Madrid, Spain
While New York is famously the city that never sleeps, Madrid is the true 24-hour metropolis with many of its citizens not even thinking about dinner until 11pm and nightlife not getting properly swinging until 2 or 3am and continuing well past dawn. While that seems perfectly reasonable in the likes of Ibiza, I can't see that Coman and I are likely to have that sort of stamina on a short city break.
But it's with the best of intentions and a two hour siesta that we set out on our first night to embrace the nocturnal lifestyle. To be honest, the siesta might have been a bad idea as I'm a damn sight sleepier than I was before, our hike around the city followed by a bout of dedicated sun-worship having sapped the energy reserves so much that a couple of hours kip hardly touches the sides. Better by far to have just downed some cocktails and hit the town!
Not to be defeated before we've even started however, we leave the hotel at 10.30pm, straight into a fierce gale blowing down the Gran Via. Pulling our jackets tighter and debating whether to return for a cardigan, we continue along our way, eyes streaming in the wind. First stop is Plaza del Sol, which is somewhat more luna at this time of night, and bustling with hawkers, partiers, sightseers, lovers, teenagers and pickpockets. We walk through the throng and meander along side streets, through the old town, towards Plaza de Santa Ana, the place where native Madridlenos traditionally start their Friday nights with a tapas crawl.
It's flanked at either end by grand old hotels that have now become modern chains and has a statue of the playwright Federico Garcia Lorca, whose plays I studied for A-Level and was the first taste of Spanish culture I'd ever really come across. A renowned homosexual and supposed lover of Dali, he died in the Spanish civil war, preserved forever as young and beautiful. Or in this case, in bronze. We take a pic and look around for somewhere to eat.
There's an abundance of fine-looking establishments around the square, not to mention the street upon street of tapas bars we've already passed. Finally we settle on the authentic-looking Cerveceria Santa Ana, with its wood-panels and lively clientele. The menu is extensive but we opt for just three dishes; pil-pil cooked cod, black pudding of Burgos and piquillo peppers, along with two glasses of rioja. It's quite a sizeable feast when it arrives and like everywhere else we try in Madrid, insanely reasonable; the whole lot barely touches €30 for the pair of us.
It's close to midnight by the time we're finished. Wrapping our jackets tightly around us again we retrace our steps to Plaza del Sol and take a different street up the Gran Via, full of intentions to continue on to the Chueca district which is meant to be one of the most happening areas of the city. As we go we fend off unwanted advances from shifty-looking men proferring cards advertising prostitutes. Where Lisbon is overrun by drug-dealers, Madrid seems to play host to more pimps than an Amsterdam sex-dungeon. It's pretty unsavoury to be honest.
Preferring something sweeter we stop en route at a funky looking restaurant called Cafe de Tapas for a glass of Tinto de Verdana (which seems to be red wine and lemonade over ice - surprisingly drinkable) and a delicious slice of raspberry cheesecake.
Sadly though this sugar rush is followed swiftly with a bit of a crash, my eyelids struggling to stay open. Knowing that we've got a big day of culture ahead of us tomorrow, we decide to postpone checking out the Chueca until tomorrow and hit the sack around 1am. After all, if it's banging on a Friday, it'll be off the hook on Saturday, right?
