Moon River in Madrid

The spirit was willing but the dogs were barking.

After sleeping eleven hours and only eating twice yesterday, I awoke ravenous. The hotel restaurant breakfast buffet took a beating as I moved through filling two plates and a bowl before finding a table where I could chow down while plotting my route for the day.

Warm from the fryer churros tasted like the best thing I'd ever put in my mouth and that was after two bowls of cereal, a heaping plate of dates, pineapple and watermelon, three pieces of crusty bread toasted and slathered with strawberry jam and ham.

Because this is a place where ham shows up at every meal.

En route to the Prado Museum, I passed a store called Joyeria (which kind of described how I felt), a man in a Washington Capitals t-shirt and, like last evening, another man in a paper mache head, which is apparently a thing here.

I knew from a recent New York Times article that I wasn't going to get to see the actual Prado building because it's being renovated, but the upside to that is that during the renovations, the entire building is wrapped in fabric which is printed with details of some of the 3,000 canvases inside, so it's sort of a temporary, gift-wrapped building that will be unveiled in November as part of the 1619-2019 museum celebration.

You know, I'm okay with only getting to see this one-time look on the Prado.

Because the paintings aren't arranged chronologically - or even all of one artist's work in adjacent galleries - it was interesting to navigate the museum. I used the directionally-challenged method, wandering from gallery to gallery with only a few attempts to find certain ones because of the artists in it.

While wandering, I came across Eduardo Rosales' "After the Bath" - considered the finest nude in 19th century Spanish painting - which could have passed for an Impressionistic work with its sketch-like qualities and masterful use of light. That it was executed in a single day was nothing short of amazing.

Another aimless find was an entire gallery of still life paintings, hung salon style like I like so much. Many were of intricate flower arrangements, but my favorite was Cerezo's "Kitchen Still Life," a scene filled with meal fixins: a freshly killed lamb, a calf's head, strung up game birds, round loaves of crusty bread, peppers, copper pots and a carafe of wine.

Turns out, of all the unlikely things, that the Prado has the most extensive collection of Peter Paul Rubens in the world because he was such a favorite of King Philip IV. So much flesh. Truly, there's nothing like seeing all those Rubenesque women to make a person feel good about having eaten like a field hand at breakfast.

Who am I kidding? Any meal for that matter.

Seriously, though, seeing a major work like Rubens' "The Three Graces," a staple from my college art history classes, was mind-blowing. Ditto the two oil on slate works by Titian (slate?), hung inside a glass box so viewers could see both sides.

Still, the Prado's collection is enough to overwhelm even the biggest art lover, not to mention tourists who are mainly there simply because a guidebook told them to. I overheard one glazed-over sounding woman tell her husband, "There's some huge ones in here," as a justification for entering yet another gallery despite sounding tired and bored.

Lady G and Mac will appreciate this: I got to see even more Tintorettos today to add to what we saw at the National Gallery last month. Significantly, there was "The Washing of the Feet," a huge work that was painted for the choir of the Venetian church San Marcuola with a dog at its center and Jesus way over in the right corner.

Looking at in the enormous Prado hall, the perspective was weird, but viewed from the far right side, I could see Tintoretto's foreshortening brilliance given the intended placement of the canvas. There were also various portraits he'd done, one of a senator and another of a general, the latter holding a baton which extended out of the picture plane into the viewer's space.

That's Tintoretto demonstrating his mastery of depicting three dimensions. Like he does.

Most surprising about Velazquez' "Las Meninas" - considered the jewel in the Prado's  crown  and justifiably since it's often referred to as the finest painting in the world - was how few people were in front of it when I got to that gallery. It was a pleasure to ogle it for as long - as I wanted.

And may I just say how satisfying it was that picture-taking wasn't allowed. If you ask me, some museums should take a page from the Prado's book .

This blog post isn't going to be long enough to mention even a fraction of what I saw today so what matters is that I got to see Bosch's "Garden of Earthly Delights," Albrecht Durer's "Self Portrait" and Goya's "Nude Maja," among so many others.

After nearly four hours, I abandoned art for food, making it only as far as the Prado Cafe for a jamon (I told you, every meal) panini with cheese, spinach and egg, patatas bravas and a chocolate cookie for dessert. Just while eating my simple lunch, I overheard people chatting in at least five languages, including a British woman noting that, "Getting married again at this age is a lot more work than I thought."

When I left the Prado, I made my way around the building to admire the draping on all sides before strolling past the Royal Botanical Garden which I wanted to visit but not in the heat of the afternoon.

My next stop was just a look-see at the Atocha train station- designed in 1892 by an architect named Ellisagne in collaboration with Gustave Eiffel (you know the one) - inside and out. The elaborate 19th century brick facade is topped by a half moon of steel and glass that gives it a lacy look from the exterior and an open, light-filled (and plant-filled) look inside.

