More fun in Madrid, and on to Dakar

I arrived safely in Dakar Wednesday night, but I have had limited access to the Internet the last couple of days, so I never got to say anything about the rest of my time in Madrid.

Tuesday, I walked around the Plaza de España on an absolutely glorious day (bright sunshine, about 13 degrees Celsius, which translates to 55 in American). I understand I missed a nice little snowstorm in Chicago. I kept hoofing it for about 1/2 hour down to the Palacio Real, or Royal Palace, which I understand is the largest palace in all of Europe. Having been to the Palais de Versailles in France, I find that a bit hard to believe, though it sure ain't small. As they say, it's good to be the king.

I didn't go in, but I did get a look at the sprawling courtyard out in front, which made for some nice photos. Perhaps next time I'll get to take the tour.

I finally made it to Museo Natcional del Prado a little before 4 pm, then had to wait in line for about 30 minutes. Since the museum closes at 6, I didn't get the chance to see everything, but I did avail myself of a special exhibit tracing the history of Spanish portraiture from El Greco to Picasso, then saw the impressive collection of Roman statuary. I caught a bit of Renaissance art from Raphael, Titian and the like and started into a room of Da Vinci sketches before they kicked me out at 6 o'clock. I was unable to get to the Dutch Masters room.

Later, I experienced a bit of Madrid nightlife. Of particular interest was a place called a sidreria, essentially a bar that specializes in alcoholic cider, la sidra in Spanish. It's different from British-style cider in that it's a cloudy, light-colored liquid and that you are supposed to hold the bottle in one hand over your head and pour the cider into a glass held as far down as you can stretch your other arm. There are buckets on the floor for those of us who have not quite mastered the craft. Or you can just have the bartender pour it for you.

The other thing about Madrid nightlife is that bars and clubs have people working the sidewalks, inviting them in for a free drink, usually a watered-down shot of some kind, in hopes that they will stick around for a while. Needless to say, people do a lot of bar-hopping.

One nasty hangover later, I left Madrid behind on late Wednesday afternoon for the four-hour flight to Dakar, the westernmost city on the African continent. The Business Class departure lounge at Madrid-Barajas Airport is something to behold. Cushy chairs, free snacks and drinks (I passed, despite the full bar), free Internet, semi-private meeting areas and even showers. I'll avail myself of the latter on the way back, after I stumble off the red-eye from Dakar at 5:05 a.m. before my connection to Chicago nearly seven hours later. I suspect I'll be able to pass out on one of the couches for a bit.

The Business Class on Iberia's 757 is quite interesting. The whole plane is nothing but coach-type seats, three on each side of the aisle. But there's a moveable cabin divider to separate the first few rows, depending on how many tickets they sell, I suppose. They simply don't sell the middle seats in Business Class, which really wasn't a problem, since the rest of my row was empty. They sure did feed us well, however.

It was quite a trip, pun intended, to hear the pilot say we would fly over such exotic locales as Casablanca on the way to Dakar, but I suppose it's no more exotic to a Spaniard than the Caribbean is for an American.

And then there was the arrival in Dakar. Senghor International Airport, named after the first president of an independent Senegal, is old and small. So old that there are no jetbridges. Planes park on the tarmac and passengers clamber down the stairs and onto shuttle buses that take you to the terminal. Then you wait. And wait. And wait some more. An Air France flight from Paris got in about the same time as my flight from Madrid, yet there were only four passport inspectors on duty. The room was stuffy. I was tired.

It took me close to an hour to get through customs and spot my uncle waiting out front—itself not an easy chore, since thousands of Muslim pilgrims had descended upon the airport to catch flights to Mecca. But I'm here, in Senegal, experiencing things I never have experienced before, such as people selling goats in the median of busy streets. Little do the goats know that they are not long for this world. On or about Jan. 20, they will be slaughtered for the Muslim holiday of Tabaski. It's a religious responsibility of some sorts.

I'm still figuring out my bearings here and working out my rather rusty French, but a few things are unmistakeable. For one, people seem incredibly friendly, until they get behind the wheel of a car. Then they get agressive and mean and lose all sense of courtesy. I would, too, if I spent so much time not moving and breathing heavily polluted air. Which brings me to my second observation: A thick haze has enveloped Senegal, the result of dust blowing in from the Sahara, which is at least 200 miles away. Dakar is surrounded on three sides by the ocean. I can't imagine what the pollution must be like further inland.

I'll sign off for now by saying that my young cousins, Leo, 12, and Julia, 9, are great. What a treat it is to travel so far and stay with family.

Plenty more on Senegal to follow.