In December 2019, my friend Claire and I booked a spontaneous trip to visit our friend Anne-Lise in Madrid, where she was working as part of her year abroad. Having kept detailed notes, I had always intended to write up an account of the trip but never got round to it. Lockdown has finally given me time to sit down and type, so here it is…only a year late…

Our trip began on a cold December morning, in the hazy, carefree days before a pandemic destabilised the globe. Bleary eyed, Claire and I had caught the train together from Cambridge, where we had just spent a week indulging in the university’s traditionally premature Christmas celebrations. Having arrived at the airport, we made rapid progress through security, which gave us plenty of time to stock up on essential items from duty free. This included a bag of jelly snakes and a disposable camera, which we stashed in our bags before heading to our gate.

Unfortunately, we rounded the corner to discover a long queue snaking from the gate; it turned out that our flight had been delayed. The minutes continued to tick by and as a result, both the population of the bag of jelly snakes and our hopes of boarding our plane sometime before the dawn of the next Ice Age began to dwindle. We cursed ourselves for prematurely celebrating our progress through the airport. A glossy member of the cabin crew kindly informed us that our ETA was sometime between the coronation of King Charles III and the 2024 Olympic Games. Why the creators of ‘Grease’, perceived the words ‘rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong’ as a more relatable pairing for the finale song ‘We Go Together’ than ‘Ryanair and delayed flight compensation’ I will never know…

Many, many jelly snakes later, we were informed that we could now board and take our seats, which turned out to be at opposite ends of the plane. This resulted in a series of stupid waves spanning the length of the aircraft, much to the disdain of the Spanish woman sat next to me. Mercifully for her, the flight was relatively short. The pilot must have done some serious aeronautical speeding to ensure that we touched down at Madrid-Barajas airport just over an hour after we were expected.

We reunited in arrivals, having exited from either ends of the plane, before heading to meet Anne-Lise (a much valued school friend of ours and our host for the weekend) at the airport metro station. She had already been working in Madrid for several months as part of her year abroad and had clearly settled into her new city really well. As we descended the subterranean flight of stairs that would take us to the trains, I was amazed at how clean and airy the Spanish metro stations were compared to the dank and claustrophobic cellars of the Tube.

Our fatigue from our drawn out journey was quickly replaced with the excitement of being in a new place. However this, delight was short lived. Anne Lise had warned us prior to booking our trip that we would be arriving in the midst of a Spanish bank holiday or ‘festivo’, the implications of which we hadn’t fully considered until we exited our train only to be engulfed by a swarm of eager Spaniards racing up the escalators.

Anne Lise’s warning that Spanish people ‘like to push’ was swiftly verified. Before I knew it, I was clinging to the railings like Mufasa in ‘The Lion King’ before his tumble into a gorge full of stampeding wildebeest. Having been walloped by several families keen to get ahead, I was barely able to recover before I was smacked on the head by the sizeable clump of Mickey Mouse balloons trailed by a child being carried next to me. This was perhaps not the best time to realise that amid the end of term madness, I had forgotten to take out any euros….

We eventually emerged from the metro in a crowd that flooded out into the majestic Puerta del Sol, an expansive square bordered by townhouses covered in candle shaped Christmas lights. In the square, there stood a towering LED sculpture of a Christmas tree. Stretching up towards the dark night sky, it was surrounded by a throng of local families and tourists taking pictures together in front of it. Why anyone would wish to partake in this tacky and frankly embarrassing activity I do not know. 

The air was filled with exuberant chatter and the sound of children throwing fun snaps at the ground, because naturally, explosive noises always make a fun addition to any crowded space. Trying to make any sort of progress through the mass of people gathered in the square was akin to swimming through jelly, but eventually, we made it to the apartment in which Anne-Lise was staying. Having expected some fairly grimey student digs, we were shocked to emerge from a damp, unkempt stairwell into what can best be described as a cross between Buckingham Palace and a particularly upmarket brothel.

