We climbed into the taxi at the airport somewhat bewildered after disembarking our flight. We had been whisked in a series of trains from the aircraft to the main terminal to clear Customs and collect our baggage.
With fuzzy brains, we were unanimous that it would be easier to catch a taxi to the hotel, where we would stay overnight before bidding our sons farewell as they joined a Contiki tour. We will take a more authentic driving tour around the country.
Our taxi driver seemed an amiable man who responded to our son’s “Hable Inglés?” with a tirade of Spanish that none of us could understand! The boys looked at each other, then us and shrugged. Our hopes of getting off to a start in Spain were pinned on the two years of Spanish lessons our sons had taken at high school nine years ago!
It was Sunday morning, with little traffic on the roads and we looked enthusiastically out of the windows. The taxi driver suddenly uttered something the boys could understand. He was asking where we came from?
“Oh Australia”, one of the boys piped up. A mile-wide smile appeared on the driver’s face. “Ahh, Australia, Casey Stoner, Casey Stoner”, the driver replied. The driver was a fan of MotoGP. We smiled and nodded furiously in unison.
For the remainder of our journey, the taxi driver became our official tour guide, pointing out landmarks, and proudly directing our attention to Real Madrid’s football stadium as we drove by despite being an Athletico Madrid fan. We felt privileged to receive his hospitality.
Outside the hotel, the driver indicated the amount on the meter and an additional surcharge, quickly pocketing the large note that He produced! Again, we looked at one another and instantly knew what hotel reception confirmed a few minutes later. Tour guides come at a price!
Settled in, we took a wander around Charmartin to research the important stuff – where to have dinner that night! The streets were deserted, everything was closed. It was like a ghost town. Mid-afternoon in Madrid, maybe it was siesta time.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do and when in Spain… We had had an early start to catch our flight from Heathrow that morning and so siesta time it was.
Rested and relaxed, we resurfaced at cocktail hour. Still no one in the streets.
Charmartin is Madrid’s business district, well known for the two iconic inclined office buildings and the Madrid’s second largest train station. The hotel was across from the station, the reason why the Contiki group were meeting at this particular hotel and the reason why there was nothing open on a Sunday apart from a restaurant immediately outside the hotel.
A beautiful summer evening, we joined others sitting in the alfresco area and perused the tapas menu. Not a word of English. The only thing we recognised on the menu was “Patatas Bravas”. This was going to be an interesting meal. Out came our phrasebooks.
Phrasebooks seem to be very good explaining to the tourist how to ask for a beer in Spanish but totally unhelpful in deciphering a menu. Twenty minutes later and we were none the wiser.
A couple of young fellows at the table next door were enjoying a nice meal and speaking to each other in English. “That looks good, what are you having?”, we asked giving them our menu for them to point out their choices.
“We can’t understand a word of that. Here, take a look at our menu. It’s in English.”
The waiter must have thought we were Spanish!
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