Let's just say it's light years beyond our American train stations, even the better ones.

Ready for some contemporary art after so much classical work, I walked toward the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, passing musicians on nearly every block and corner: a man playing classical guitar,  a violinist and guitarist playing "Moon River" and several accordionists.

Fascinating to me was that the bike lane was the center lane of a road with two car lanes on either side. I marveled at the brave cyclists willing to pedal between all those speeding cars.

The Sofia's building was originally a hospital and reminded me immediately of D.C.'s Portrait Gallery/American Art Museum because it was a four-sided building with an interior, albeit outdoor, courtyard. Its most striking feature was two glass elevator towers flanking the entrance and giving me a reason not to take the stairs.

Of course I was there for the ultimate art history nerd viewing: Picasso's "Guernica," definitely the holy grail of Picasso's enormous output. Situated in a large gallery, there was appropriately sad music playing, though it was frequently punctuated by one of the guards yelling at people trying to take a picture of it.

No book or slide can prepare you to see "Guernica" in real life, its stark black and white palette adding to the horrific images of a town being bombed. Given the work's importance, both artistically and historically, I was surprised at how quickly people left after laying eyes on it. There was so much to take in.

Adjacent galleries housed related work, such as Dora Marr's photographs of the evolution of the enormous painting and smaller studies done for it. As disturbing as the pieta in "Guernica" is, the study for "Mother with Dead Child" may be even more so for its up-close focus on the scene.

When I finally finished absorbing what I doubt I'll ever see again, I moved on to some of the other galleries. I found Picasso's "Femme au Jardin," a slightly larger than life-size bronze from 1930-32, absolutely captivating with its suggestion of a woman and flowers taller than me. Works by Miro and Calder were inside as well as outside in the courtyard.

This trip will be remembered as the one where I saw another side of Dali that I fell hard for. His "Portrait" from 1925 shows the back of a woman sitting in a heavy wooden chair on a rooftop, her braided hair contrasting with her back. That;s it, no skulls or clocks melting, just a portrait..

It was like no Dali I'd ever seen.

But where I became an uber-fan was with his 1925 "Girl at the Window," an evocative scene of another back, but this time the entire woman. A woman in a blue-striped gray dress is looking out a green-blue framed window with striped blue curtains to a view of water, with a small boat in the distance.

The whole scene was so inviting and believable you could almost smell the water and feel the breeze stirring. I had to know more, so I found signage to help me. Seems Dali is considered the Spanish artist who combined new classicism, modern realism and surrealism (the only part of him I'd known previously) to create what was labeled Arte Nuevo.

By the time I took the glass elevator down, my feet were screaming but I wasn't ready to give up on art entirely.

Instead, I found a shaded bench in the Sofia's courtyard to sit back and admire a huge Calder mobile turning in the late afternoon breeze and a familiar Miro sculpture in black marble. A nearby fountain provided soothing sounds, although there were only a couple of other people outside, making it wonderfully private and peaceful.

And speaking of fountains, walking home I passed one near the Botanical Garden, only to spot three small squirt guns laying on the fountain's lip. I imagine some kid is going to feel like he hit the jackpot when she or he happens to find them.

Kind of like how I hit the art jackpot today. It'll take a while - and multiple conversations with fellow art nerds once I'm home - to fully absorb all the major artwork I got to see today. As G would say, I'm a lucky girl.

I'll just say that it was a joyeria kind of a day and leave it at that.

Buenos Dias, Madrid

It takes a lot to get me up for a sunrise, but flying to Madrid will do it.

Watching the brilliant red ball inch its way up over the curve of the earth while my body thought it was more like midnight was just the start of trying to put myself on Spanish time. My cab ride from the airport to the hotel was notable for two things: I believe it's the first manual transmission taxi I've ever ridden in and the driver and I exchanged not a word beyond confirming the price of the ride.

Partly, it was a language thing and partly, my mind was mostly shut down since it was under the mistaken impression that it was nearly 2 a.m. (which it was in Richmond). In any case, a quiet ride gave me the time to do my initial gawking at Spain on the drive into city center, marveling that we came in on Calle de O'Donnell - incidentally my mother's maiden name - which I found awfully Irish sounding for these parts.

I felt like my official introduction to the city was seeing the big Plaza de la Independencia, with its central neo-classical triumphal arch - actually five arches leading into the city - with an assortment of soldierly sculptures lounging atop it. A statement piece about arriving in Madrid, for sure.

My driver deposited me and my luggage at Hotel Liabeny with a minimal farewell and someone immediately slid into the back seat I'd just vacated, which had to still be warm.

