Today I promise the boys an
easy day. Every time I have said this, unfortunately, I’ve been guilty of
uttering a complete and total lie. Will today be the exception that proves the
rule? Should I just go with the flow and change my name to Trump? We discuss
enforcing rapid progress through art museums and focusing on the art we
actually want to see. This approach presents massive difficulty for us. How
would we know what we want to see until we see it? Our son moves even more
slowly than we do AND he can read Spanish, eliminating our excuse, “Oh, we
can’t understand the description by the artwork. Best move on.”
But first, we worry about
traveling to Granada on Monday. We decide we must consult with RENFE. Examining
RENFE’s website on the internet, I learn of a planned AVE track from Madrid to
Granada, to be completed in 2020. Currently, no train tracks exist between
Córdoba and Granada. Huh? (Ave means
bird in Spanish, thus bird the flying train, causing massive jealousy on the
part of my Bird, the wheelchair.)
Duly confused, after
breakfast, off we go to Puerta de Atocha. Our proposed stop, Handicap Customer
Service, where RENFE provides assistance for people like me getting on trains.
Our first helper, a gentleman
working in the Handicap Customer Service Center, becomes so confused by the
concept of an AVE train and a bus that he walks us over to the more advanced people
who work in Disabled Customer Service. He ambulates most curiously. I later
learn that RENFE hires the handicapped to assist the handicapped. We spend
around half an hour with a woman who takes my name and enters it into a
computer, we think to tell the train people to have ramps where we stop, but
we’re not entirely sure that we accomplish anything in our time here. She also
seems bewildered by the bus, but does tell us that the bus will be accessible
at the time needed. Sometimes I think our destiny involves living at Puerta de Atocha. Fortunately, our Airbnb
lies very close to the Atocha train station. Oh well, if we fail with trains
& buses, a cab from Granada to Córdoba costs €130.
Trains settled or unsettled,
we begin our art museum filled day with a trip to the Centro de Arte de Reina Sophia, highly touted by Mr. Steves. We ride
a most excellent external glass lift up to the fourth floor where we find a
plethora of very modern art and art installations. Although we agreed and desire
to walk along fairly rapidly, I can’t get Bloodroot to move. He changes his
mind and decides he must see everything no matter how much we have to see
today. He carefully and slowly reads about each artwork in Spanish. All reading
in other languages requires unhurried, meticulous attention, regardless of your
fluency level. Ignoring our near constant heckling and cajoling, Bloodroot
insists we spend about an hour on the fourth floor. Ugh, children!
The curator loves film as an
art form and has matched each piece with an appropriate movie. So Dalί’s The Great Masturbator stands beside the
short film Un Chien Andalou (The
Andalusian Dog). Why do all of these famous Spaniards title their work in
French? Fortunately, Bloodroot does not insist upon watching each movie or we
would have never come home! (Actually, I later learn that he already saw Un Chien Andalou a few years back.) I’m
not sure I have anything really to report, except that I see nothing
exceptional, actually nothing really worth seeing. Perhaps Bloodroot has a more
positive experience to share. He tells me he didn’t find it too interesting. Alternatively,
Keith finds this a most excellent museum floor, chiding me on my lack of
sophistication. I admit, I like representational art. I loved Florence!
We travel, again via the most
exotic glass elevator, down to the second floor where we push through a lot of
Miróes and Dalίs. We begin to see photos and various art pieces about the
Spanish Civil War, both Communist and anti-Franco posters. We walk through a
lot of precursory studies done by Picasso before eventually walking into the
room housing the main event, Guernica.
I look at Guernica for really long
time, annoying the boys. Guernica,
perhaps the world’s most poignant piece of art ever, shows the world turned
upside down by the Fascist bombing of a Basque market town. I take in the bull,
the symbol of Spanish strength, who stands powerless before the might of modern
warfare. The piece has a drawn electric lightbulb at the top, I believe to show
the power of the machines, capable of generating both good and immense evil. I
ponder the horse screaming in fear alongside the dead women and children. Even
now, the images leap forth from the canvas, demanding an end to war, powerfully
reminding us that we can easily all become “collateral damage.” I am moved.
