No sleep for us. We find that the jet-lag thing works best for us if we power through the day and evening and go to bed at the appropriate time for this time zone (+9 hrs). It makes a hellacious first day, but things go smoother thereafter. So, we’re in the room, our stuff stowed, and we’ve been up for 23 hours. Hey, let’s take a long walk to a big museum. Actually, this would be our only chance to see the famed Prado, as our group is going elsewhere tomorrow. Armed with Nadine’s directions, a hotel-desk map, and John & Meghan’s Fodor’s Spain 2015, we set off walking. Nadine estimated 25 minutes, but it easily took 45. Part of that is due to the many cross-streets we had to traverse, and the fact that virtually all Madrilenos take “don’t walk” lights seriously, even if there is no cross traffic visible for many blocks. They simply wait. Not wanting to be ugly Americans, we waited as well. It’s not a particularly beautiful walk from our hotel to the Prado, except when we traversed a parkway for part of the trip. Madrid reminded us of Buenos Aires, only cleaner. In fact, in retrospect, all of Spain and Portugal appeared to be quite clean and tidy. After getting only a little lost, we finally reached the Prado, which, externally, is rather ho-hum.
On arrival, we were confronted with very long lines waiting to buy tickets. We debated whether to bag the whole deal, but spoke with an attendant who assured us that that l-o-o-o-n-g line would be at the tellers’ windows in only 17 minutes. Those are those three dark entrances behind Loni, above. This pic was shot after our visit, after the lines had disappeared. They stretched way around the building to the right. Sure enough, we were at the windows in exactly 17 minutes. Guess they know what they’re doing. 28 euros lighter, we entered, intent on running down Goya, Valazquez, and the special Picasso items being shown. Photos weren’t permitted, which I found out after I had snuck in this shot which, frankly, was the best of the Picasso’s. I really can’t stand his later fractured works, so it didn’t take long to get through the special exhibit. What I was surprised to find was that I wasn’t much impressed with the permanent collection. Jetlag? Plebianism? Dunno. I liked Goya’s famous Second of May and Third of May, 1808, but was pretty cold to everything else except his extraordinary range of styles. Valazquez didn’t do it for me. I also liked Bosch’s Garden of Delights, but I was really revolted by several renditions of Saturn Devouring One Of His Sons. I was so tired after an hour of shuffling around that I had to sit down and close my eyes for a few minutes. I literally felt ill from fatigue. We cut our visit short and made our way back to the hotel, again abiding the crosswalks all the way.
As is their custom, Collette held a welcome meeting where Nadine explained how the tour operated, including the use of “whispers,” which are Walkman-like devices with an earplug for listening to the guides at our various stops. These are a great development, as the guide can speak normally and you can hear him/her clearly in noisy environments, and can walk all over the place while the narration is going on. We were each issued one, with dire threats as to liability for loss or breakage, and a plea to please turn them off when not in use so as to make the battery last for the duration of the trip. Actually, Nadine was so sweet, that she doesn’t know the meaning of dire, and she always had spare batteries for the slower-witted. Our group was only 29, which is a great number as it is easier to manage and you get a chance to meet everyone.
Dinner tonight was arranged by Collette at El Septimo, and we fairly packed the place. There was a table of “others,” with a women determined to get her share of wine, and with a cackling laugh that turned heads all over the restaurant. I started with a red tuna Carpaccio, with a partridge risotto for a main, and an almond-raisin apple strudel with ice cream for dessert. All quite nice, in pleasant surroundings, but nothing to get overly excited about. Them partridges is small boids. Cackling woman not shown in below shot.
Back to the hotel at about 10 pm. Now up 33 hours, so an Ambien is called for. Otherwise I’d lie awake with my head spinning. Ahhhh, zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
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