Determined to re-orient myself to Spanish time, I took a quick nap (after only two hours sleep on the plane, I think a 3 hour nap qualifies as quick, don't you?) before heading out into blinding sunlight bouncing off white and light-colored buildings. My goal was to soak up some neighborhood color and eat, well, lunch technically (it was after 2), but as far as my belly was concerned, breakfast.

It had been waaay too long since my last meal.

Without the energy to do my usual 4 mile walk today, I instead decided to use the hotel staircase, not only because of the six flights of stairs but to check them out architecturally given the hotel's age and pedigree. Made of white marble, carpeted in the center and with shiny brass handrails and leaded, stained glass windows in a "modern" early 20th century style (not to mention a "Vertigo"-worthy view when you look up or down at how they corkscrew), they were worth a look.

Taking Rick Steves' recommendation for a good lunch, I headed to the bar at Restaurante Europa, one of only four people balancing on the backless stools to eat at that hour when any decent Spaniard would be siesta-ing.

Twice, I was asked if I wouldn't rather sit in the dining room, but Rick's assurance that the "fun, high-energy scene with a mile long bar, old school waiters, local cuisine and a fine prix fixe lunch menu" - yes, one of the courses is a choice of wine or cerveza - had sold me on a stool meal.

Besides, it was only from a bar stool that I could see the enormous ham behind the bar, draped with a cotton towel, which was removed every few minutes when a server needed to cut paper thin slices from it and arrange them on a plate, in a pattern like petals on a flower.

My first choice was gazpacho which arrived as a creamy, orange chilled soup. The bowl had barely hit the bar when a server eager to show off his English was at my elbow offering me guarniciones. His tray held bowls of chopped cilantro, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers and bread and he wanted to know which I'd like scooped into my gazpacho.

Constitutionally unable to eat something as unripe and nasty tasting as a green pepper, I opted for onion, tomatoes and cucumbers with a soupcon of cilantro, eschewing the bread bits only because of the stellar crusty roll I was already dipping in nutty olive oil.

My main course, enjoyed with a glass of local white wine, was Bacalao (that's cod to you) in salsa verde with potatoes. It's not that the generous piece of fish wasn't perfectly cooked, but my idea of salsa verde doesn't involve a white sauce with green peas in it, though it was tasty enough, just new to me.

What was challenging was convincing my stomach that it wanted all that food at what it still thought was breakfast time. Trust me, we'll get the hang of this soon.

Not long after I finished eating, I was being offered dessert and tea or coffee, but feeling my energy waning after a hearty meal, I thought it best to do some walking to further assure my body we weren't in Kansas anymore. Every calle I walked down meant another piece of monumental sculpture or an elaborately decorated building facade, always with church spires pointing skyward in the near distance.

The sun had shifted behind the buildings when I went out later, making it far more pleasant to stroll the wide pedestrian streets (with an occasional cop car) without sweltering. People watching in Madrid had already proven to be an eyeful, none more unexpected than a guy in a Municipal Waste t-shirt.

I gotta say, it did my heart good to see a Richmond band on a stranger's chest.

And speaking of strangers, I always get a kick out of being some place where there's almost no chance of running into someone I know, or even recognize.

Turning off one wide calle onto another, I stopped in my tracks when I heard music. It turned out to be a quintet - two violinists, two singers and a conductor in an enormous paper mache head (probably a politician but not one I recognized) - performing Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus." Using a small speaker to project the other instruments, the enormous sound of live and recorded music bolstered by live hallelujah vocals bounced off the surrounding buildings and up into the sky.

It was a remarkable thing to witness, even if most tourists were watching it through their phone ratehr than simply taking it in fully.

El Corte Ingles, a multi-floor store that was part department store, part ABC store, part Starbuck's and part grocery store, I couldn't help but smile walking in when I heard Fleetwood Mac's "Gypsy" belting out of the sound system as people shopped.

Over near the fruit and seafood sections, I spotted another Richmond connection: a big display of Duke's mayonnaise with a sign reading, "Probablemente la mejor mayonesa del mundo."

Now, I may still be brushing up on my Spanish (I did manage to ask for the check in Spanish at lunch, a proud moment considering my brain was flat-lining), but I'm pretty sure that display was telling the Spaniards that Duke's is the best mayo in the world.

Although surely the guy in the Municipal Waste t-shirt already knew that.

Walking home, I scored an empanada de pollo and side of fruit, took them to a bench near some trees and ate it all, trying to convince my stomach that it counted as dinner because, with every step I took, I knew I was that much closer to an epic night of sleep. All I needed to do was see the sun set to bookend my first day in Espana and I was good to go.

Good and ready to spend my first night in Madrid anyway. Te veo manana.