After Guernica, we find ourselves sore and hungry. Fried. But we’ve had
enough of the Reina Sofia. We make to leave but lose each other. Regrouping, we
collect Bloodroot and our belongings. We
begin to look for lunch.
Foraging with the Bear, we
drop in on the workers in our favorite wine store, which has conveniently just
opened for the day. We explain that we seek a nice place for lunch where we can
eat good food, have a glass of wine and relax. They suggest a place called La
Veronica, where one of them works.
Obeying orders, we march over
to La Veronica where we enjoy a wonderful fixed-price plate (€11) lunch and some
wine. The modern décor welcomes us; we sit in front of a pastel-colored wall
with some Warhol-inspired canvas hung on it. Refreshed and relaxed, we leave,
perhaps a bit reluctantly.
But art calls us! Onward! Back
to the Thyssen. Having previously enjoyed the Munch exhibit Wednesday evening,
this time we visit the museum’s permanent collection. We start on the first
floor, most excellent, containing lot of the 20th century artists we
like. But under the guise of complete honesty, I must admit that I sleep
through most of the first floor. This disease has caused me to sleep in every museum
that we have encountered, and relaxing with a glass of wine at lunch doesn’t
help! Is there a prize for sleeping in every major European museum? If so, I
could win!
I wake for the second floor,
almost entirely given over to Spanish Impressionism. Like the Catalan Art
Museum, we see artists unknown to us who painted in the Impressionist manner.
We love it! We so embrace breaking out of the Monet, Manet, Renoir circle. We
spend a delightful afternoon surrounded by the art of Spain. Far too early, the
museum closes.
We leave around closing time knowing
we have one more Madrid thing to see. We roll over to Charles III’s Botanic
Gardens, neighboring the Prado. Let in gratis as we haven’t much time, we learn
that the park currently closes at seven.
The tree filled park contains
lots and lots of dahlias, blooming in every hue. Some plants bear blossoms in
more than one color. Walkways surround squares of plantings. Bloodroot
investigates Bloodroot items, unknown to his parental units, while Keith and I
check out whole aisles of dahlias.
A young man, probably aged
two, drives a plastic motorcycle helter-skelter, careening right toward me. His
youth allows him decadent speed without paying the slightest bit of attention
to what may be in his way. Full speed, kamikaze-like, he approaches Bird and
me. I shudder in mock horror. “Hola,” I say. Terrified of a talking woman in a
wheelchair, he stops dead in his tracks. The kid backs his motorcycle right
into a dahlia bed. Recovering, he charges down one garden lane, then another,
much to the annoyance of the two adults attempting to supervise him. He’s very
cute. His keepers quickly leave off their exasperation and join in laughing
with him.
We enjoy the gardens for
perhaps half an hour. Far too soon, it’s
6:45PM and a guard begins officiously blowing his whistle to chase everyone out
of the garden. Bloodroot, being Bloodroot, finds another exit that he wants us
to take, directing us to go to the end of the garden to come out near our house.
After providing directions, Bloodroot capitalizes on the opportunity to leave
us. He wanders off up some stairs, seeking a palace or something. We encounter
the whistleblowing maniac, who, waving violently, sends us in the opposite direction,
going back past where Bloodroot abandoned us. We stop to wait for Bloodroot,
bringing about furious arm gesticulating and whistleblowing on the part of the
guard. I shout, ”Mi hijo viene.” But
to no avail. I repeat, “Hijo, hijo, hijo,”
pointing behind the guard. (Of course hijo,
hijo, hijo, [iho, iho, iho] can begin to sound like a donkey braying.) The red-faced
man continues to blow his whistle and wave his arms. His arms begin to make
full circles around his body. Puffing, spinning and blowing on his whistle, he
resembles a demented windmill. I expect his arms to fly off at any minute, like
a cartoon person. Finally, he turns around, sees Bloodroot, and lets us
regroup. We leave the gardens highly amused.
We head for home, stopping
first to gather groceries. The boys create another fantastic meal. We rejoice in
having an Airbnb with a kitchen instead of the non-food monstrosities that
caterers force on you, even if we need three elevator rides to get all my
cripple crap up to our flat.
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