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| Madrid to the Valley of the Fallen to Zaragoza to Huesca and then back to Zaragoza, Spain - |
After indulging the first night on beer and later wine along with the local fare at El Parador del Jamon which featured too many bottles of our drink of choice, Spanish Rose, we ended up back in the hotel bar where I practised the age-old habit of bending my arm and tilting my head back. At some point in the night, my body began to force the indulgences out of my mouth and I was lucky to make it to the bathroom to purge whilst the twink slept in his drunken stupor unaware that I was speaking into the big porcelain telephone.
Feeling awful, the next day we didn't leave Level 7 of the Novotel. Shuffling back and forth between the hotel room and the rooftop pool and bar, I was happy to work whilst basking in the sun whilst taking dips in the pool. The edge was taken off first by overpriced mojitos and then more beer. It turned out to be a relaxed day where the idea of playing the role of tourist, dressing up or even practising a suitable level of personal hygiene was thoroughly avoided.
A long walk through the centre of the CBD was on the cards when we could finally muster the energy to leave the hotel and the comfort of the rooftop with its fans blowing cool mist and a top-40 soundtrack blasting. Via the lovely gardens and the idyllic fake lake, we wandered to the Museo Reina Sofia which not only features the original Guernica by Picasso which is beguiling and enormous but some of his other minor works. Another of my favourite artists, Dali, had multiple works on display and there was a very amusing temporary exhibit featuring Russian Dada absurdist media post-1917. The museum itself is a huge building and I felt that at times they struggled to fill parts of it and provided exhibition space for photographs that were taken, indulging locals artists, that I had nil interest in. As with Warhol, like an arsehole, everyone has an opinion when it comes to art.
Despite wanting to visit many bars that were recommended by a mate in the industry in Melbourne, we never ventured out of the hotel after 9:00 PM. The offer of free-flowing drinks from the pool bar at the Novotel was just too alluring and despite blaming the red tuna from El Parador del Jamon for spewing on the first night in Madrid, we later returned for seconds. This time because I limited the Rose, I was able to sleep throughout the night. Generally speaking, the days were too hot to play tourist.
Upon checking out, I had an issue getting out of the parking structure as my Monzo card was not recognised by the machine. I had to resort to paying the £115 (or thereabouts) of parking charges with my Lloyds debit card and accept the bad exchange rate and fees. After avoiding so many parking charges on this trip, the chickens came home to roost finally. No matter. We explored various cathedrals (we could not enter because I was wearing a sweaty singlet and improving my horrible tan) along with the Royal Palace which the Spanish claim is the largest in Western Europe. It seems to me that Versailles is larger, but who knows really. After a filling lunch at the best Taco Bell that I have ever dined in, we drove an hour from Madrid sadly leaving it behind. The next planned stop was a controversial dark tourism site called "Valley of the Fallen" which was built into the side of a hill and is very imposing. It is supposed to honour all those that "fell" during the Spanish Civil War, including those from the Second Republic that were killed when the Nationalists took over, along with the communists and anarchists that Franco hated. The church itself is massive (as is the cross on the mountain) and I was surprised to find Franco's grave behind the altar laden with flowers which I took a cheeky photo of. The site is certainly worth a visit and gives you perspective if you read up on its history and of course, have a bullet-point understanding of the Spanish Civil War before you turn up.
After driving three hours at high-speed along the motorway, I left the twink in Zaragoza before driving another forty minutes to Huesca. The ticket that was delivered to the Novotel Madrid earlier in the week was for me to attend the bullfight and the twink refused to go to the event with me. After leaving the Benz in a spot where I shouldn't have, I presented myself at the bullring as it rained like hell. The first bull had just been released and the festivities had started.
The crowd was mad with bloodlust and the same formula was used for each of the bullfights that I watched. The bull would madly charge at the respective support cast who would hide behind a wooden barrier before the bull would run off and charge at one of the other blokes in the ring. The bull would eventually tire from charging around and surprisingly a blindfolded horse would be marched out into the bullring wearing body armour. The rider held a long picador and after the bull charged the horse and knocked it around, the jockey would push the picador into the back of the bull behind its head. The bull would begin to bleed profusely. The horse wasn't harmed from what I could tell and after the bull was injured, the horse was removed from the bullring. The supporting cast would then run around the bull and systematically stab at it again in its gaping wound, leaving picadors behind in the animal. The matador would then exhaust the bull at close range with the infamous red cape, slapping it on its arse until it bled to the point it had to sit down as blood ran off its body and onto the dirt. The bull would then be encouraged to stand up again either from a slap or with some other form of antagonism as the matador danced around it a few more times and then would finish it off with a picador inserted into the back of its head. Another bloke would then quickly run out and stab the bull repeatedly in the back of the head to make sure that it died before two horses were trotted out. The dead bull was attached to the horses via a chain and it was dragged off out of sight. The grounds of the bullring were then peppered with sand, the blood covered up and the same process would repeat again in the form of a spectacle. A brass band played not far from me. After the third bull met its demise, I was more interested in making sure my car wasn't towed from being illegally parked at the cathedral and quickly left much to the bemusement of the crowd and ushers. I retreated back to Zaragoza saturated by the rain which fell on me for ninety minutes and left with many things to ponder after a very weird day of dark tourism.
