My first day I dropped my bags off in my room and promptly headed out into the city center. One train ride later I was in Plaza de la Puerta del Sol, also known as Sol, the bustling center smack dab in the middle of Madrid. Flanking the plaza on all sides are tall, white buildings adorned with the most delicately beautiful of balconies, with ornate whorls and designs carved into the native stone. The whole city is tinged in warm light, from the palest, sweetest yellow, to the most vibrant, terracotta red. A trip to the Plaza de Mayor for a drink and a quick dance in the center is sure to alleviate even the heaviest of ennui. One building boasted Roman inspired frescoes of various mythological figures, I spotted Bacchus and Cupid (and was mighty proud of it). A short walk through mystical, narrow streets lined with colorful apartment buildings had me feeling like a character from one of my favorite fantasy series. I’ve just had a long, arduous journey from the palace, you see? I’m seeking some bread and ale and a place to rest my weary head for the night! And any one of these quaint tabernas, nestled in the most picturesque of alleys, may have just what I need. And those balconies! Those damn balconies! Death to the death of detail! Whyever did we abandon such stunning architecture in favor of ‘modernity?’ Of straight, rigid lines and stoic boxes with no character to speak of. It infuriates me to no end that we have done away with detail and embraced minimalism. And so, in Spain, my heart is happy.
The Almudena Cathedral, in all its Neo-Gothic splendor, was next on my sightseeing list. It was the first cathedral to be consecrated outside of Rome. And its grandeur did not disappoint, tall arches carved out of granite beckoned me to lift my head and marvel at the stained glass frescoes above. A climb up the winding stairs and I was face to face with the Virgin Almudena, though what struck me most were the metal vases surrounding her on either side, topped off with the most intricate, as if woven, flowers. I had the sensation that I could reach out, pluck one from its place, and be met with its sickly sweet aroma.
After sitting in silence in the pews of the cathedral, a brief reprieve from the vibrance of the city, it was time to visit the Royal Palace. Upon entering the iron gates, I ran swiftly to the most central square in the courtyard. Once I firmly stood on this middle most square, I allowed my imagination to run wild. Could there be leftover blood on this spot from a gory beheading, or other unsavory liquids from a bacchanal? Certainly there was some importance placed on the middle-most square in the center of the courtyard of the Royal Palace? At this point I was sweating through my dress and found it prudent to be enveloped in the welcoming embrace of central air conditioning. The grand arches and staircase captivated me straight away. As I ascended the stairs, my neck craning to capture every detail of the dazzling, gold plated, ceiling, I was immediately overcome by a sense of belonging (turn back now if you don’t like pretentious descriptions). Dressed in a resplendent gown of the brightest pink, climbing the marble steps of the palace, I felt like a queen of old. Like a high priestess arriving home from a marvelous ball, taking her time up the winding staircase, hand pressed to her forehead to stave off the spins. Just a class act, you know?
I was told by a friend to always look up when I’m in Madrid, and this is no exception (maybe even the only rule) in the Royal Palace. Every room has elaborate, embellished frescoes painted in the softest pastel shades on high ceilings above. Massive mirrors can be found every three steps so as to better admire the details (and yourself, of course). Glittering chandeliers hang precariously low over dark dinner tables with place settings. As though members of a long forgotten dinner party are set to return from their smoke any minute, come through the heavy velvet (moth-eaten) drapes, and continue their revelry. I found myself aching to play the ancient piano, to try my hand at the frail violin in the glass case. I came to a beautiful window overlooking a courtyard of brilliant white arches and the palace surrounding them and draped my arms over the windowsill with all the grace of a principal dancer. A queen, watching over her loyal subjects. All jokes aside, it was marvelous fun to stroll the palace imagining it to be my home. Setting up shop in my favorite bedroom, the one with hidden passages behind ancient tapestries hanging on the wall, of course. Or taking my coffee in the queen’s sitting room, or reading my favorite trashy romance in the porcelain room.
Once I was back in the unrelenting Madrid sun, it became clear how essential some tinto de verano was to my dire situation. After catching a riveting, and bumpy, ride on the back of one of the city’s many electric scooters, and only one comment from a cop telling us “One person only!” I had arrived at my next destination. Terraza Azotea, located on the roof of the Circulo Bellas Artes, was by far the highlight of my day. We started at the terrasse, though the building itself was a marvel to admire after a few cheeky drinks were had. The terrasse was equipped with top of the line technology, misters and fans to chase away the scorching heat. I vowed then and there to bring this inspiring technology back to Montreal and Boston with me. The crowds of terrasse-goers would surely cheer for me then, as they enjoyed their aperitivo while indulging in the cool mist and tanning in the bright sun. Bar tables perched precariously (I am scared of heights, everything was perfectly safe) on the edge of the roof, offering enchanting vistas of the sprawling city. Lounge chairs made up the center, from which I had a perfect view of the deep blue mountain ranges surrounding Madrid, and the perfect opportunity to tan my already browning skin. It was bliss, relaxing high up and away from the hustle and bustle of the lively city below. Up here it was just me, the mist, and the perfectly curated playlist coming from the speakers. Oh, to be a trust fund baby and spend all my days on the terrasse, not a care or a worry in the world. Alas, that was not my fate in this life. Maybe the next, who knows! The other side of the terrasse offered tables at the base of a great statue, a warrior with shield in one hand and spear in the other. It felt very otherworldly, dining under the protection of an ancient warrior as he watched over his city. Perhaps one day during the apocalypse he will come alive (Atlantis reference?) and fight to save the city once more. Again, who knows.
On the second floor of the Circulo Bellas Artes there were several areas to study and have a coffee. The spaces were beautifully decorated with lush plants and I suddenly found myself seething with envy. People who looked to have just come from school, or on their way to work soon, were simply doing their mundane work in a room that could be worthy of an empress. This was their everyday life. Colluding with ChatGPT under an ornate ceiling, embellished with meticulous gold detailing and offset by the deepest shade of jade. The tallest of ceilings sheltered the tallest of windows, the ceiling arched and pirouetted in the most spectacular of ways. I felt as though I had stepped into a mini version of the Boston Opera House, though this one seemed far finer to me. We could not leave without pretending to belong in this room ourselves, and so I found myself losing not one, not two, but three, very exciting games of chess. Though my good Slavic-daughter-chess-wiz card may have been revoked, I had not laughed so hard nor strained my brain so, in quite some time. As the sun set in brilliant shades of pink and yellow over my first day in Madrid, and the Sol musicians played a touching rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love on my walk back to the metro, all I could do was note the distinct ache in my cheeks that comes from smiling too hard, and for too long.
© 2025 [No Prompt Necessary]. All rights reserved.