From Fiesta Invites to Flamenco Nights: My Adventure in Spain (Part 2)

Click here to read part 1 of From Fiesta Invites to Flamenco Nights: My Adventure in Spain in which I travel to Málaga and Sevilla.

Madrid

Third train ride and fiiiiinally I get it right: first-class seat with a meal! It is delicious and includes wine and chocolate.

After writing a bunch of postcards, I walk to the café carriage (aha, you have to push the button on the side of the door to open it!) just to make use of the whole train experience. Have another glass of wine (vacation!) as I stand at the window and watch the passing landscape, and before I know it, the three-hour trip is over.

At Estación Madrid - Puerta de Atocha train station, I get a taxi (another two-block line that moves so fast I feel like I am just taking a leisurely stroll) and am at my Airbnb fifteen minutes later. The neighborhood where I am staying is called Malasaña, and the apartment is right off a main street called Gran Via.

This area reminds me of Manhattan: there is a river – a river, I tell you! – of people walking down Gran Via day or night!

Ok, maybe it’s not quite as crowded as that. But it feels like it.

The wide street is lined with brightly lit high-end clothing stores, 5-star hotels, and one Catholic church. Oh, and a bookstore called Casa de Libros. But then one street back, you’re on a super narrow cobblestone street where many buildings are decorated with graffiti and there are plenty of “diverse characters” hanging out. I never felt unsafe, though. Just crowded.

I meet María, the Airbnb co-host with whom I have been texting (since deciding to stay in Sevilla an extra day), and she’s so friendly. As she shows me the apartment and tells me about the neighborhood, we chat and she compliments my Spanish.

After getting settled, I walk for twenty minutes through the heart of Madrid to the Barrio de las Letras (Literary Quarter, or neighborhood), close to Atocha train station and Hotel Agumar where I stayed when I first landed in Madrid. I’m just starting to get a feel for the geography here, which is really cool.

I go for tapas y vino at Taberna de Elisa, one of the places from the Devour Tour a week ago. I sit at the bar and write in my travel journal or chat with the bartender as I eat (croquetas de jamón y patatas bravas, mmmm!).

I never feel out of place for being, quite often, the only single person and, almost always, the only single woman in a taberna. Although I do get this question a couple times: “What’s a beautiful woman doing dining/traveling by herself?” to which I always respond: “Oh, so if I were unattractive, it’d be okay to dine/travel by myself?”. (FYI - I get variations of this question in Los Angeles, too.) But aside from those few time travelers from the 18th century, no one seems to care.

Random observation: Waiters never come and check up on you. They’re friendly when you ask, but they don’t initiate. In the U.S. and Canada, waiters rely on tips and thus the better the service or “performance,” the bigger the tip.

The next morning I return to Sucre Salón de Té, that terrific tea salon across the street from the Parque del Retiro and a few blocks behind the Museo del Prado. Staying in a city long enough to have favorite places is nice.

Then I am off to an Oficina de Correos (Post Office) to buy stamps for my postcards. Right in front of the entrance is a Guardia Civil (military-style law enforcement agency) officer, standing with feet firmly planted shoulder-width apart and holding an assault rifle (or submachine gun, I have no idea; they just look big and scary) in front of his chest. Nervously, I inch towards him to ask (in my best “please don’t throw me to the ground and step on my head” voice) if this is, indeed, the post office, but as I near him, the building’s automatic doors slide open, so I hurry inside.

I go to the info desk and ask for the post office, and the serious-looking guy takes my passport and enters it into the system. For a post office?? He asks for my phone number, but when I tell him it’s a U.S. number, he says never mind. Another serious-looking fellow leads me over to the scanner and I put my purse on the conveyor belt. He points to my head and I quickly toss my sunglasses onto the belt, too. He points to my body and I do an exaggerated mime performance of patting all my pockets and then shrugging with a “nope, there’s nothing there!” expression. He directs me to yet another man who gives me a visitor’s pass to clip onto my shirt.

“Ésta es la oficina de correos, verdad?” (This is the post office, right?) I ask, thinking by now that I must be in the wrong building. Or maybe “oficina de correos” doesn’t mean what I think it means.

He says yes and tells me to go “downstairs, to the right, down the hall, through the door.” I follow his directions and make it to the door and open it and there’s just one guy sitting at a desk in a tiny office. Oops, wrong door. “Disculpa! Estoy buscando la oficina de correos.”(Sorry! I’m looking for the post office.) He kindly leaves his desk to personally walk me down the hall to the correct door, and voila! I am finally in the elusive post office. All this to buy some lousy stamps for a few postcards!

