Madrid Day Two

The next morning, we awoke quite early (it was still dark, the sun doesn’t rise here until around 8, but it sets around 7) to check out our first museum, Museo Arqueologico Nacional.

The museum contained a survey of art, artifacts, jewelry, and stone dating back to the 4^th and 3^rd century B.C. Our guide gave a brief survey of the archeological, anthropological, and art history of the Iberian Peninsula demonstrated by the rich collection from the arrival of the first peoples from Africa up through Christian-influenced Gothic period.

After a late night before, some people were deathly hung over and in no mood whatsoever for a tour of the museum. Others were just tired and struggled to focus. The guide was an older woman and her in depth analysis of certain details was interesting but at the same time tedious. For her part, she was very charming and it helped that she spoke English well. I don’t think anyone could have mustered the energy for a tour completely in Spanish.

I was a bit tired, but nonetheless I made my very best effort to remain attentive. It was tough to do because it was very warm in the museum. I know New Englanders can handle the cold, but I never had a full appreciation until I arrived here, where they crank up the heat indoors and bundle up when temperatures dip to the low 50’s.

At the end of the tour, I had a brief conversation with the guide in Spanish, mentioning my interest in Muslim-influenced art and architecture (some unbelievable geometric patterns and designs – since Islam prohibits the worship of any idols, pictures, or realistic depictions, art must achieve beauty that does not follow the traditional style of devotional art. For an example, see here. I was unable to catch around 30% of what she said, but she did recommend that I pursue a doctoral degree in medieval Islamic studies…we’ll see.

After the tour, I went on a search for a new plug adapter, since all the power outlets here are completely different. One certainly shouldn’t attempt to plug those familiar two and three pronged plugs into one of these outlets.

I bought an adapter with a built-in voltage converter (everything is ~220 volts here, while in the U.S. it’s around 110 volts) before I left the states, but I left it plugged in for a few hours the day before and I think I fried it, because it was very hot when I unplugged it and it didn’t work in the morning.

In any case, it was an excellent opportunity to explore and really my first chance to go out on my own. Wandering around without a group is exponentially better because one can explore and interact with the environment inconspicuously. Like I said before, a big group of Americans can be spotted from a mile away. Not only does it draw the attention of everyday Spainards, but it also leaves foreigners even more vulnerable to theft. Already, one girl has had her wallet stolen, and another her camera.

At the recommendation of one of the program directors, Juan, I went to very popular department store over here known as El Corte Ingles. You can find an impressive range of merchandise there, but its not always cheap as it’s a bit upscale. However, because Madrid is so cramped for space (you can’t exactly just plop a single story building like a Macy’s downtown) there were five different stores in and around la Puerta de Sol, each with rather similar items (clothes, electronics, perfumes, etc.) divided up between six or seven floors with escalators running through the center. This obviously made my search for a converter that much more complicated as I found myself going up and down, up and down, and rather clumsily asking for help. By the time I got to my third Cortes Ingles and conversed with 5 or 6 different people about where I could find a plug adapter, an woman knew exactly where I could find one and drew a diagram on a piece of paper for me. Fortunately, it was only about two blocks away. After battling more escalators, I was only able to find a converter that could be used around the world (it had adjustable attachments for use in Europe, Asia, the U.K. and elsewhere) for about 28 Euro. When I got back to the hotel, I realized after reading the back more closely that it didn’t work for plugs with three prongs, and of course, the AC power plug for my laptop has three prongs. So back to Corte Ingles I went, and with the help of a very nice associate that didn’t speak quite so quickly, I exchanged it for a direct adapter that only cost 11 Euro.

This was a substantial improvement since one Euro goes for about $1.46, plus cash exchange fees - better than the U.K., which is 2-1, but not great. The European Union introduced the Euro about 7 years ago, and at the time, the U.S. Dollar to the Euro was a 1-1 exchange.

All in all, though it sounds like the whole affair was a terrible hassle, I got a lot of practice in Spanish, and I think it was a real boost for my confidence and eased my nervousness.

By the time I left Corte Ingles, it was already about 3:15, I hadn’t had lunch yet, and at 3:30 we were scheduled to visit another museum, one of the most distinguished in Europe, known as el Museo Nacional del Prado. With so little time, I did something I’m ashamed of – I ate Burger King, and I ate it quickly. As a side note, I've been struck by how many fast food chains there are in Madrid. Every couple blocks, you can find a McDonald’s, Wendy’s, BK, and Kentucky Fried Chicken. KFC is everywhere, I think I have seen at least five already.

The Prado was enormous – we only were able to see around less than 1/10 of the 3,000 pieces in the 2 ½ hours we were there. Apparently, all the paintings and sculptures in the Prado are considered masterpieces, making the sizable collection that much more impressive. Notable artists included Goya, Velasquez, and El Greco. Unfortunately, as was the case for the earlier museum, and most museums that contain original paintings, photography was strictly forbidden.

