We hired a car from Avis and drove down to JFK. Traffic was unexpectedly light so we arrived way early. Checked in our bags and then loafed for a couple of hours waiting for the flight. Security levels are back to pre-9/11 standards, scary.

Thu 2^nd

We arrived at Madrid in the early morning and, after confirming that our last-minute booking for a car (to be picked up the following day) was good, Leila consulted the guidebook to pick out a hostel near the center of town. When she had phoned one up we jumped onto the subway and went directly there. The Madrid subway is very comfortable, easily understood and pretty clean too. We find the hostel, the room is fine, and dump our stuff before walking about 50 yards to the Plaza Mayor (main square).

The streets have been very quiet and we correctly guess that it must be a holiday. Lots of cops around (although few others), blocking here and there what little traffic there was ... something big was happening but we hadn’t the faintest idea what it was. Holiday stuff. In the plaza we sat down at an outdoor café in the warm sun to have breakfast. Zuma de neranje for me, café de leche for Leila plus a croissant each. It is a beautiful day, although sitting in the morning sun we do begin to get a little warm. After a little while we ask for la cuarte (the check) and then go for a walk in the streets around the plaza, visiting the Basilica de San Isidro before returning to our room for a shower and short nap.

Leila and I got up some hours later and went for another walk. The streets were then filled with life and we passed a building around which television cameras, reporters and a multitude of people had gathered. Was it something political? We did't know. This time we were headed to the Museo de Prado but we were too late, it was closed for the holiday and wouldn't open until the next day. So we visited the Real Jardin Botanico next door and spent a pleasant few hours wandering around beautiful gardens which have been arranged in collections of genera. While the sun was warm the shadows were not and the temperature only reached 18 °C that day so we still had to wear our sweaters to stay comfortable.

On the way back to the hostel we stopped at a cafe for a light snack and some beer, then we spot a poster which says there will be a bullfight that evening in the Plaza de Toros Monumental de las Ventas. So after a siesta we dressed warmly (it threatened, but never delivered, rain) and went via subway to see our first bullfight.

The first bull was nothing special (or so I thought) but the matador killed him well. The second bull was a real fighter, charged bravely, but the second matador botched the kill. The third bull was unremarkable (albeit also a brave fighter) until the end. The matador (#1) had driven the sword home and the bull looked to be finished. But as the crowed roared in response to its collapse it rose to its feet once again, quite an emotional event (even if it went down finally a few seconds later). The other bulls may or may not have been brave, but despite their skill with the meulletta the two matadors did not kill well. One bull (#6) attacked one of the armoured horses so ferociously that it injured its own leg and was thereby deemed unsuitable for further fighting - we watched as a herd of oxen were brought into the ring to pacify and take away the fighter. The replacement bull was equally ferocious and managed to actually throw the horse and man, causing great consternation.

I already knew that no bull lives, that everything the matador and his assistants do is to weaken and control the animal so that the death blow can be delivered in relative saftey. There was never any expectation that these are "fair" fights. So when the bulls were killed my emotional response centered on how efficiently and quickly the job was done. Too often it seemed botched, mostly by the second matador and so for him I could find no respect. For the first matador I respected well until he had trouble killing his third bull. I could not think highly of him after that. For me a matador is only as good as his last bull. But I have seen my last bullfight.

Afterwards Leila and I walked the streets and away from the crowds. We ate something light at a cafe and chatted with a friendly Venezualan before returning exhausted to the hostel.

Fri 3^rd

We slept in until after 10am (Leila had shuttered the windows so the room was pitch black) and so we had to rush a bit to get ready. After a very light breakfast of OJ and coffee under the warm morning sun in the Plaza Mayor we returned to the hostel to check out, stow the baggage and then walk through town to the Prado. We found long lines at the entrances, too long, so we decided to bid the Museum adios until another day. We returned to the hostel (after stopping to eat something at another cafe, we grazed across Madrid the whole time we were there), collected the luggage and returned to the airport via the subway (Madrid's subway is too easy, really good). At the airport we picked up our car and headed north out of Madrid.

Through patchy rain we crossed the Sierra de Guadarrama and eventually reached the old hill-fortress city of Segovia. This is an awesome place. We drove by an enormous roman aqueduct and up into the old town where Leila spotted a carpark inside the first 30 seconds. Excellent, it was a very lucky find. On foot we walked around a bit and found the El Hidalgo (a restaurant/hostal) which turned out to be perfecto. After booking a room we went exploring.

