For years, I dreamed of traveling to Spain. It interested me greatly. However, I couldn’t afford it. One day, my dad surprised me and said “let’s go to Madrid” for Christmas. I beamed in excitement from ear to ear.
After buying my tickets, I daydreamed of Spain. I would go to the library and read up on the land of Don Quixote, Pedro Almodovar, flamenco dancing, tapas and siestas (naps in the middle of the day).
When we finally arrived in Madrid, feeling jet lagged. We tried keeping the romance flame alive. “You’re room is not ready yet,” said the handsome man at the hotel’s front desk. “What? No nap,” then it dawned on me. I can nap in America. This is Madrid. My dad was equally exhausted. However, we marched out of the hotel and into the streets of the Spanish capital.
Madrid felt like a glamorous old city. The buildings were ornate and taller than I anticipated. A hazy sun played along the sidewalk. Even the walls lining El Parque del Retiro (Madrid’s Central Park) had an old cosmopolitan feel to them. I suggested we go to El Prado Museum. My dad thought it was too early, but I convinced him other wise. Walking from our hotel on Calle de Goya to the Prado was an experience.
The sidewalks were filled with women in lavish fur coats, men dressed in traditional suits and street-fashion clad young people. Hair salons were covered in blue lighting, which flashed brightly against the equally ocean hued covered skies. We reached the Prado.
As expected, it was a wonderland of Spanish art. After our visit, book- stands were set up. Volumes of books from Spanish, American and British authors lined the sidewalks like organized pigeons looking for breadcrumbs.
The roar of traffic progressed as the city was further awaken. While the car horns provided a soundtrack, people traffic increased. We forgot about our jet lag. Our hotel room was finally ready, but we wanted to explore more.
We took our first Madrid metro ride to Puerta del Sol, had a delicious Cuban dinner and then ended up in Madrid’s gay heart, Chueca. As we roamed the streets of Chueca, my dad looked at his watch. It was 3 am and we officially earned our title as night owls. It was a great bonding experience, not so lovely was trying to catch a cab at that hour.
After staying up nearly 24 hours, I had a difficult time getting used to the Spanish schedule. Being American everything is not so late night. However, in Spain, my inner insomniac wandered around and had a marvelous time, drinking sangria under the moonlight. I haven’t been back to Madrid in years, but have fond memories of our family journey.