Real Madrid

"Madrid," says the mustached hombre sitting next to me on the train, "is the only European capital not built on a river. It enjoys more cloudless days than any other continental city. The atmospheric pressure is 706mm and it stands at 2,200ft above sea level." He looks at me and sits back, waiting for the signs of awe to display themselves on my face.

That's all very well, I think, hunching a little further down my seat. But is it any good? Given such a barrage of facts, maybe I can understand why the city is omitted from many European tours. Visitors see it as extraneous somehow, the capital by virtue of its central location rather than its content. It's less vitally cultured than rebellious Barcelona; it's less relaxing than the lager-soaked beaches of the Costa del Sol. Madrid is even viewed as a low-rent Iberian Paris - almost there, but not quite so; worth visiting for its celebrated Prado gallery and very little else.

Yet there must be more to this place. This is the city that inspired Velzquez, Goya, Cervantes the home to some of the finest art and artists Europe has produced. Barcelona has Gaud, while Paris has the Louvre, existentialism and the Seine. Barcelona is delightfully brash where Paris is delectably haughty, but Madrid? Madrid has a gentle, self-assured charm, and Madrid has madrileos. She doesn't need to boast, snub or display her wares. The capital of Spain, like her citizens, is happy in herself.

The idea of "doing" Madrid, in the conventional whistle-stop-pose- click sense, is antithetical to the ethos of the city. There are sights to be seen here, of course. But to grasp the uniqueness of the place you have to put away your map, your camera and your guide and simply be still - in a cafe, a bar or a wide-open square - watching others gesticulate around you.

A late breakfast is the perfect way to begin, to people-watch and plan your day. I sit on the terrace in the Plaza Mayor, devouring buttery tostadas con mermelada and the local churros - tubular donuts designed to make you feel all warm and continental inside.

This 17th century square falls upon you suddenly, a stumble away from the shops-ships-buses-metros-people-noise and traffic of the Plaza de Callao. It's incredible, enormous, cobbled and intimately grand, all arches and frescoes and balconies hemmed into the heart of old Madrid by broken-down, ramshackle streets. Traditionally this was the site of public spectacles (be they plays, bullfights or executions), of gossip-mongering and fiesta, and the sense of event still remains. Each flourish of a tablecloth or flick of a napkin seems infused with drama. The square is a tourist attraction, but not offensively so - when I arrive it is almost deserted, the waiters preparing for lunchtime, the sun climbing high in the luminous Velzquez sky. Besides sitting still, the only other vital Madrid pastime is the paseo, the evening city stroll. I begin early, itching to explore the streets of Madrid de los Asturias, the old part of town. The city is a walker's dream, full of little lanes to get lost in and barricaded by sweeping boulevards on which you can re- establish your way. Just by the Plaza Mayor lies a triad of convents: the Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales and the Convento de la Encarnacon are both fantastically rich, beautiful and serene, perfect escapes from daytime hustle. Nearby, the 17th century Convento de las Carboeras provides a fitting combination of two all-important factors of madrilean life: pastries and reclusive religion. Nuns sell kilos of home-baked galletas to the public, but are forbidden to look their customers in the face. Buying their wares is a bizarre experience. It feels contraband, exploitative even, but the pastries are simply (excuse the pun) divine.

From God to Heaven and the major shopping street of Gran Va, which links the Palacio Real with the gardens of El Retiro and the many fountains of the Paseo del Prado. Madrid's streets are dominated by such glorious, enthusiastic fountains; built from gleaming marble and stone, they are an eye-level counterpart to the palatial buildings that rise above. Here, along the Paseo, locals on benches indulge in the national pastime while tourists hurry past, determined to visit the city's three major museums (Prado, Thyssen-Bornemisza and Reina Sofa) in as little time as possible. I bypass the crowds and head for the quiet, literary streets of Plaza Santa Ana and Huertas, which house the Calle de Cervantes, former home of Spain's most renowned novelist, the author of Don Quixote.