After reversing that entire process to leave the building, I attempt to go to the Museo del Prado, but when I see the enormous line up to get in, I keep walking, figuring I’ll try on another day. So instead, I go to the Museo de Romanticismo – a building so inconspicuous that I pass it on the street the first time – which is just €3 to get in.

This “former palace of the Marquis of Matallana, built in 1776, houses an interesting collection of paintings, furniture and decorative arts from the 19th century, which recreates the daily life and customs of the upper bourgeoisie during Romanticism.”

I chat with the man and woman at the front desk (who compliment my Spanish! Sorry, I can’t help but mention this every time because I’m continually amazed at my conversational fluency!) about traveling and accents/dialects within one country. Then I meander through the museum, and boy is it lovely beautiful/sumptuous/luxurious!

Two rooms in, a security guard tells me to wear my backpack on the front for security reasons. I have my phone in hand, so I automatically start to set it down on a chair I’m standing next to. He leaps forward, saying, “No, no, no!” Oops. The chair I am inches away from putting my grubby phone on is a priceless, 200-year-old museum piece! I apologize profusely and slink away.

It’s quite the museum. I really love being immersed in this time period. Also, it’s built like an IKEA in which you walk through each room by following a carefully enforced path. At one point, I take a wrong turn (which would have meant skipping one room) and a very serious-looking woman suddenly materializes, shakes her head, and points me in the right direction.

Later, I spend some time at Casa de Libros inhaling books (and buy a couple of Spanish-language novels, now that I am practically bilingual ← haha).

Then I walk to another of the tabernas I first visited on the Devour Tour last week: Ferretería (the previous 100-year-old hardware store).

It’s mostly empty so I have my pick of tables and I order a glass of white wine. As I’m writing in my travel journal, three guys come in and sit at the table next to mine and smile and nod and I’m pretty sure one of them winks at me. Soon, one guy asks what I am writing, and before long we are all chatting (in Spanish! Have I mentioned that yet???).

There is an older lady (~80) at a nearby table who keeps answering her phone, shouting into it, and then going outside to finish the call. After a few rounds of this, she stops at the table with the three guys and sits down with them (uninvited, I’m fairly certain). But they’re so friendly they chat with her like old friends. One of the guys keeps looking over at me and we share a smile or two, and finally he invites me over to their table.

I can’t understand the lady very well, but I understand the three guys (Manuel, Andrés and Eliot), and soon we’re all talking and laughing and sharing travel stories. The older woman keeps turning her intense eyes on me and asking why I’m traveling alone, and I can’t tell if she’s impressed or disturbed.

The three amigos order another round of drinks for everyone, and then about an hour later the older woman says she has a dentist appointment (at 8 p.m.!) and leaves. The guys tell me they’re about to head out to a dinner party and that I should come. My North American self assumes this is just politeness, so I decline, but they insist. Then the voice in my head (the one that’s had two glasses of wine on an empty stomach) reminds me that this is what I wanted: To connect with lots of interesting people on this adventure. So I say “vale!” (okay!).

We walk for ten or fifteen minutes to their hotel – Only YOU Hotel Atocha (no idea why “YOU” is all in capitals) – so they can drop off their luggage and change, and I hang out in the lobby with the best-looking bookshelf I’ve ever seen (and, yes, I’m the only one pulling books off it and reading them):

We take a 10-minute Uber to the restaurant, which is across the street from El Parque de Retiro, and we’re all talking and laughing like old friends. It doesn’t occur to me until we are in the very nice restaurant and their friend is greeting them all that I am a party crasher. When the woman hosting this dinner turns to me and asks how long I’ve known her three friends, I look at them a bit flustered and Manuel says, “Dos horas o así” (About two hours). I fully expect to be scorned, kicked out, ridiculed, but she just says “Bienvenida! Encantada de conocerte!” (Welcome! Nice to meet you!), hugs me and kisses me on both cheeks.

I really think I could get used to the Spanish way of life!

Everyone at the dinner is very nice to me, very friendly. The dinner itself is delicious – many different tapas and a lot of wine. It is so surreal, I feel like I’m in a Spanish movie (Almodóvar, except no one’s tying me up, tying me down). I sit between Manuel and Andrés who translate for me or fill me in on the details when I don’t understand something. Andrés explains to me what each new dish is and then serves me. It’s hard for me to understand the group conversation, but when I speak to each person individually, I understand everything. Two of the women are impressed that I have traveled so far from home alone.

The night ends at midnight – at least for me, who has to get up early the next day – and my three new friends won’t let me contribute to the bill. We exchange email addresses to keep in touch and I get a hug and a kiss on each cheek from everyone. The ten-minute taxi ride back to my Airbnb is just me staring out the window at the passing nighttime scenery with a huge grin on my face I can’t get rid of.