In the main square we stopped to eat some bread and that great jamon before running into the Catedral Segovia to escape a brief rainfall. Inside we found a spectacularly ornate citadel of catholic fiscal policy. Very beautiful, very large and very very catholic. We then moved on to find the Alcazar at the south western tip of the old city. We didn't visit it immediately, just had a look at the outside, and continued our exploration of old Segovia. After a few beers and some lazy photos we got back to the room to eat some bread and cheese before again returning to our wanderings. Back at the Alcazar we went inside and gave it the fullest of our attention. Again, a very imposing and awe inspiring structure, in particular the tower of this former military school offered the inhabitants a singularly spectacular view of the old city and the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra de Guadarrama. The armoury was also very good, with many excellent examples of armour, weaponry and cannon. I lost my gloves, but they were a bit tattered so I didn't care too much. We then walked to the opposite side of Old Segovia to go and see the magnificent aqueduct and a marvelously designed carosel. We wandered a little through "new" Segovia, finding that it is the haunt of the young, and then returned to our hostel back up the hill. We had a pretty good meal in the restaurant, I took the local specialty (suckling pig) but couldn't stomach the fat soup starter. We met a pair of friendly german girls who offered to help decypher the menu. After dinner we hunted for bars, finally settling down to midnight martinis somewhere quiet. It was a great night.

Sat 4^th

We woke late (again) and decided to leave the old city to go look at a fortified chapel just under the Alcazar. This place was built by the Knights Templar in the 12th century and was very interesting, if a little austere. We also walked around the area below old Segovia's high walls, passing a very nice little stream and warming ourselves in the sun above an old monastery. It was a beautiful day and we would have liked to stay longer but we had somewhere to go.

We drove to the nearby town of Torrescaballeros and immediately bumped into Judith and Stefan while trying to check into the wrong hostel (Diego and Teresa had made pre-bookings for those of us who were coming from far away). We rang Diego and he sorted it all out for us, found the correct hostel and checked ourselves in. We then went for a short walk to find something to drink and perhaps eat too. Found a nice restaurant, ate wonderful tapas (cheese, jamon, croquettes, etc) and drank a bottole of great wine and were served some wickedly strong liquor distillation to finish us off. Ack, drunk again! Had to retreat back to the room to sleep it off and Leila ironed some of our necessaries for the evening. I caught up briefly with Diego, he looked pretty calm for someone about to tie the knot. After a few hours we went to have a drink (pepsi) with Annette and Judith at their hostel, then returned to our room again to dress up.

Diego (what a handsome chap) and Teresa (beautiful lass) had a terrific wedding. All singing, all dancing, everything. Just look at the photos dammit. We partied hard until 3 in the morning before retiring. Collapsing more like. We also got invited to Patricia and Ignacio's wedding in Mexico next March. Woohoo!

Sun 5^th

Woke late as usual and the both of us were feeling decidedly seedy. As a result we packed inefficiently and left some bathroom stuff behind (razors, shampoo, etc). Before we left we went to see the Germanic tribe and say goodbye. We especially wanted to bid farewell to Phillip as we may not see him for a while. Afterwards we drove south from Torrecaballeros along the 502 through pastoral plains into Castille, where we stopped at Avila to admire the old fortified town and have a really nice lunch. It appeared that we were just in time to observe what was probably a Corpus Christi procession in the streets. A spot of provisioning later and we left, Leila was given a miniature basket of flowers by a shopkeeper who took a real shine to her. We drove on through spotty rain over the Sierra de Gredos, stopping to have a look at one of the passes where we saw ibex (!) up close and a magnificent specimen of an old roman road. The views were also beautiful as clouds rushed up the valley to sweep over the pass. We continued on through rolling hills enveloped in olive groves. As we approached Extremadura there was a period of steady rain but it didn't last long. Eventually, after about 330 km of driving we stopped at Herrera del Duque and checked into the first hostal we saw. Immediately we decided to wander into town. Herrera doesn't pander to touristic desire. The streets are narrow and chaotic in plan, the houses were old and lamined under centuries of whitewash. The people were either very old or very young, all seemed to be somewhat unimpressed with our presence and we gained sullen stares from more than a few. Extremadura is one of Spain's poorest regions and old Herrera (quite distinct from "new" Herrera immediately adjacent to the highway) was like a large village town upon which 20th century infrastructure like electricity and running water had been overlaid helterskelter. We did however meet at least one friendly face.

