Now we were ready to return to the Prado and do the second floor properly. There were still more people than the first time, but we were early enough not to get exhausted wading through throngs.
The upper floor, alas, did not compare to the lower. Everyone seems to be led upstairs solely to see Goya's Maja. Also known as "where to go to see someone reprimanded for using a flash." The majority of the work on the upper floor was airy or, as Esmé would probably declare, "not crisp enough".
There were a few really nice pieces though. I liked The Drunkard by Velasquez. Its subject looked almost like a modern cowboy. There was another really good one of a lamb and another of a nun. In the huge room with portraits of Philip II (looking like Leslie Howard in Gone With The Wind) and the famous one of the Infanta, the crowds gathered. There were several paintings labeled El Bufon, each showing a dwarf. From what I gathered, these were court jesters, one of whom was especially enjoyed by the Royal Family (at that time).
We ate at the cafeteria downstairs again and were unsuccessful in moving away from the smoke. A French teen at the next table showed Esmé a trick he could do with a pen.
While we wandered the preferred lower level, I noticed a sign indicating that the Prado would be closing early today, as in within the half hour. And not too long after that, I witnessed the guard at the main gift shop closing the door to all customers not already inside. Ever since our first visit Esmé had been talking about the things she would buy at the Prado when we came back, saving everything for this last trip so she wouldn't have to lug them around the country.
And so we sprinted into the other gift shop, where they relied upon cashiers to keep people out and thus did not get the door closed in time before we got in. Quickly we picked out the items we had shopped for in our minds for the past three weeks. Canvas reprints of Bosch and Bruegel. Paper reprints. Finally, Esmé took the big book -- the one with every painting in the Prado represented -- off the shelf. When the customers at the counter finally moved their stuff along, Esmé asked the cashier if they had a copy in English. (The larger gift shop had one, as well as slides.) She looked at him in confusion because Esmé was, in fact, holding the only English copy. Ahem.
That settled, the purchases were made and we scurried for some 1000 speed shots of The Garden of Delights. There had been too many people each time we had walked by before. Now the guards were already leading people to the doors but we winked past the exiting mass. People were still standing in front of the painting, but Esmé got in with the crowd and stood her ground. The group began to allow themselves to be ushered away. I remained behind Esmé, getting her back, ready to plead for this last opportunity.
It only took a moment to get the pictures, and then we were the last visitors to leave that part of the museum, followed by the two female guards who smiled indulgently as we backed away reverently, uttering our many graciases.
I made myself comfortable in the little plaza in front of the Prado while Esmé raced to the Casón del Buen Retiro, a museum of more modern pieces which allowed Prado ticketholders in for free. It was closed.
We crossed the street and stopped so that I could buy a genuine Spanish fan with black lace for my souvenir. It seemed like the best thing for me to take home. The one I liked best was only printed on one side, thus costing the lower price of 250 ₧, but it was the one I wanted. Esmé had her books, I had my fan, time was winding up.
The rest of our afternoon was comprised of leisurely wanderings. Esmé bought a lottery ticket with a picture of a golf ball on it as a souvenir for some acquaintance. Maybe it was the winning ticket, who knows? We were leaving.
One of the guidebooks had listed a vegetarian restaurant in the city, so we planned the metro route and went after it. It was in an as yet unexplored part of town, which was fine because we didn't want to get caught up in the religious processional traffic near the Plaza del Sol. We navigated the crooked uphill streets only to find that the restaurant, with its tasty menu in the window teasing me, was closed for the holidays. Nearby there was an equally interesting occult shop, also closed.
With no better idea in mind we went to the Plaza Mayor. The processions had not made travel difficult yet. We decided to give El Cuchi another try, the same restaurant we had attempted on our first night in town. Since this was our last night it was somehow appropriate. This time getting in was no trouble.
I didn't know it at the time, but El Cuchi is owned by the same people responsible for Carlos 'n Charlie's. The menu was international in the American sense and I did enjoy my meal. We forgot that it's known for hanging baskets of biscuits over the tables and therefore missed out on that.
After eating, we knew it was our last chance to get our photos taken in a metro station for the Gofre-man. (The restaurant owner back in the Basque country whose forks we still had.) The closest metro, Sol, seemed a likely place to find a photo machine since it was large and a hub for several intersecting lines, with shops and cheap machines to pass the time. Sure enough, we found a colour photo booth and took the forks out of the backpacks, ready to pose. I can't remember what it cost, but it seems like it was 400 ₧.
First the posed pose with the forks... then the crazy pose de tenedores... then Esmé said we ought to stop being silly and there was the moony pose... finally the cheek to cheek big closed smile monkey-kid grins. We were completely happy there, for all of those seconds.
Next came hovering around the booth for 5 minutes, waiting for the developing. We were both impressed by the quality of the finished product. I instructed Esmé to hold on to it tightly while we waited in the breezy tunnel for our train home. It wasn't like we had the negatives.
Notes
- Photos from the trip (temporarily unavailable - need to move them to Flickr)
- Trip report started April 1994, finished 10 January 1995, with minor revisions (spellcheck, privacy considerations) 9 July 2004
- Regarding those privacy considerations, "Esmé" was not the name nor the implied gender of the person traveling with me.
- I was 24 when I wrote this trip report and my writing style was going through an especially stuffy phase. Forgive me. I'd edit it, but I can't stand to read it.
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