Bienvenido a Madrid Bonito
02/05/07 23:56 Filed in: Spain
We caught the Tuesday Aeromexico nonstop flight from Mexico City to Madrid. After ten surprisingly easy hours in a new, roomy Boeing 777, we were on the ground in one of Europe's shabbier airports. We took the subway to the city center and checked into the utilitarian Hotel Regente.
Our hotel wastes no money on an elaborate lobby or elegant public spaces. It's a walk-up located on a narrow side street. Across from the front door are a number of convenient small businesses.
OK. The neighborhood ain't much, but c'mon: we're only a couple hundred yards from Puerta del Sol and our room is neat and clean. Anyway, what do you expect for under €100 a night?
I ventured out to get my first impression. It became obvious that the bus system was broken. For example, this poor girl must have waited for a couple of hours, but hers never came.
A few of doors down from the souvenir shop, I was shocked, shocked to encounter this establishment in a Catholic country:
A pair of young women waved enticingly at me from the entrance until I brought my camera up. The blonde, in a most sudden change of heart, turned her back on me. A brunette scuttled behind a post. As I walked off, they shouted insults. Apparently, I broke some local taboo.
Note that this Shop offers Copenhagen Sex, presumably more alluring than frumpy old Castilian Sex. Although I must say that the promise of the svelte blue silhouettes on either end of the sign is hardly met by the blonde out front. Kind of like the difference between a menu picture of a Big Mac and the sad, soggy reality you find in your Value Meal.
Speaking of McDonalds, is there no escaping these things? The first restaurant Jean and I saw as we emerged from the subway was not a tapas bar, not a paella restaurant. It was this:
That's it! I'm gonna stop traveling to places where there are McDonalds. That eliminates Europe and both of the Americas. How about China?
Oops. That won't work either. I guess we're doomed. I always thought you could stop these things by voting with your feet. Just walk away. Apparently the Madrileños feel differently. The place was jammed.
Looking around for a meal, Jean noticed a Ham Museum. That is not a typo. Here she is, in her red jacket, peering incredulously inside.
The place turned out to be a sort of deli and restaurant combo. There were no pork galleries, no 18th-century smoke-cured masters. No browsing allowed. "Buy something and eat it!" That was their policy.
It was 9PM, the beginning of dinnertime. We went inside, and found half of Madrid with their feedbags on.
Look at all those hams! We found a table in the back and ordered—you guessed it—a plate of sliced ham. Deep red Andalusian acorn-fed ham. It was chewy and intense.
Oh. And to top off, I ordered a plate of fried sardines. Stunk up the whole dining room. It was worth it, though. I wonder if they serve any vegetables here...
Our hotel wastes no money on an elaborate lobby or elegant public spaces. It's a walk-up located on a narrow side street. Across from the front door are a number of convenient small businesses.
OK. The neighborhood ain't much, but c'mon: we're only a couple hundred yards from Puerta del Sol and our room is neat and clean. Anyway, what do you expect for under €100 a night?
I ventured out to get my first impression. It became obvious that the bus system was broken. For example, this poor girl must have waited for a couple of hours, but hers never came.
A few of doors down from the souvenir shop, I was shocked, shocked to encounter this establishment in a Catholic country:
A pair of young women waved enticingly at me from the entrance until I brought my camera up. The blonde, in a most sudden change of heart, turned her back on me. A brunette scuttled behind a post. As I walked off, they shouted insults. Apparently, I broke some local taboo.
Note that this Shop offers Copenhagen Sex, presumably more alluring than frumpy old Castilian Sex. Although I must say that the promise of the svelte blue silhouettes on either end of the sign is hardly met by the blonde out front. Kind of like the difference between a menu picture of a Big Mac and the sad, soggy reality you find in your Value Meal.
Speaking of McDonalds, is there no escaping these things? The first restaurant Jean and I saw as we emerged from the subway was not a tapas bar, not a paella restaurant. It was this:
That's it! I'm gonna stop traveling to places where there are McDonalds. That eliminates Europe and both of the Americas. How about China?
Oops. That won't work either. I guess we're doomed. I always thought you could stop these things by voting with your feet. Just walk away. Apparently the Madrileños feel differently. The place was jammed.
Looking around for a meal, Jean noticed a Ham Museum. That is not a typo. Here she is, in her red jacket, peering incredulously inside.
The place turned out to be a sort of deli and restaurant combo. There were no pork galleries, no 18th-century smoke-cured masters. No browsing allowed. "Buy something and eat it!" That was their policy.
It was 9PM, the beginning of dinnertime. We went inside, and found half of Madrid with their feedbags on.
Look at all those hams! We found a table in the back and ordered—you guessed it—a plate of sliced ham. Deep red Andalusian acorn-fed ham. It was chewy and intense.
Oh. And to top off, I ordered a plate of fried sardines. Stunk up the whole dining room. It was worth it, though. I wonder if they serve any vegetables here...