Euro Star from London was reassuringly back to normal after their sad ' it was too wet in the tunnel' disgrace over Christmas so, apart from the young man behind me throwing a hissy fit because there was no internet connection (he had to talk to his wife instead of playing with his computer- as time wore on I began to see his point) every one was in a pretty good mood, luggage wracks overloaded with gifts of unmanageable proportions. The kids settled down with their colouring books, squabbled with their parents about the rules of their new Christmas games and then took to reeling and tumbling up and down the corridors. Outside French fields with fugitive snow, frosty trees, ice covered ponds.
Frozen Paris looks gorgeous even glimpsed from the taxi between stations, I wished I had given myself a couple of nights there. Nice taxi driver from Mali, we had a good conversation IN FRENCH - a triumph for me- about how jolly and informal Africans are and how tricky Europeans can be and would I like to take her with me?
I shared a sleeping compartment on the Paris Madrid sleeper with a mother and her grown up daughter- Goya faces- Primark outfits. Flushed with success after my taxi conversation, I embarked on a new French conversation. They did not speak French- or English ( well thats what they indicated.) We had a pantomime conversation. Me and mother both have colds, no fun. We slept well. The journey to Madrid would take two or three more hours after they left at dawn.
Museums in Madrid are almost all closed on Monday- as any fool kno. -It was raining. I borrowed an umbrella from the hotel doorman and set out for the only open museum which had an exhibition of Russian painters who I had missed when they were at the Tate. The queue was a river of umbrellas winding around the square and along the street. I am not That keen on those Russians.
I set off on a long march around the city. Taking in two churches- both doing mass- well attended by the lame halt meek and the damp. The first, a red brick, domed, square Paladian building with its alter presided over by a brightly painted plaster bishop in high wind and a high miter a hooped barrel full of naked children at his feet. Who can they be? They were v popular with the halt, lame, meek and damp, everyone qued up to kiss his feet, pat the babies and add candles to the growing sea light. I started to draw them but was shooed out by a small Indian nun.
The second church was heavily decorated with very shiny mosaics, had a fine plaster Virgin Child and Joseph who had been given various Christmas gifts- basket of knitwear for the bbj pale blue with lots of frills- just the thing for a Palistine winter, a big basket of fruit- bannas oranges, apples, honey in a nice brown jar, red rose. Virgin M in nice dangly ear rings, lots of white lace, and a red and gold sash. I started a drawing but got shooed out by a cleaning lady, who clearly understands the difference between faith and the need to hide from rain.
There were plenty of Nativity sceens around making me realize I really haven't tried hard enough with mine- too few sheep, no lions ducks or assorted zoo animals, no running waterfalls.
