Bank Holiday Wednesday and Looking for Jesus

In 1492 Christopher Columbus accidentally arrived in the Americas and left unto us a revisionist disaster of a reputation, and a Spanish bank holiday. This year, Columbus saw land on a Wednesday.

In perplexingly British style, in time for the bank holiday, it was the first rain since we arrived. And it rained basically all day too. “Fortunately”, I had homework to do for university consisting of a mediation journal, aka a dream diary. We actually had an entire lesson about body language the other day, which is potentially overkill as there are only so many times you can read negatively into crossing your arms and giving it laldy with the shifty eyes.

We went to lunch at a restaurant with Adrián called La Gloria de Montera. It was worthy of a review for sure, but I was too excited at all the food to take pictures, and a restaurant review without pictures is like a run not recorded on Strava (they all must know I exercised, otherwise why would I bother?).

In the spirit of goodwill, they were opening the Palace for free from 5pm so that the good citizens of Madrid could see the From Bernini to Caravaggio exhibition. And indeed, I would say that every citizen of Madrid did want to take this opportunity, as we queued for like an hour and a half. It was cold as balls.

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“Why did I move here?”

However, once illuminated by Caravaggio’s chiaroscuro (as it were) I was too rapt to care about my cold nose. It had all the heavy, draped, shadowy, religious works I love, with Salomés-a-plenty and endless martyrs, Ruairidh managed to get this picture of Bernini’s amazing Christ on the cross in bronze:

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We ended the night by going to join the crowds of people outside the Palace to watch the “Light Show”. Now, bearing in mind that I’m insufferably Edinburgh, I think this would probably have even disappointed somebody who had never seen so much as a former X Factor competitor turning on the Christmas lights before a Marks and Spencer mince pie in the town hall.

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Yeah, it was just some colourful projections on the side of the Palace, and then one to end it being like “Happy Bank Holiday, the show’s over now, go home, thanks for coming, bye”.

It was really too much to deal with, considering Tuesday night’s disappointment: after another long day of work and university, I tried to console myself by finding a Catholic tat shop to buy myself a glittery Madonna or a waving Christchild, but alas, none there were. Truly something is working in mysterious ways.

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