Everyone over the age of 10 has fallen in love at least once in their life. Why 10 years old? I think until then we are too preoccupied with toys and sweets to fall in love.
So we all know what it’s like to be, at first, giddy with the fumes of infatuation, seduced by the butterflies in our stomachs. We walk around with our heads in the clouds, we see only what we want in the other person, we lead our lives as if we had those modern VR glasses through which we enter another reality. The ‘reality’ of falling in love is one full of energy, of sap, of all possibilities, of hopes, ideals, beauty, aspirations, inspiration, fulfilled dreams.
I feel this effect in the beautiful cities of the world: every time, in Paris, and two weeks ago, in Madrid. I’d been there once before, stayed a day, had work to do, and saw nothing but what you can steal out of the corner of your eye in a taxi run.
Now, when I’ve stayed three full days, I was surprised.
Maybe the excitement came because this weekend in Madrid was my birthday present to myself. I have this routine of being somewhere else in the world on my birthday; it’s like being born somewhere else, I’m curious to see what happens every year. The tendency to see the world in beautiful colours, to have my head in the clouds is more prominent at this time of my year.
Perhaps it’s my inner fragility that made me nervous about meeting the city. That kind of good, butterflies flapping their wings drunkenly kind of excitement I was talking about at the beginning.
Like relationships at first, Madrid was intoxicating.
I’d say it was a city made with care and artistry, which gave me a good feeling of delight, but without ‘undelight’. In many big cities you also find filth, modern buildings in none architectural style at all (if you disregard the one of bad taste), carelessness. Not the case here. Madrid seemed to me rather balanced in its coquetry, elegant, a mix of modernity and tradition manifested both in architecture, landscapes, people’s behaviour, street fashion.
If I were to compare him to a fashion designer, Carolina Herrera would fit him rather than Jean Paul Gaultier.
If I were to compare him to a perfume, it wouldn’t be Kurkdjian, but it could be Hiris by Hermes: delicate, powdery, memorable, elegant, unforgettable, classic and fresh, unmistakable, which makes you feel good, like a white tea at Mariage Freres.
If I were to compare it to a car, it would be a Volvo XC60, not an Aston Martin.
If I were to compare it to a wine, it would be that extremely good, smooth, fine white Rioja I had at the Four Seasons, not the Ruinart champagne at the Ritz.
If I were to compare it to a colour, it would be Burberry’s elegant beige, without the plaid, not YSL’s dramatic black.
If I were to compare it to a piece of music, it wouldn’t be Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake but Vivaldi’s Seasons: a combination of classical and dynamic, spirited, vivacious.
Madrid is a delight, which I invite you to discover. And if you also catch a Magritte exhibition, as I did, then you’re in luck.