madrid

I'm young, five or six, the first time I see Flamenco dancers on the tv. I watch them turning and I believe with all my little heart that Spain is the most exotic place in the whole huge world, its language the most luxurious and free, and its women the most extraordinary women that can be found on the earth. These dresses like spinning wildflowers. These are ballerinas with fire in them.

In Madrid I find a little of that extravagance. I don't find the beautiful southerners, las sureñas, but the capital has its own fire beneath it. We watch the thermometer climbing slowly as we drive inland from Coruña to Madrid, peaking at 35C by the time we've reached the city limits. After the mild London summer and the North Atlantic cool of Coruña, the heat is stuffy and perfectly exotic. It's three o'clock and the city feels listless. The tradition of siesta might have died out somewhat in the hustle of city life, but a hint of it still remains in this quietness after lunch.

By late afternoon the city begins to breathe again. I'm travelling in uncharacteristic style thanks to my stylish companion — our hotel overlooks the arterial Gran Via, lined with high street shops and sprinkled with theatres and tapas bars. The rooftop pool and private balcony both suit me just fine. Each afternoon finds us in the water, looking out at the steamy city. Not far beyond our rooftop is the Puerta del Sol, the gate of the sun, kilometre zero, city centre. Every inch of the Plaza Mayor beneath it is blanketed in tourists and teenagers, waiting through the long afternoon for the night to start. Madrid is Jose's birthplace, and he doesn't hide well the way he loves it. We walk through the plaza and past the little bear of big old Madrid, and have tapas and wine. I'm not sure I could ever tire of tapas and wine. 

We spend our time in Madrid with Spanish artists and Spanish sportsmen and the Spanish sun. After a morning in the cool wide insides of the Museo del Prado with Goya and Velazquez and the huge dramatic canvases of Spain's history, we take a stroll through the gardens of the Parque del Buen Retiro, quite aptly named the 'park of the pleasant retreat'. The sun is starting to gain momentum and we try to strike the perfect balance between moving too quickly between patches of shade, and moving too fast (the sticky sweat of exertion and sunburn being equally unpleasant prospects). Everything here seems to move with a calm lack of purpose. Sprinklers blow inoffensive mist over little picnics. Twos row blue boats across the Estanque de Retiro pond. King Alfonso XII observes the scene from the centre of his colonnade. It's a bit timeless. There is nothing missing from this picture of peace. But this is no painting. Poor Alfonso is rudely backed by a squat grey high rise like a fat middle finger in the background of his painted scene and it rather ruins the effect. A city planner somewhere needs a slap.



 

In the north of the city, amidst the shiny government buildings and offices of Nuevos Ministerios, is Estadio Santiago Bernabéu, home of Jose's first love, Real Madrid FC. I spend an afternoon watching him keep his inner child at bay. The Tour Bernabéu route leads us un-guided through vast displays of trophies and memorabilia. The last century of the club's history is carefully recorded in old boots and shirts, team photographs, footage, and walls and walls of shining trophies. It's all displayed in sparkling cases lit bright against the darkened halls, and accompanied by the recorded songs and chants and cheers of match day. It's an incredibly well-presented experience, starting at the top of the stands and taking us down, through the exhibition, along the sidelines and into the changing rooms. I may not love football — it's certainly not in my blood like it's in Spanish blood — but Real Madrid held my attention for hours, and the cool belly of the stadium was a welcome reprieve from the sun.

Madrid is a beautiful capital populated by white stone fountains and great arches, and with a central park that rivals any I've seen. The food is beautiful, the wine cheap, and the pavements not so afflicted by harried suits or hurried tourists as other capitals. It has certainly left the taste for Spain in my mouth. It may not be the most exotic place in the world, as I would have told you at age five, but I'll be back.

split and hvar

I visit Split because it's the best way to reach Hvar. Not to say that it isn't a destination in its own right, but just that I am incredibly undereducated and had basically had never heard of anything in Croatia besides Zagreb and Dubrovnik until about a week before I arrived. Having spent the best part of the day lounging on my favourite beach in Zadar, I don't arrive in Split until the sun is setting. It's a sweaty uphill hike to my hostel in fading daylight. 

I feel the need to get something off my chest. Are you sitting down? I don't very much like hostels. I suspect, actually, that I'm not alone. There are good ones, but in general they're grubby and noisy and overall rather unpleasant places to stay. Unfortunately, they're cheap (I use this term comparatively) and come with the convenient benefit of like-minded company. This is what travellers like about hostels. But I just can't believe that anyone would take a dorm if you offered them a private room with access to a common area and kitchen and friends, at the same nightly price. Don't trust anyone who tells you they like hostels. They're a liar and a scoundrel.

Fortunately, Split town has enough loveliness to make me forget I'm staying in accommodation that is the strange love child of a nightclub and an army barracks. I spend my first morning treading water as post-party recovery, and the afternoon climbing the modest hill to get a beautiful view over Split. There's a bar at the lookout. Later, I find a vegetarian restaurant that fries lots of cheese. And there's a lot of nighttime fun to be had here. All is well. 

The next day sees me beneath the city, in the damp stone basements of Diocletian's palace, construction completed 305AD. I'm becoming more accustomed to encountering immensely old things. Compared to the new-world girl who went about touching the walls at the old church (14th century) in Delft when she first landed in Europe and saying vacant things like, This is the oldest building I've ever touched, oh wow, oh golly, I'm positively immune. So I went strolling casually about the cavernous belly of Split's old town and then got an ice cream before heading off with a soft-spoken german girl to book tickets for the next morning's ferry to Hvar. 

