Livin' la vida local

It is, at last, a glorious day in the Spanish capital. After a few months of hiding the sun has once again haltingly shown his face, much like a middle aged executive who, on returning shamefacedly from a wild six months in Rio with his hot young secretary is unsure of how his affection will be recieved. He needn't have worried, Winter is forgiven and forgotten.

This drastic climate change (warning! warning! controversial issue broached!) means that heavy coats have been banished to the back of wardrobes, sandals have made a welcome reappearance and girls, it's time to treat that skin you're in with some shea butter and almond body scrub followed by an intense mosturizing session with those trusted brands you love. Apologies, have been reading a little too much Cosmo of late...I must admit their section on finding romance was inspiring. Any ignorant hack would assume the inaugral piece of advice  "Get a Date" skipped over several steps and was just bloody idiotic. But they couldn't accesorize a floral print dress if it killed them.

Anywho, what with spring having sprung I have taken it upon myself to wander the streets where I live. And they are beautiful streets when the sun is shinging. Calle Santa Engracia herself is a wide avenue lined with trees and little boutiques and cafes. Soon the proprietors will start dragging metal tables and wicker chairs onto the pavements and they will be filled with Spaniards in siesta hour, aproveching of the three hour lunch break. As you walk down towards Alonso Martinez square, where my neighbourhood Starbucks hangs its hat, you pass buildings of red brick and white stone, the type that glitters when the sun hits it.

The Square itself is busy with traffiic at many, if not all times, and they circle round a marble fountain that is lit up at night. The business district is just to the left and you always have droves of professionals in suits, clutching take-away coffee cups and mobile phones, jabbering away in Spanish, French and occasional English. One of the best, presumably vital to the economic well being of the nation, exchanges I have overheard was between and Englishman in a long tweed coat and an American in what he has assumed is a daringly fashionable trilby.

"It just goes to show no one listens to the British anymore. If we had done what I said in the first place then we wouldn't be in this horrible mess, would we old boy?"

"Ah, what? Sorry, you caught me there. Mind wandered, what did'jah say?"

"Doesn't matter..."

But that's up Calle Genova, and it's just past here that things get interesting for a while. For as a dear friend was told by a colleague;

"Mira, el calle Genova es como un río que no cruce ningún hombre respetable"  See here, Genova street is a river which no respectable man would dare cross 

For it is here that we have the small district of Cheuca, where everyone wants to take you to a gay bar...

We can stroll casually past Cheuca for now, it is ten o'clock on a Monday morning and it's denizens have not even begun the precarious task of finding their clothing and leaving a note on the refrigerator. However, be careful never to ignore it in future. There are some of the best cocktail bars and Italian restaurants, the most interesting kinck knack shops and proliferation of rainbow flags you will ever see. My fondest memory is of myself and another dear friend wandering past on our way to Gran Vía (Madrid's high street) and glancing into a DVD (clears throat meaningfully indicting a severe lack of clothing on any actor) shop and glimpsing the shopkeep in studded leather collar carefully and elegantly making his way along the "Hot out of Africa" selection with a pink feather duster. Bless.

If we walk this wise we can make our way down to Plaza de Colon (giggle, I know I would) where we see the biggest Spanish flag in existence. It blots out the sun to plant life directly underneath and constitutes a hazard to low flying aircraft. Beside it the National Library sits and teases bibliophiles like myself. This is Recoletos and it is a treelined shady (in the treelined sense, not the Del Boy sense) pedestrianised avenue that leads down to Plaza de Cibeles and, if you let it, straight on to the Museo del Prado where all the art and things is.

If you are ever in Madrid when I am not there to take you out and about then rest assured the Prado is one of the places I would have dragged you in fiendish delight. We'd do the sensible art trek like work out where the Carravaggios and Picassos are and go soak in history rather than landscapes. If there's an exhibition on we'll go there and feel all cultural. Except we can't go to the Hermitage one...I may have been ever so slightly shouted at after I took Tzar Alexander's throne for a themed chair for visitors and plopped down upon it to survey Russia's treasures. It looked like a damn cheap imitation of a not very good dining room chair. Are museum staff allowed to swear like that? How was I to know this was utterly forbidden without a velvet rope to proclaim it as such? Anway, the point is we can't go back there. 

The point is that I have to run and pick up a small child who I will endeavour to teach English to without imparting an Irish brogue nor a tendency to daydream. And on a day like today when the sky is achingly blue and so much life is going on outside I am afraid all I will teach him to do is sigh beside an open window and lament the great expectations of parents.

xo