Madrid (That’s in Spain)

We (Brett Chant. my co-trainer and I) arrived at the airport after about 20 hours in transit. We expected to be greeted by bulls, flamenco dancers and handsome men with AK-47s in their guitar cases. The airport is vast, many leveled and somewhat relaxed. There are constant announcements that smoking is forbidden in the airport; except in all the smoking areas that are roughly 20 meters apart. We filled-out our immigration forms which were duly ignored as we interrupted a conversation as we entered Spain.





We took a taxi to our hotel; once again expecting all the flavours of Spain to engulf us. We were driven through an industrial estate and taken to our hotel. The hotel can only be called “Modern-chic”. By that I mean soulless with vast spaces uncluttered except for the occasional piece of objet trouve; lamps the size of small giraffes, tables in the shape of murdered drug lords and chairs whose last objective was to be sat on.

Where was Spain?

Spain was about 25 minutes away on bus number 53!

Unlike the industrial suburbs, central Madrid epitomizes what Spain must have been and what still exists in every Spaniard. All the tall, colourful houses face onto a plaza where life happens. The houses, crammed together, must be cold and dark and so the plaza is where people live, gossip and commune. Every other shop seems to be a meeting place with coffee, red wine and cured meats. Of course, at nine in the morning, no one is about. The Plaza Mayor was, at nine in the morning, almost holy in its magnificent. It was art disguised as life.





As we explored the surrounding area (mostly because we were lost) we discovered so many (so many) crammed, curved streets illuminated by early spring light. Every one unique and beautiful. Everyone original and breathing community. Every one leading to another place where we were lost.

We eventually found ourselves outside the Museo Nacional Del Prado. Goya, Valazquez, Caravaggio, Greco, Rembrandt, Raphael, Rubens and a bunch of hacks. AND THEY WERE A BUNCH OF HACKS. When you are walking through a museum of great artists and minor artists, you realize why the minor artists are minor artists. When you see a Goya, it stands out. The masters were masters for a reason. They were doing something totally different. Everyone else is simply pretenders.

But more was to come.

Museo Nacional Centro De Arte – Reina Sofia. Hacks and Dali and Picasso. OK, Dali. Yes. Amazing. But!!!!!!!!!!

Picasso’s Guernica. You know it. You have seen it. But standing in front of probably the most important painting of the 20th century is an experience. You know it. You have seen it. But it is big, passionate, complex and breath-taking. It is Spain. The feeling of seeing this extraordinary work of man is like standing in front of the Great Wall of China or on the grassy knoll. It is history! It communicates so much about our humanity. Yes, I wax lyrical, but some things just do that to you.





Weaving our way back to bus number 53 bus stop, we pass again through Plaza Mayor. It is now a circus, filled with balloon wranglers dressed as Disney characters, cheap magicians and cured meats. Art transmogrifies into life as life embracing joy.

Madrid.