The street itself is deserted, steep and winding, housing tiny shop-fronts and living-room windows, each presenting a miniature tableau. Here, too, is the Gran Mesn Sixto, an ancient tiled wooden bar. The door opens onto the street, and inside a sextet of interchangeable, ageless, silent men sip cerveza, intently watching a game of chess.

A short amble onwards, the streets become shambolic, messy, invested with noise and life. This is Lavapies, an emergent district still flitting the border between threatening and cool. The area is home to many corrales, the traditional Madrid tenement blocks, and the layout and geography of the streets seem to make them buzz with reactive emotion at any time of day.

When I stumble upon its festive streets it is lunchtime, and echoes are rebounding off the tenement walls as shop shutters rattle to a close. By the walls of the local convent, a motley crew of dog owners have convened. They are a curious bunch, a quartet of bent- over old men in dapper suits; two mothers in faded gym wear, their children pulling at their leggings and then running away; a Rastafarian, all inch-thick dreadlocks and sleepy eyes; and a punk clad in tartan and tattoos. I watch as they sit together, deep in conversation, oblivious to the yelps and scuffles and barks taking place around their feet.

A while later I drag myself away, heading downhill at last, towards the Centro del Arte Reina Sofa. This all-modern building is fronted by a great outdoor glass elevator and was designed by the same architect as the Centre Pompidou. Here, though, he has been less brutally and aesthetically unkind - there is no Technicolor tubing in Madrid, but rather a simple glass structure and inside, an all-white quadrangle made up of arches and arcades. The gallery's main attraction, Pablo Picasso's Guernica, is perhaps the most important work of 20th century art. The artist painted it in anguish over the brutality of the Spanish Civil War and his grief cries out from the canvas. It is an overwhelming piece, unbelievably graphic and intense, and no amount of familiarity with either its history or its reproductions can prepare you for the emotional shock of seeing the original.

I leave an impassioned wreck with no idea of how to cope or where to go from here. Soon, though, Madrid brings me back under her wings, for here - Picasso or no Picasso - days follow a certain, albeit relaxed order. This is a very ritual city; every inch feels inhabited, as if doing as the locals do should not be an experiment in off-the-beaten-track tourism as much as a vital facet of the urban experience.

In the evening, then, after watching my non-vegetarian friends salivate over the stew of pigs' ears, sausage, bacon and haricot beans known as fabada, I decide to take the indispensable dusk paseo in the Jardines del Sabatini.

The gardens are situated in the grounds of the Palacio Real, and I get there as the sun is squeezing out its dying, sugar-pink rays over the great white edifice, making it look more than ever like a fairytale wedding cake.

The whole place has a slightly insane, fantastical aspect: four individual fountains, lit from below, push water up through mazes of shrubs and hedge. In the centre, an ornamental pond displays more fountains and more light, water reflecting off water to create an infinite array of mirror image distortion.

All manner of madrileos are here, walking dogs, jogging, or contemplating the water, bonded by their citizenship alone. Anywhere but Madrid and this would be an anomaly: a city centre garden alive with conversation and charm, a central tourist attraction replete with local citizens late into the night. The Spanish capital may not boast a river, nor days filled with cloud, but she has something else to offer, something honest and truly unique, a comfortable, inviting, sense of self. This is a place with no need for pretension, shameless self-promotion or global snobbery. Madrid is a city for dreamers, for wanderers and watchers, a city for living and loving to live How to get there: Sabena offers flights from Glasgow to Madrid via Brussels from #210 including tax. Tel: 0845 6010 933; or log on to www.sabena.com Where to stay: Madrid is full of hostales: comfortable, very reasonable hotels. Hostal-Residencia Besaya, Calle San Bernardo (at the Gran Va junction) is friendly, quiet and very central, with double rooms at 8,000 pesetas. Tel: 0034 91 54 32 07; fax: 0034 91 541 32 06; or log on to www.lanzadera.com/besaya.

Where to eat: Gula Gula, Calle del Infante 5, is a modern restaurant serving local cuisine just off Calle de Cervantes, in the heart of the old town. Open Tuesday to Sunday, 1pm-5pm and 9pm-3am.

Copyright 2001
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