A Love Letter to Madrid: the city that never gives herself away to me all at once
She teases, with a cigarette between her fingers and a slow stretch into the afternoon. She yawns her way into the day long after most capital cities have already rushed through theirs. And somehow, despite my many returns, I never get enough time with her.
Each visit has been short, interrupted, fleeting; and yet each time, she leaves an impression. I’ve wandered her streets in very different lifetimes, always finding myself somewhere between the rhythm of her footsteps and the glow of her impossible light. This is a love letter to those first five visits, puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to fit together at the time, and to the many that have followed. Quicker and quicker, as life has grown fuller.
The first time I met Madrid, I was twenty-one, wide-eyed and curious, with two friends and a cheap hostel in the heart of barrio Santa Ana. It was winter, and the air was crisp with possibility. We stayed up late. Very late. Drinking vodka and chasing the thrum of nightlife, only to fall into dark bars with bad paella and hangovers that stretched into the cold mornings. It was all surface; loud and a little lost, but it was enough to mark the beginning. Madrid as mystery.
The second time, I was twenty-three, stopping overnight en route to Cádiz, where I’d be studying Spanish. Another low-cost room near Puerta del Sol, another late-night beer, another early morning at Atocha. This time, I was more certain of myself, already used to feeling far from home. I didn’t yet know that I was becoming a traveller by soul definition, but that truth was rising inside me, unprompted, like a compass I didn’t have to learn to use.
The third time, the city was quiet. It was the cooling-off of a passion that had once burned red hot in southern Italy. We arrived in silence, knowing we were ending something. He had studied fine art in Madrid, so he showed me the intellectual barrios: Lavapiés, La Latina, El Barrio de las Letras. While he went to work at a gallery, I wandered the museums. I stood in front of Guernica for what felt like hours, frozen. In that hotel room, wrapped in sheets and sadness, we slept more than we spoke. I cried in the grog green bathtub. We both knew it wouldn’t work, but we didn’t want to let go. I left the city with a heart cracked open; Madrid as melancholy.
My fourth time was as a new mother, visiting the Swedish Embassy to get a passport for my eight-week-old son. It was just the two of us, staying in a hotel near Chamartín, trying to figure out how to shower, how to eat, how to breathe between feeds. I breastfed on a bench in El Retiro, ate Thai takeaway I pretended was for a husband who didn’t exist, and tried to map this new Madrid — upscale, sterile, unfamiliar, with a crying baby in my arms. It was overwhelming and beautiful, all at once. I wanted us to be independent, to trust each other from the start. And we did.
The fifth visit was in 2013. I returned with my son and my in-laws, staying near Lavapiés in a bright apartment with a view of white walls and one tiny window dressed in red flowers. Swallows flew across the courtyard with the sound of early summer, and the whole trip felt like the soundtrack of a movie I couldn’t name, but deeply loved. We connected the dots: Chamartín, El Retiro, La Latina — all close, after all. The puzzle pieces from past visits began to form a map. We went to see Guernica again. My son was unimpressed; his grandparents, more so. We ate Peruvian ceviche, we saw flamenco, and I walked my memory lanes with everyone in tow. The city I thought I didn’t understand started to open herself to me. Madrid as realisation.
And then came the years of shorter, in-and-out trips. Always too brief. Passport renewals. Quick stopovers. Visits with children that never felt long enough to fully savour anything. Madrid became the background for errands, for logistics, for motherhood in motion. But even in the rush, she kept whispering: stay longer.
Like that time when I went with Pi for 24 hours. He was four, I think. We stayed at the spectacular ME Madrid Reina Victoria, went for the best date at the tiniest Vietnamese restaurant, and bought toys at El Corte Inglés. And another time, just before Christmas, I returned with both kids, and oh wow, the Christmas lights! Is there anything brighter than the centre of Madrid in December? I think they actually go a bit over the top, but then again, Madrid nightlife is Madrid nightlife. We went to Parque Warner, and I think I was the one who had the most fun. I took a wild ride on the Superman, flying with my feet dangling 55 metres in the air at 100 km/h, crying with happiness and freedom, while my kids cried with pure jealousy for being too short to ride.
Most recently, I landed with just enough time to go straight to the Embassy and then straight to Silvia, a dear friend since 2019, who knows exactly where to take me. Her neighbourhood, Ibiza — not the island, but the Madrid barrio right next to El Retiro — is a well-kept secret. Not many tourists venture there, which makes it even more special. It’s home to some of the best bars and restaurants in the city. I now have an insider friend in my Madrid world.
I’d always thought lunch in Madrid starts at 13:30, no exceptions. But I’ve since learned the secrets: the early vermut bars that open their doors for the in-between hours. The places you go for aperitivo before your real lunch. We shared small plates and laughter, and I realised that, like every good love affair, Madrid rewards those who return with more patience and deeper knowledge.
I still don’t know Madrid fully. But that’s the point. She remains a mystery, unfolding slowly, never rushed. She’s not a city for 24-hour hits like New York or London. She’s a place for long nights, slow mornings, hearts that are willing to wait. A city that doesn’t push herself on you, but invites you to look closer, stay longer, return again.
I always do.
Te quiero.
L 🫶
