Jules Stewart - Madrid: The History

One could forgive Madrids town-hall authorities for failing to observe that 2011 marked the 450th anniversary of the citys designation as the capital of Spain. My first visit to Madrid came on the heels of the fourth centenary and I do not recall a single event having taken

This is not so surprising, for Madrid is more a way of life than a city, to be accepted rather than commemorated. It is an accident of history, a whim of King Felipe II, with no more legitimate a claim to the title of capital of Spain than Valladolid, Toledo or Sevilla. Perched desolately in the middle of the Castilian plateau, astride the sad little Manzanares River, which not many Madrileos have laid eyes upon, as remote as a place could be from Spains historical centres of industry and great ports, Madrid is a village that plays at being a city.

Soy hijo de Madrid Im a native son of Madrid. This comment came from the driver of a clapped-out and rather dangerous 1950 Citron Traction Avant taxi, a butane-gas fuel tank bolted to the boot, as we bumped along Calle Serrano on the way into town from the airport, more than 50 years ago. He stated his pedigree with the same bravado as if he had revealed himself to be the Emperor Charles V. Look! He pointed with pride to the statue of the pagan goddess Cybele that sits in the city centre, driving a chariot drawn by two lions atop a fountain. Your first view of La Cibeles! he proclaimed. The fountains proper name is Cibeles the addition of the definite article represents a singularly Madrileo term of endearment equivalent to the working-class our Maggie, one indicative of the statues exalted status among the citys people.

I was dropped at my hotel in the Puerta del Sol at midday, a punishing July sun beating down on the pavement, to be greeted by a deafening, shrill chorus from blind lottery vendors with strips of tickets pinned to their shirts. Veinte tiras para hoy tengo la suerte! (Twenty strips for today Ive got the winning ticket!) they shrieked across the square. A one-legged Civil War veteran sat crouched on the pavement and, when I dropped a 50-peseta coin into his outstretched hand, he struggled up on his good leg, propped himself on his crutch and flicked me a smart parade-ground salute. It seems I had given myself away as every inch the country cousin, for I later discovered that my handout to the beggar almost matched the cost of a nights stay at my hotel. To complete the Goya tableau, two moustachioed members of the Guardia Civil (Civil Guard) in patent-leather hats, their sub-machine guns cradled lovingly in their arms, cast a scrutinising glance in my direction.