Toledo

The next day, I wake up before sunrise and walk to the meeting point for my Devour Tour day trip Small Group Toledo Day Trip from Madrid with Winery Tour. It’s still dark, yet here in the middle of the city there is already so much traffic — auto and pedestrian.

There are eight of us on the tour plus our guide Ernesto (Ernie), who is absolutely fabulous – friendly and knowledgeable. We take a private minibus for the hour or so drive out to Toledo and, although everyone is an English speaker, I have to admit that it is nice to go on this adventure with others rather than by myself. Besides, without Ernie’s knowledge I would’ve just been wandering around taking pictures of random buildings.

First, we stop at the highest point in Toledo, across the river from the Old Town, and it is gorgeous.

The entire city of Toledo was declared a Historic-Artistic Site (Conjunto Histórico-Artístico) in 1940 and in 1986 was also declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO, and it’s not hard to see why:

Once we park in town, we take about six escalators (previously just stairs) to the top of Old Town Toledo. Ernie gives us a great tour of this neighborhood, including the synagogue and Santa Iglesia Catedral Primada de Toledo, both of which are gorgeous works of art.

Toledo is considered the town that is most representative of Spanish culture, as it is a fusion of Christian, Arab and Jewish culture. We also learn that the city is renowned for the production of swords and knives, and there's even a souvenir shop that sells them. But who the hell is taking a three-foot sword on the plane??

After a several-hour walking tour of the town, we stop for lunch and a bit of free time, and then return to the bus. On the way back to Madrid, we make a detour to Méntrida, a town with a population of 3,521, to do a private wine tasting at the Bodegas Jiménez-Landi (vineyard) with owner Pedro.

He gives us the full tour, which ends with a tasting of their red, white and orange wines, and they’re all delicious, so I buy a bottle of red.

Finally, we get back to Madrid around 4:30 p.m. I go home and, exhausted, fall asleep super early.

Madrid (again)

After a glorious 10-hour sleep (my god, I’d move to Spain just for the sleep!), I set out for today’s adventure.

First stop: Chocolatería San Ginés, which has been in business for chocolate and churros since 1894.

Although I had told myself that once was enough for this sweet breakfast (well, lunch by the time I get my vacationy ass out the door), I am compelled to partake of it again at this historic café. Delicious, but still too sweet.

So I immediately go to La Casa del Abuelo Cruz (recommended by Spain Revealed) for a proper lunch that consists of delicious gambas al ajillo (garlic shrimp), queso Manchego (Manchego cheese, which is specifically made in the La Mancha area of Spain from the sheep’s milk and is aged between 60 days and 2 years) y un cerveza.

I’m really getting used to hearing Spanish all the time everywhere (the original title of Everything Everywhere All At Once). At first it was really noticeable (“Wow, they’re speaking Spanish!”), but now it sounds/feels completely normal.

I’ve wanted to be fluent in another language for a long time, so I really love this. Sometimes I’m clunky and don’t know the right words, but then I can be so fluent and well-pronounciated (made-up word alert) that I feel like I’ve rocketed out to space, or something equally as remarkable. It’s an incredible feeling to communicate in a whole new language. Shout out to my Spanish teacher, Laura!

Speaking of which, the next day I meet Laura!! After almost two years of online classes, we’ve become friends, so I’m really excited to meet her in person. This morning as we’re texting before meeting, I write “Siento que voy a conocer a una celebridad!! Porque hasta ahora solo te he visto en la pantalla!” (I feel like I'm going to meet a celebrity!! Because until now I've only seen you on the screen!)

*Laura and Selena meeting in person for the first time!*

We meet at Plaza del Sol at the estatua del oso y madroño (statue of the bear and strawberry tree — a statue that even she doesn’t understand the significance of), point zero in Madrid (in other words, the geographical center of the city).

It is fantastic to see her in person! She has her infant son strapped to her chest, so I hug the both of them tightly and try not to crush her baby (who sometimes joins us for our online classes). We spend the next six hours together (talking entirely in Spanish!!), meandering through central Madrid.

We go briefly to El Rastro, a giant flea market that's held every Sunday, just so I can cross it off my list o’ things to see here (I’m not a shopper and also it was jam-packed). We stop at a taberna for a cerveza and sit outside. Later, for lunch, we have paella and sangría – very touristy, but since I am with a Spaniard, I decide that it’s okay, which is what the paella and sangría are: okay).

*Quote on the wall of the Cine Doré, Madrid*

She shows me the Cine Doré (a cinematheque-type theater that plays indie and older films) and we have coffee in their café. There is an interesting quote on the (rather reflective) wall. Translation:

More whorish than chickens.

More painted than a monkey.

More output than a cat in heat.

And there are still more, many more sexist insults.