Our guide was a middle-aged woman with plenty of spunk (I believe she was a certified National Spanish Tourism Agency guide) from the Basque region. [pronounced like “bask”] I couldn’t attempt to spell her name if I tried; Basque is definitely one of the toughest languages to make sense of among the six tongues spoken in a Castillian-Spanish dominated state.

At the beginning of the tour, our guide asked if we preferred that she speak Spanish or English, and fortunately, most of the group asked for Spanish (people were feeling more energetic). Even though we have some beginners in our group, the guide took it much too slow. It seemed like every other word of each sentence, she would translate simple phrases and words. Granted, some members of our tour group have very little experience with Spanish, it was a real drag for those more advanced in listening comprehension. It was like a car that continuously starts and stalls, creeping slowly down the street. We spent a lot of time on a few pieces; she gave in depth analysis and quizzed the group allowing for a more interactive experience, but sometimes she would delve into a very interesting point or detail that would eventually become obscured or dropped due to her incessant explanation of very basic Spanish.

As we made our way through the seemingly endless galleries, the group discussed a range of themes found in the diverse collection including religious depictions, political symbolism, mythology, and stark realism which varied from piece to piece and context to context. To the side, you can check out my favorite, Velasquez’s “Las Meninas,” a painting I recognize from my senior year European history book. To view the painting on the site I found it (sharper quality) click here.

Overall, it was stunning to be in the presence of actual original works of art that are so familiar from their many prints, history books, and popular use. It’s so hard to fathom their significance and rarity; I felt like they had to be fakes. Standing a few feet from some of the most famous and beautiful paintings in the world takes some getting used to. I hope I can eventually convince myself that these originals are actually real. I still have yet to find out what classes I will be taking, but I know that an art history course is offered. I’m thrilled to have the opportunity to gain a better understanding through going out and seeing these works in person.

That evening, once again, I went out with a big group of Americans (it’s just really hard to avoid at this point) in search of a place to eat. All of us have become accustomed to rolling at least 10 deep and making our presence felt at restaurants much too small for us to even remotely blend in. Our waiter had absolutely no patience for our attempts to order, and though his English was not particularly good, he told us not to even try to speak Spanish. We decided to order sangria, and went all was said and done we had about 5 jugs between 10 people, so everyone was feeling pretty loose. The menu was somewhat expensive, so I ordered Chorizo Iberico (Iberian sausage) for a cool 11.50 Euro thinking it would probably come with a vegetable and rice.

Nope. The waiter put a huge plate of what appeared to be pepperonis in front of me. To the left, you can get an idea of what my fatty feast looked like…they were tasty, but Christ, it was not the meal I envisioned.

Meats are huge in Spain, especially ham, sausage, and other products derived from pigs. As far as I can tell, the saltier and fattier, the better, though I have to say I’m quickly growing accustomed to the meat and the very different methods of preparation (roast pork is literally an entire pig, head, legs, feet and all). With such a love for pork, it’s no wonder the Christian Spainards never really got along too well with the Muslims.

When we all finished up, everyone was feeling a bit buzzed, and we struggled to divide up the bill. It’s not customary to tip here, since the price of the food typically accounts for the gratuity, but even without trying to figure out the tip, we had trouble. The jugs of sangria ran about 15 Euro a pop (I shared with two other people, whereas some people ordered one to split) and the waiter had split the bill for one end of the table, and some people put money onto two different tabs…it was very confusing, it always happens in big groups. For my part, I contributed 17 Euro which was about par for the course for my sausage stomachache and sangria headache.

Without much cash left, we wandered around for a bit scoring free drinks from promoters before people decided to settle down for the rest of the night in a hookah bar. I went to find a bathroom at the bar, which I found with the help of an extremely drunk German kid who directed me to the basement. Slowly making my way downstairs, I felt unsafe and uneasy for the first time about being out of place. In the corner of the basement, there was a group of Europeans about my age huddled on a sketchy couch that all shot me a glance as I made my way to the bathroom.

The dark, damp, and foreign quality to the basement reminded me of the movie Hostel. For those unfamiliar, Hostel epitomizes the contemporary trend of horror film towards gore-packed torture porn. The plot has definitely been done before, but perhaps never so graphically distasteful. American college students backpacking across Europe are lured to Amsterdam where they stay at a hotel with stereotypically promiscuous blonde European girls. The girls are in on a scheme that drugs, kidnaps, and brings Americans to a warehouse where wealthy patrons can shell out thousands of dollars to torture a national of their choice (Americans being the most expensive) in whatever manner they desire. From this, you can understand that the basement really sent a chill down my spine.

A pretty dark way to end a post, but I think this has gone on long enough.