Our initial aim was to walk to the Castilla way up on the low mountain which overlooked the town. But whiley town-planners had laid down the streets in such a way as to defy navigation. After walking to a dead-end among olive plots at the edge of town we were given directions (in Spanish) by a friendly old gent who was out walking a couple of skittish mules. But I was pooped and voted that we get a drink somewhere in town. Back at the hostel we picked up the car (Leila, who was feeling pretty strong, agreed to this under mild protest - we have driven far enough!) and resumed our search for an approach to the Castilla. We got lost a couple more times, both within Herrera and without (drove around the wrong mountain) before finally parking (the road had seriously deteriorated) in sight of the ruins and walking the last kilometer. It was a strange and lonely place, beautiful as only an isolated ruin could be, we shared it with a herd of sheep. The views of the surrounding countryside were spectacular and mostly empty of human-kind. It started to get dark so we made our way back to the car and then down to Herrera. In town we had dinner at the nearby Hotel, good and very cheap, before going to bed.

Mon 6^th

We woke at a reasonable hour (Leila will contest this) for a change and were able to pack at leisure before driving away. We continued south, aiming for Cordoba, and passed through a continuous mass of olive groves all the way. Quite astonishing really. We stopped at Almaden for some groceries, and had lunch in a ditch not far beyond here (see photo). The weather was mostly fine but we did encounter some rain here and there. Soon we left Extremadura and entered Andalucia. Eventually we reached Cordoba.

Here's a tip. Don't drive in Cordoba. Spaniards are mad. The chaos of the traffic outdoes anything in my experience and I've driven in both New York and Los Angeles (I would revise this statement within the week, the Van Wyck Expressway out of JFK airport turned out to be a nightmare). By sheer chance we happened upon a nice hostal situated pretty much exactly where we wanted to be, which was in Cordoba's old city and within walking distance of the Mesquita-Catedral. Additionally, our host took care of the parking of our car for the duration of our stay, gratis. Although sleepy after 200 km on the road we immediately set off to see the Mesquita.

This is deservedly Cordoba's central and most famous attraction. The entry fee was modest and it granted us unfettered access to one of the western world's most significant muslim artifices. Dating back to before the 10th century it defies satisfactory description, so I shall refer you to our photographs. The fact that some of it was gutted to make way for a catholic structure (the Catedral) in the 16th century is nominally saddening, but it could be worse ... they might have easily destroyed it all.

After this we had some light tapas at a nearby cafe and then crossed the river on what was once a roman bridge (now restored beyond easy identification of its origin) to gain a more distant vista of old Cordoba. We returned to the hostal for showers and a siesta and then went looking for somewhere to eat. We found a very nice restaurant in the old jewish quarter, again polished off a bottle of the local red and consumed a few plates of Cordoban specialty (bull tail, meatballs, stuffed peppers and the ever present french fries). We wandered the narrow maze until midnight called us to our bed.

Tue 7^th

Again we woke comparatively early and were on the streets before ten. We strolled among the barrios and nosed about the tourist traps looking for the Museo Taurino (bullfighting museum). After a few backtracks we found it and went in. Inside we discovered that the museum was more a collection of matador fan-clubs. All sorts of odds and ends were on display, everything from bulls ears to the bloodied undergarments of men who had come to a surprised end. All of this lay under the unwavering gaze of bulls long since put to the sword. It was interesting, despite our being unable to read more than a word or two of Spanish (no subtitles you see). After the Museo we fell in with a bus-load of tourists at one of Spain's few remaining medieval synagogs and listened surreptitiously to their tour-guide's (english) spiel. Very interesting it was too.

We then marched on to the Alcazar de los Reyes Christianos (Christian Kings Fortress) just down the road and wandered around its beautiful and extensive rose gardens. We also saw examples of preserved roman structures and artifacts from long before the site held a moorish structure. Not on obvious display was anything associated with its central role in the Spanish Inquisition. Lunch was held in a somewhat dourly staffed restaurant by the Mesquita and this was followed by a return to the hostel for siesta. Upon waking too early we drifted through the streets looking at closed shop-fronts and grazing at cafes until things started opening up again (between 4 and 5pm). We then made our way, eventually (we got lost quite a lot), to the Museo Romero de Torres. This, however, would stay closed for a further hour leaving us little choice but to pass that time in the nearby Museo de Bellas Artes (Fine Arts Museum) which, although small (and we were to find that all of Cordoba's museums are intimately small), housed some startling arresting works of art - Goya's grotesques being the most memorable.