Enough already!

We walk over to El Parque Retiro and sit on the grass. At one point Laura goes off to find a bathroom and leaves baby Martín with me, who is fine for about five minutes until he realizes mama has left and then for the next ten minutes I try to soothe him and not look like a kidnapper.

And then suddenly it is time for Laura to leave, so I walk her to Atocha train station, we say our lengthy goodbyes, and then go our separate ways. Until I realize I still have her purse, at which point I run down the sidewalk, serpentining through a dense crowd of pedestrians yelling “Laura! Laura!”

I wake up this morning and it is my last day. Turns out my last day in Spain revolves around the goddamn post office again. I do an “oficina de correos” search in Google Maps and optimistically walk ten minutes to the closest one. It’s not there. Not even a hint of it. So I head for the next closest one. Doesn’t exist either. I walk around the entire block looking for a secret back entrance. Nope. Nothing.

Finally, I find an actual, real, existing post office near the Prado in a huge, majestic, intimidating but gorgeous building. I enter and a woman approaches me and tells me to take a number. I see a long line of people awaiting their turn with their little slips of numbered paper in hand and I quickly say to the woman, “Solo estoy buscando un buzón de correos!” (I’m just looking for a mail box!)

“Ya con sellos?” (Already stamped?) she asks.

When I say “sí!” she leads me over to the counter, interrupts the customer standing there, hands my postcards to the lady behind the counter, and tells her to put them in the mail box right away. “Muchísimas gracias!!” I sing-song to her with a big grin, which makes her smile.

Note: At the time of this writing, it is 19 days later and only two out of seven postcards have arrived at their destination. Now I’m thinking the woman behind the counter just tossed most of them in the trash. Interrupt me while I’m already with a customer, will you??

Squeezing every minute out of my last day, I walk across central Madrid to the Palacio Real de Madrid (Royal Palace) and the Galería de las Colecciones Reales (Gallery of the Royal Collections), merely wandering around the outside, because, well, line-ups. But even the exteriors are gorgeous:

Although I can’t say I understand the significance of this character outside the Royal Palace:

And, finally, I decide to go back one last time to one of my favorite taverns, Taberna de la Elisa. On the 20-minute walk, I am already feeling so nostalgic for this city that I take photos of pretty much every building I pass or street I turn on to:

Taberna de la Elisa is quiet enough that I have a conversation with the bartender. When I learn that he is from Algeria, I ask if he had spoken Spanish before he moved here. Nope. Learned it entirely from being here. And after just a few years, he speaks it like a native (as far as I can tell).

We chit-chat a bit more, and then he goes to the front door and looks out into the street, and I take a quick photo because it seems like the perfect shot to the end of my trip.

I wake up this morning feeling a bit sad because my Spain adventure is at a close. But as I pack my suitcase, a montage of the last two weeks goes through my head: traveling around the country via train, watching an incredible flamenco show, walking the cobblestone streets at night, being spontaneously invited to a fabulous dinner party, eating delicious food at tabernas, asking for regional wine recommendations (orange wine!) everywhere I went.

And I met so many wonderful people: Javier (the kind waiter in Málaga), Laura and Alba (the friendly hotel clerks in Sevilla), Rachel and John (the older dance-loving couple at the flamenco show), Joaquin (the angel/usher), María (the kind Airbnb host), Manuel, Andrés and Eliot (the three friendly amigos who invited me to the dinner), and of course getting to hang out all afternoon with Laura. And I did all that in Spanish!

On the taxi ride to the airport I take in every last drop of this country that I love – the passing landscape, the driver’s radio communication en español, the euros I pay the driver with. Also, I realize that I left the bottle of wine from Bodegas Jiménez-Landi at the Airbnb, so I text María “Considérla un regalo de mi para ti!” (Consider it a gift from me to you!) She texts back: “La beberé a tu salud!” (I’ll drink it to your health!)

The taxi driver gives me instructions as to where exactly in the airport to go – which is extremely helpful as the 23 minutes to get to my gate consists of: up the stairs, through security, take a train, down the stairs, walk along a suuuuuper long corridor) – which is the perfect bookend to my first taxi driver who welcomed me to the city with a hearty handshake.

Note: All photos taken by Selena Templeton, unless otherwise noted. Main blog image generated using OpenAI's ChatGPT and DALL-E.

Madrid

Random observation: Waiters never come and check up on you. They’re friendly when you ask, but they don’t initiate. In the U.S. and Canada, waiters rely on tips and thus the better the service or “performance,” the bigger the tip.

Toledo

Madrid (again)

IF YOU ENJOYED READING THIS TRAVEL BLOG, CHECK OUT SOME OF MY OTHER ADVENTURES:

Selena Templeton