As we made our way through Europe in July 2026, the FIFA World Cup was nearing its culmination. In Paris, we had rooted for Spain to beat Austria one night, and cheered when Argentina beat Cabo Verde because everyone wanted to see Messi keep going. Canada was eliminated by Morocco on July 4th, which we had discussed with a Moroccan-French Bolt driver in Bordeaux.
We flew to Madrid from Athens and settled into a guesthouse just a few steps from the Puerta del Sol, a huge plaza buzzing with people. We were like backpacker pals at a hostel. We shared one big room, with four single beds, AC, high ceilings, and a tiny TV (like Michael Scott's in the dinner party episode!). The windows and doors opened to a balcony overlooking a fun street full of bars and shops. Although the location was convenient and lively, inside the pension it was peaceful. The place was spotless and very quiet, with minimal but eclectic decor.
As tranquil as the guesthouse was, we ventured out to see Madrid. I'm pretty jealous that Madrid has a literature neighbourhood called Barrio de las Letras, with author museums, book stores, and lots to browse.
We also went to the Museo Nacional de Arte Reina Sofia -- with quite modern art (19th century to contemporary). We saw lots of works by Picasso (including Guernica), lots of Dalà (trippy stuff for sure), and much more. Spending a few hours in an art museum is so strange and interesting. It's dedicated time to wander, wonder and ponder, maybe even pander, just to balance out this sentence.
So we get to the contemporary section and there is consumable art -- like never ending stacks of oversized paper printed with a few wise words, and a pool's worth of hard candies that have to be replenished as patrons take them! What a fun and weird way to walk 10,000 steps. I love it.
Mike had recently read Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, and was reading For Whom the Bell Tolls on the trip, so in Paris and Madrid, he was dropping some fun facts about Hemingway's time spent in each city -- where he lived, places he wrote, places he drank, details like that. The gals started busting his chops, asking if Hemingway sat on this bench, or walked on this sidewalk, or bought a fan at this store, this or that, everywhere we went. We did go for a drink and tapas at a CervecerÃa Alemana in Plaza Santa Ana, like Hemingway. Mike made a pal in the waiter, Miguel. :D
We went to a flamenco show! It was the Essential Flamenco show, which takes place under a restaurant, in a brick cave. The tablao is the wooden dance floor that amplifies the dance steps. The musicians play guitar, cello, drums, and they sing and clap percussion. When it gets going, it's absolutely fierce, and the outfits were fuego! Tailored suits for the fellows and vibrant dresses with tiers and ruffles for the ladies. The passionate music and dance was entrancing (to us at least. We overheard an angsty Irish teen say, "It's nothing but f*in' tap dancin'" lol).
Our last night in Madrid was the World Cup final -- Argentina versus España, and while Argentina is dear in our hearts, we had to root for Spain, lest we get caught in an angry crowd on the way home! We reserved a table at a restaurant where we could watch the game. Most of the crowd was in red, with a small delegation repping the blue and white of Argentina. It was a long game, with zero-zero on the scoreboard until overtime. Spoiler alert: Spain won! The crowd went wild, and we got to join the revellers. We basically floated back to the guesthouse in the tide of people going down the street, and when we got tired, retreated to our room to enjoy the scene from the balcony. Drummers and dancers posted up outside our window and rocked into the night, and yet, I got a great sleep.
All in all, our timing was luckhounds' classic. We got a train to Seville the next day, and avoided the crowd of almost two million people (literally) gather to see the team parade through the plazas with the cup on a scorcher of a day.
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