madrid in your pocket

I bought a book off the street in Cáceres for 50 cents, which was probably less than what it cost when it was printed in 1965. The book is Spain in Your Pocket, written by a certain Peggy Donovan, who smiles at me from behind her typewriter, a smoking cigarette in her hand. Among Peggy’s most impressive accomplishments include her marriage to Major Stanley Donovan, Cheif of the United States Military Mission. The back cover blurb assures me Peggy is a trustworthy guide to Spain – she has “visted personally” each site she describes and has “taken courses” at the University of Madrid (oh my!). Oh, and did I mention that she was the wife of Major what’s-his-face?

My copy opens with a hand-written dedication, signed by Peggy herself and dated April 1967: “For Fleur (could be something else, the handwriting is a bit unclear) and Tom Meyer – In anticipation of May in New York together – from an admiring collegue with warm regards, Peggy Donovan.” I find it rather telling that even Peggy’s friends didn’t think it worthwhile to keep their signed copy. I worry that Peggy’s book didn’t do too well.

I shouldn’t give Peggy such a hard time. I have taken her “travella” on all of my journeys and it has provided endless amusement and noteworthy advice. She suggests, for example, that travellers to Spain always carry “special pills, a sewing kit, a pepper mill, nescafe, woolite and extra eyeglasses,” among other useful items. She exclaims things like “Spain is enormous fun” and writes long, capitalized titles: “THE MANY FACETS OF MADRID: WHERE THE HOURS ARE NOT FOR SLEEPING, THE AIR IS ELECTRIC DRY, AND THE PLAZA MAYOR CASTS A SPELL.”

The real fun in the book are the sweeping generalizations that still hold some truth and the specifics that are clearly dated. During my first visit to Madrid in September, I wrote in my journal about the trendy children who seemed to have free reign over Plaza Santa Ana, where I sat sipping my beer. In 1965, Peggy wrote, “No capital city is more given to children than Madrid and their later sense of high style and the solemn stare begins in the prams of the Castellana....” She devotes a good deal of her chapter on Madrid to describing how modernity has arrived in the Spanish capital. The “signs of affluence” that she singles out – the replacement of the donkey by the Seat 600 and the fifty-five driving schools that turn out anarchic drivers, both ladies and men – if no longer applicable, are certainly entertaining.

I was eager to compare notes with Peggy when A and I returned from our excursion to the big city last weekend. In Madrid – wandering in the crowd at Sol, finding the Egyptian novel I wanted at the bookstore, eating yummy vegetarian food, watching the Lebanese film Caramel with subtitles rather than dubbing, discussing Buenos Aires with the hostel receptionist (after winning big points by correctly identifying him as Boca Juniors fan), sipping coffee in the absurdly warm sunshine, being awed by Las Meninas at the Prado, reading the theatre reviews – I felt connected to the world. The city girl in me, suppressed as she is these days, breathed freely.

I was happy to find that Peggy likes Madrid as much as I do. I think I’ll let her have the last word to make up for teasing her so badly. She says it better anyways.

“Madrid demands little, gives much. ... Madrid concentrates on the vital, the laughing, the noisy side of life. There is no loneliness in Madrid. It is the least lonely city in the world....”

A in the foreground, Prado in the background.


Note the shirtless boy on the far left. Yes, it is January. Yes, it was that warm.

We had lunch outside. That was pleasing.