Madrid moves like a memory

Somewhere between my first churro and my last evening stroll through Retiro Park, Madrid shifted from a place I visited to a rhythm I absorbed. I landed in Madrid in early April, dragging behind Delhi’s chaos and sleep deprivation. I hadn’t done much planning — just a scribbled note: “eat well, walk aimlessly, trust the city.” Jet-lagged but curious, I dropped my bags at a tiny Airbnb in La Latina and wandered out for food. The first taste of Madrid came on a stool inside a dimly lit tapas bar, where a grandmotherly woman handed me a glass of tinto de verano and pointed to a sizzling plate of patatas bravas. She didn’t know English, and I knew just enough Spanish to say “Gracias” and smile a lot. It was enough. The next morning, I joined the locals in El Retiro, the city’s central park, where sunlight sifted through budding leaves. Joggers passed, lovers lingered, and an elderly man played a saxophone near the lake. I sat beside a family of ducks and let the morning unfold. Nearby, two Indian students debated cricket vs. football in a mix of Hindi and Spanish. I wanted to laugh — I hadn’t come halfway across the world to hear about Kohli’s form, but it was comforting, like home trailing behind me.

One of my most unexpected joys came at the Prado Museum. I was never a great lover of classical art, but Goya’s dark, brooding canvases and Velázquez’s intricate court portraits pulled me in. I found myself returning the next day, not because I had missed something, but because I felt I hadn’t seen it properly the first time. The Prado demanded stillness. And for once, I wasn’t in a rush. Madrid is a city best discovered on foot — its pleasures don’t announce themselves. You find them in corner bakeries, where you buy flaky napolitanas for a euro and eat them while dodging pigeons at Plaza Mayor. Or in Chueca, where rainbow flags flutter over quiet bookstores and tattooed baristas recommend wines by scent instead of label. One afternoon, while walking toward Malasaña, I heard flamenco — not on stage, but from a narrow alley. A woman in a flowing red skirt was dancing for no one in particular, a guitarist seated cross-legged beside her. Tourists paused, but she danced with her eyes closed, lost in rhythm. It didn’t feel like performance. It felt like a ritual. Later that day, I ducked into Casa Toni, a no-frills eatery with greasy counters and a line of hungry locals. A man in his 70s named Manuel shared his table and his calamari. He’d never left Madrid, he told me, not even once. “Why should I?” he laughed, gesturing around. “I have sunshine, football, food, and wine. What more?” When I told him I was from India, he grinned and asked, “Sachin or Dhoni?” I said Kohli, and he pretended to faint.

Every city, I believe, reveals itself through strangers. In Madrid, they came with wine and warmth.

I also learned the siesta is no myth. One afternoon, I found myself the only soul on a sun-drenched street in Lavapiés, every shutter down, not a soul in sight. I sat under a fig tree and dozed, waking to the smell of garlic drifting from a nearby kitchen. It reminded me of my grandmother’s home in Lucknow — how she used to fry garlic in mustard oil before cooking arhar dal. Evenings were my favourite. The golden hour in Madrid is longer, softer. I would walk to Templo de Debod, an ancient Egyptian temple relocated to a hilltop park, and watch the sun sink behind the city’s sprawl. Locals came with guitars and wine. Tourists came with tripods. I came with a book I never read, content to watch the sky smudge orange. On my last night, I splurged on a meal at Botín, the world’s oldest restaurant. Hemingway once called it the best place to eat roast suckling pig. I ordered it, of course, and it came crackling, tender, the kind of dish that silences even the loudest of inner critics. A couple from Bengaluru sat next to me — on their honeymoon, full of excitement and new plans. We ended up walking together down the Gran Vía, talking about what Madrid meant to each of us. “It’s like Delhi,” the woman said, “but with better cheese and no honking.”

Before leaving, I went back to Puerta del Sol, where Madrid marks Kilometre Zero — the symbolic centre of all Spanish roads. I stood there quietly. Maybe it was touristy, even clichéd. But something about standing at that point — heart of the nation, on the edge of departure — felt right. Madrid had pulled me into its slow, generous rhythm. And somewhere in the wandering, I had stopped checking my watch, stopped thinking about my inbox, and started noticing again.

On the flight back, I missed the small things most — the crunch of burnt sugar on a crema catalana, the weight of Manuel’s hand on my shoulder, the everyday orchestra of footsteps, saxophones, and clinking glasses.

Madrid didn’t dazzle. It lingered. Like a good story, or a glass of tempranillo that stays long after the last sip.