As we stepped over the threshold into a lavish hallway, we were immediately confronted by a selection of bugles and sabres hanging from the bright red walls. Our bemused expressions were reflected back to us in an enormous baroque mirror. Gargantuan crystal chandeliers creaked from the lighting fixtures in each room and on sticking our heads into the bathroom, we came across a bath with ornate gold taps more suited to the Palais de Versailles than a city apartment.

Anne Lise’s landlady, the owner of this apartment, had a reputation that preceded her, having allegedly been caught by her horrified tenants sitting in her kitchen stark naked. Scared of what we might find (thankfully not a chain smoking Spanish nudist as she was away on business) we crept along the hallway into the sitting room. This, we discovered, was furnished with enormous tapestries, gold rococo tables and velvet sofas. Heavy curtains, supposedly made from the same expensive brocade as the ones hanging in the Royal Palace of Madrid, shielded windows that opened onto a wide balcony overlooking one of the most famous parts of the city. 

However, the discovery of a bizarre clock on the wall designed to look like the open legs of a nude woman brought a swift end to any palatial comparisons. Suddenly, the abundance of red velvet in this opulent room seemed less regal and more befitting of the Playboy Mansion. It was as if Hugh Hefner had been charged with the upkeep of a National Trust property. 

Our eyes were drawn to the enormous clutch of snow globes that littered every available surface. A quick snout in the children’s bedrooms (which were being rented by other students) revealed yet more snow globes and impressive collections of Beanie Babies. On moving into the kitchen, which looked as if it belonged at the back of an especially run down pub, we discovered this penchant for collectible items also extended to fridge magnets. It was hard to escape the feeling that we had wandered into a very surreal episode of Channel 5’s ‘Hoarders’. 

We dumped our belongings and spent a very long time discussing whether the eccentric landlady would notice if we shifted each magnet 1 inch to the right. They made a tempting souvenir and we contemplated the likelihood of successfully sneaking one out. Eventually, we concluded that this was a bad idea. Someone fanatical enough to have collected them in the first place would certainly have no qualms about installing CCTV and probably had a SWAT team on standby in case of stolen magnets. Having weighed up whether a Bagpuss magnet was worth a broken rib and internal bleeding (discuss for 20 marks), we decided against it.

By now our stomachs were rumbling and so we left the flat to conduct the sacred ritual of arrivals in a new country: the supermarket dinner. There is something infinitely exciting about supermarkets in foreign countries. Perhaps it’s because the fruit and veg always smells and tastes better. I must have looked very odd sniffing sun drenched Spanish tomatoes (which I later bought fret ye not) in a state of ecstasy. Or perhaps, it’s the realisation that familiar products are available in different flavours. What holiday is complete without the zesty and exotic taste of Fanta lemon or Lays crisps?

On entering the shop, we were met by the citrus scent of fresh oranges which permeated the air. As someone with many food intolerances and a solid knowledge of 3 Spanish words, I was very reliant on Anne-Lise’s Spanish speaking skills. I repeatedly scurried off down an aisle, returning with packets of biscuits, jars of jam or boxes of cereal, which I would then present to Anne-Lise so she could decipher whether they might poison me. This must have seemed like a bizarre divination ritual to anyone passing by, as Anne Lise ostensibly predicted my future by studying pitta breads, a Milka bar and a mysterious lump of cheese. Having eventually collected a selection of items that would wreak minimal havoc, I was ready to join Claire, who had been patiently waiting at the checkout.

We returned to the apartment with our spoils, which we consumed in the kitchen under the watchful gaze of the fridge magnets. At Anne-Lise’s instance, we watched ‘New York Minute’, part of the celebrated canon of Mary Kate and Ashley films, before heading to bed.

Claire and I were tasked with sharing one of the double beds and together. Having changed into our pajamas and selected our side of the bed, we gazed up at the enormous chandelier suspended above us and gulped. We tried not to think about the prospect of being impaled by 190kg of crystal in our sleep. Fortunately, our travels had tired us out and mercifully, we were asleep in no time at all.

Find out if we survive the night in the next post!