob is still talking.
“Now, Ruth, let me give you a piece of advice.” He stands up, waves a finger in my face and says, “If you’re gonna walk the walk, you gotta talk the talk.”
On that enigma, he goes up to bed, leaving me to ponder tomorrow’s trip to Toledo.
Toledo – the hilltop town with its steep streets and endless, outdoor staircases. Toledo, with its fascinating heritage. The Toledo of El Greco, its adopted saint. Something tells me they’re not going to enjoy it.
The next day, we are standing in the church of Santo Tome, looking at El Greco’s The Burial of The Count of Orgaz. A chaos of language surrounds us. Luis, our local guide, is fighting to be heard above two other guides. They are simultaneously raising their voices in order to be heard by their Italian and German groups, who we are sardined between. As if that weren’t battle enough, he is struggling to engage my group, who are doing their best to quietly ignore him.
Luis begins with the commissioning of the painting in 1586, 150 years after the death of the Count. This gets no reaction, so he tries a new tack. He points out the difference between the dark detail of the mourners in the painting, and the light abstraction of the soul being carried to heaven above them. This also fails. So he steers our attention to the face of one of the mourners, who is staring directly out of the painting - unlike the others, whose eyes are cast down.
“That is the artist himself. He is looking at us like that because he painted his face from a mirror. He could not paint it looking in a different direction. It would be impossible.”
This finally turns a head. Charlene, from North Dakota, says,
“And where’s Mary in this painting?”
“Mary?” says Luis, realising that he has failed to reach his audience. He gives up. “Mary’s in the pub,” he says.
There is a stunned silence. All American eyes are fixed on Luis. He shuffles nervously. Then, slowly but surely, recognition of humour bubbles to the surface and erupts in one bellowing laugh.
The Germans and Italians turn and glare in unison at the raucous Americans.
It is the best moment of the trip so far.
Information
El Parque del Buen Retiro, is a 350-acre park which contains over 3,000 trees. It lies in the heart of the city, its famous neighbour the Prado Museum. It can be easily reached via the Retiro station (metro line 2) or Atocha Renfe (metro line 1 and regional trains.) The gates close at night.
The park was constructed under the instruction of King Felipe IV between
1630 and 1640. It was designed to contain the palace of the same name
and together they formed a royal retreat that was then on the outskirts
of the city.
During the Napoleonic invasion of 1808 the palace was used as a prison
and was subsequently destroyed, as was a large proportion of the gardens.
In 1830 the park was rebuilt and partially opened to the public, but
it wasn’t until after the revolution of 1868 that the park enjoyed
its most significant alterations, and was made entirely public. This resulted
in the park that we see today; complete with el Estanque (Boating Lake)
and the monument to Alfonso XII behind it; Ricardo Bellver’s statue
el Angel Caído (The Fallen Angel); and the Velazquez Bosco’s
el Palacio Cristal (The Glass Palace). The palace is now used as a temporary
exhibition space, which you can enter for free. (Open 10am-6pm; Sun 10am-4pm.
Closed Tue.)