Upon arriving in Madrid, Carlos and I had decided to battle our jet lag by simply dropping our bags at the hotel and rushing outside to jump into the beauty of Madrid. We spent hours walking through the busy stately squares and dipping into the tiny shops, we talked each other into unnecessary purchases.. "But that lamp will look so beautiful on your piano," he encouraged as I hesitantly held a colorful orange and red glass moroccan lamp. (it does look beautiful on my piano.) We wandered the symmetrical gardens of the Royal Palace and peeked into quiet churches before taking our weary bodies back to our hotel beds.
So, it was with some grogginess that we found ourselves on the bus the next morning listening to the hypnotic droning of our tour guide, Cristina. As we passed the beautiful train station, Cristina described the horrible scene of the bombing 11 years past in great gruesome detail… "there were, legs and arms, and heads…" she continued in her deep timbered tone. Minutes later, our bus stopped in front of the Parque del Buen Retiro and we all filed gratefully off to stroll through the manicured acres of the park..all except one young soul. As the bus emptied and Keri tried coaxing her young son Oliver to jump off as well, Oliver responded with big crocodile tears. "But I don't wanna blow up!" he whimpered, his child mind wrestling with concepts that adults can't even comprehend. 
The lovely 350 acre Parque del Buen Retiro, home to the crystal palace and the sword of the legendary El Cid, belonged to the monarchy until it was opened to the public in the 19th century. As our group fanned out across the park, I lifted my camera and shifted between taking photos of the delicate flowers, the nobel statues, the stunning landscaping and the gorgeous fit Spanish men running, cycling and kayaking by. (Spain is truly a beautiful country..) Upon entering the Paseo de las Estatuas Keri and I raced ahead to quickly lean nonchalantly in front of a statue of a man standing on a decapitated head, so to block the image from the young minds of Gilbert and Ollie as they passed innocently by.
Spain has a fairly violent history with the battles between the Moors and the Catholics, the Inquisition, Napoleon, the Spanish civil war, WWII and the brutally oppressive reign of Franco, all of which we noticed portrayed quite graphically in the art sprinkled throughout the country. After an independent lunch in central Madrid, we all met up again for an afternoon tour of the Palace Real or Royal Palace. The largest Palace in western Europe, The Palace Real sits on a site that has been occupied since the 10th century Moors first claimed it. (thus disproving the concept of Madrid only being 300 years old..) Occupying just 1,450,000 square feet, the palace is packed obscenely full with a wealth of fine art, silk and brocade walls, murals and tapestries, priceless furniture, and even a complete quartet of Stradivari.. two violins, a viola, and a cello estimated to be worth more than 100 million euros (which means that they are becoming more affordable to Americans as the Euro drops..) Walking through ornate room upon ornate room, our tour finished in the throne room where we discovered little Gilbert staring up in horror at a large statue of a man eating a baby, a portrayal of the Greek God Cronus who devoured his sons to prevent the inevitability of being overthrown by them. Of course, despite his best efforts, his son Zeuss had other plans..
While one of our choir members, Chuck, stared longingly at the lion themed throne of Spain, (we had walked a lot and he does love lions..) I began to ponder which room in my house to convert to a much needed throne room and if I should attempt silk wallpaper... And if radiator heat is good enough for Spanish royals.. well then...
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