When it was time we crossed the orange-treed patio to Julio Romero's personal shrine. This was a man who liked to pain shapely Cordoban women, preferably in the all withall if you know what I mean. From what I could understand he was a bit of a rake, but not by modern standards. After a refreshment break at a nearby cafe, where we observed a caged parrot bite the finger of a thoughtless Cordoban teen, we went and lost ourselves in the barrios once again. We briefly passed through the Plaza de la Corredera and then went window shopping in the main malls near Tendillas Square. It threatened rain and we escaped back to the hostal just in time. For a time it poured like there would be no tomorrow.

The rain, which was pretty steady, was bad news. We had planned on going to the Zoco patio to watch an open-air flamenco performance. As time drew near we feared the worst and formulated a back-up plan. Stepping out into the wet night we quickly walked to the Zoco and peered through locked gates at the darkened stage. It had, of course, been cancelled. Time for plan B. Within half an hour we knew that there would be a performance at Tablao Cardinal (right next to the Mesquita) so we walked there and joined the que. We secured tickets (at some cost I might add) for a table some distance from the stage (this is the last-minute penalty). The room steadily filled with tourists.

At ten-thirty the lights went dark and the shadowy form of a man materialised on stage. He began to sing and his unaccompanied voice filled the hall with all the sadness of flamenco song. He was joined by a second fellow, who also participated in this entree performance. The stage was then peremptorily lit and we saw the two standing side by side at the back of the stage. Near them were two other men, sitting, holding guitars. then the dancers entered and the performances began in earnest.

Flamenco dancing seems to provide for the performers a platform from which an emotional machismo, not unlike that of a bullfight, might be expressed. The steps rang like rapid gunfire, the songs were ulalating lament and the famed Spanish guitar formed a subtle underlay of rhythm. It was fantastic. The dancers, by their expression, seemed to live for nothing else.

Later, it was depressing to step back out into the sodden night. So not Spanish.

Wed 8^th

We woke, breakfasted at a nearby bar, and then raced faultlessly out of town. As soon as we hit the (near empty) expressway I had our little Opel ramped upwards of 140 km/h in an effort to get quickly where we were going. We were dogged by rain. After nearly 400 km of northward racing we reached Consuegra deep in La Mancha. Don Quixote country. This town has two things of interest, about half-a-dozen restored windmills and a small fortress (ala Knights of Malta), all perched on a hill overlooking the twon. Leila and I investigated one of the windmills, which had an ice-cream shop crammed into the first level (of course we each bought one), there was a table and three chairs on the second, and some of the windmill works on the third. Only faintly disappointing. Under a steadily increasing rain we slogged determinedly on foot up the hill to see the fort and the other windmills. The fort would be closed for siesta until 3.45pm so we drove back into town intent on filling this time with lunch. We found the rest of the community eating and drinking at one of the local pubs and happily we joined in. After this we found that there were still 20 min left to kill. It was too rainy to walk around so we attempted to lose ourselves driving around town. No such luck, the car rapidly oriented itself back towards the hill and its sodden collection of Cervantes-style architecture.

The fort did not open. We drove away.

Continuing north towards Madrid we, eventually (after some wrong turns), found our way to the small town of Chincon. Like everyone else we parked in the main square and then escaped the rain by immediately checking into one of the local hostels. As usual the hostel was sparklingly clean and absolutely adequate to our needs. The rain was really sapping our enthusiasm for touristic indulgence, and it was not without great effort that we trudged up to the Iglesia de la Asuncion (where we hoped to see an Asuncion attributed to Goya) only to find that it was closed for renovations. We spent the remains of the day finding places to drink ourselves insensate.

It's hard to even imagine this place as being uncommonly dry and oppressively hot. For us Spain had been a little cold and decidedly damp. Still, it's been well worth the trip. Thu 9^th

We drove to Madrid, got on the plane and returned to the USA. End of story.