Hvar town used to be the kind of sparkling European resort frequented by the rich and famous on their summer yachting holidays. Then it was discovered by all the plebs like me, and now it's become one of Croatia's top nightlife destinations. It's also a quick ferry trip from Korcula, where there is supposed to be some excellent scuba diving. I'd bookmarked Croatia as a place I'd like to dive even before I knew I'd be living in Europe. The underwater caves around Korcula sound simply spectacular. 

The passenger ferry from Split takes under two hours. I'm absolutely impressed that the ferry company can make a short boat trip between gorgeous islands on the sparking Adriatic a perfectly miserable experience, but they manage. Without difficulty, it seems. We're set up in an air-conditioned cabin, protected carefully from the sun, salt, and sea breeze. The windows are set just high enough that we don't have to endure the sight of the sea close at hand, and there are polite signs all over the cabin informing us that it is totally unnecessary to move from our seats during the trip. Well, great. I grumble heartily and locate my few scraps of aircon proof clothing.

Hvar town is beautiful, shiny with the wealth of summer tourism. The wide harbour is lined with bars and restaurants that play music throughout the day and well into the night. Glitsy mega-resorts sprawl their way along the shoreline, their seaward sides adorned with cascading waterfalls and pools and endless, endless banks of sunchairs. This is no modest seaside town; this is tourism in full swing. But somehow, against a lot of my usual feeling about tourist areas, I love it. There's still the undercurrent of slowness that pervades all seaside holiday spots, but it's slowness in a very clean and very bright, expensive way. A way that reminds you that, come nightfall, this place will be thick with young people and gigantic fruit cocktails. And you know, that's okay sometimes.

One morning (okay, so it was like, nearly midday) I hike up to the ruin of the old Fortica Španjola fortress, which stands sentinel over the town. The views back down to Hvar and the harbour are stunning, even under a light haze of cloud. I sit on the edge of the fortress walls in the breeze and watch the white speck boats and their fanning wake tails in the bay below. The red roofs roll in gentle waves over the city. People get stuck in places like this. I don't think it's the party that keeps them. It's the next day, the warm daze of midmorning with nothing to do. It's the way the bay is fat and blue and lively with islands, the same every day. It's the icecream. And it's the tall tower in the piazza, the stone that was here long before this place knew tourists and will be here probably long after the industry fades. 

Another thing Hvar does exceedingly well is sunsets. Each night I watch evening fall from a different vantage point. My second night sees me sitting on a wide deckchair on the rocks with my same gentle german friend and someone she met someplace else in Croatia and has found here again. We're drinking warm wine from the bottle, passing it hand to hand the three of us. They're leaving tomorrow and I won't be pleased to see them go. We gaze up at the spread of stars like salt on a dark tablecloth, talking about how very small we are. How very insignificant our relationships and woes. How little the vast universe cares for our trials and small joys. We have great false profound moments there, and what else can you talk about, tipsy under the stars? 

We find our way to bars and those big fruity cocktails and end up on a boat being whisked across the bay to Carpe Diem Beach, the club set on its own little island. It's vastly expensive and horrendously pretentious, and the DJ is not about to skyrocket to worldwide fame, but the fact you can stumble right from the dance floor into the ocean definitely has charm. And I do like catching a boat home from a club. Can't do that at home. 

The next afternoon I'm wandering alone on the dock all awash with icecream lickers and hangover blackeyed demons with their packs on, ready for new adventures. I buy three huge ripe nectarines at the market and suck on one as I walk. A pretty young Croatian with a wicked tan is pitching his taxi boat services to some French tourists. I think I'll join them  on their way to the Pakleni islands. He's very convincing. (Beautiful beaches! only 40kn and fifteen minutes away! very quiet! some of the best island beaches! some of the most beautiful bays in Croatia!) I saw islands like these from the window of the plane, all along the coast. They're so round. They seem to float on the surface of the sea like oil in a pot of water. They look like paradise, and I'm not disappointed. I spend all day, alone, soaking up the gentle high sun through the pages of my book.

When I arrive in Hvar, I have just enough money aside from my birthday to indulge in a little underwater sports on neighbouring Korcula. I need to make something clear here: I'm looking forward to diving as the highlight of my trip. I've been talking about diving in Croatia for years, in the kind of boredom-inducing way that I'm sure makes people tire of me quickly. Like being shown the full, unedited contents of someone's camera after their long summer holiday. Anyway, I'm really, really looking forward to diving. 

And so comes another point on my extensive list of Reasons to hate all hostels, without exception. People like to run the aircon at subzero temperatures in dorm rooms--a habit I find totally inexplicable and immensely frustrating--and this causes me to develop a nasty case of the snots in Hvar. I know an attempt to dive will end in disappointment at best and a set of ruptured eardrums at worst. 

So I can't dive. My Croatian vacation is blissful but sadly incomplete. I book another bunk and scratch Korcula from my mental itinerary. I spend all day on the beach. So it's not that bad, really. Actually, the only thing that could possibly make this situation better would be taking myself out to dinner, avoiding my dorm room completely, and watching another glowing Hvar sunset. So that's what I do.