We
were greeted at the Madrid airport by my cousin Ralph, who had 'gone south'
13 years ago after living throughout Europe. Ralph wears smiles and wit
and carries himself with a sense of passion for life. In this sense, Ralph
has become an adopted Madrileño, and I sensed that he too, could 'pick
up the dirt and smell it' at least if it was a good Spanish vineyard dirt.
He
brought us to the Sanchez Romero Grocery Store in a mall near his flat.
Spanish wines, sherry, salami, olives, hams, Japanese rice and Mexican
tortillas. Chicken, and several cuts of steak which were quite impressive,
but nothing next to the selection of local and French cheeses. Pheasants
hung upside down and some still bled from their feathers. The raw brains
of lambs. Grouse, partridge and skinned rabbits, which bled out of the
remains of their eyes and brains. I examined the seafood section - shrimps,
crabs, fish, salmon, lobster, eels and tiny barnacles.
It
was strange, but equally impressive that a landlocked city such as Madrid
lived on such a high diet of seafood. Very little of this seafood came
from Spanish waters. The Mediterranean is essentially a dead sea - fished
out from years of over-use. To fish in the Mediterranean today often means
illegally dropping bombs to shock 'anything that lives' to the surface,netted
and sold dried in Greek and North African fish markets.
Ralph
explained that if you want tapas in Madrid, there is only one place to
go. Soon enough, we were at Bocaito, a small bar packed with chattering
Madrileños. Sherry from Jerez, a plate of salted olives, tuna on bread,
chorizo sausages, octopus, fried peppers, monkfish liver, shrimps fried
in garlic oil. Tapa - the word for 'cover,' comes from the practice of
placing a lid over a glass of wine or sherry to keep out the flies - and
adding olives or cheese on the lid as a complement to the wine.
After
several sherries and brandies, Ralph was taxiing us across the city. The
Museo de Jamòn - a museum dedicated to ham, Plaza de Colòn, Plaza de España
, Calle Maria de Molina. It didn't much matter anymore - fatigue and jetlag
and brandy made it all a blur of city lights and cafes.
The
next afternoon we took the road north where the rocky slopes of the Sierra
de Guadarrama slid into cork oak and olive groves. The road climbed up
into the hills, and soon it was dreary, and snow drizzled from the clouds.
We came around a bend and into the gray palace of San Lorenzo de El Escorial,
where the Kings of Spain are buried.
I
am not interested in buildings and monuments (of which modern culture
has little to do), but the city of El Escorial and its palace was a glimpse
of the creation of the New World. It was a vision of gold pouring into
Europe from South America, and of the inherited kingdoms of Philip II,
and maybe even why the Latin American's disdain Spain.
From
the Palace we headed north, and up the mountains until we could see Madrid
province below. We crossed into the autonomous region of Castilla-Leon,
the Northern Meseta. Lily and Ralph took to the bar, and I took to
the snowed woods, with a quick jump over the highway and into the backcountry.
I tore down the hill, slid down the snow and watched the sun make its
brief red appearance before it was lost among the clouds and falling snow
and the free-range Clydesdales.
I
can see one of the seven peaks. Most of these peaks are unreachable except
by foot, and so this entire range protects an array of vultures, eagles
and buzzards and Spanish lynx.
