Madrid

The hour and a half flight from Paris to Madrid ended up taking from 9am to 4pm, door to door. Alain and I both arrived from our waterlogged countries to perfect not-too-hot-not-too-cold beautiful sunshine in Madrid. Ana, the friend we visited, lives just outside the city center in a cute neighborhood full of clothing and shoe shops, restaurants and a Corta Ingles -- a gigantic mall-like beast where we spent a portion of each day trying to decide which Lomo Alain would return to London with. The closest metro station was actually on her block. Ah, the metro! So consistent, so quiet, so lacking the smell of urine in the staircases. I'm not looking forward to being back on the maybe-it'll-come-maybe-it-won't bus in LA.

Madrid, was, admittedly, a bit empty, like most European cities in August. However, we managed to see two excellent Flamenco shows, eat some good food, and walk a good portion of the city. Night one of flamenco wasn't Paco Peña, but we were about four feet from the stage, rather than four miles. The male dancers like to sport mullets and show off their muffin top bellies, which is somewhat distracting from the beauty of the dance, especially when they spin and their sweat comes flying off of their face to land on your face. Ick. However, one of the singers was totally amazing. His voice was so full and yet so easy on the ear, almost soft. It seemed impossible that it was coming from a little skinny guy we saw afterward wearing baggy jeans and high tops. Two of the women we saw dance were incredible. They weren't young (maybe 35 and 40), and they were quite robust, but so strong and so beautiful in their movements and so powerful in the rythms they stomped and clapped that I was completely mesmerized. Biggest hit of the night with the rest of our party was Alain's sighting of Franka Potente who was sitting at a table not far from us. As usual, I had no idea who she was.

To be continued...