Etiqueta: Spain

Trichophagia

patriciamartinrivas
[Leer cuento en español]

There is nothing like the luxurious sensation of cat fur on her taste buds. With Isis, it can get quite complicated to harvest those hairy delicacies, but Nut acquiesces to more shenanigans, and so Abril yanks her fur out and turns it into haute cuisine and enjoys its touch and spits it out and swallows it, and it dances and dances through her mouth.

Abril pursues the cats on all fours down the hall. Nut and Isis finally give in. They never learn. Or they do learn, but they forget, or it’s worth it, or they actually enjoy it, or they don’t care, and they are ensnared once more by that modern fur trapper. Nut, more maternal, usually sleeps with Abril, despite the peril of baldness, although there are times when she gets fed up and gives a gentle warning bite or even leaves her side. Isis avoids her more, but Abril still plucks the occasional trophy from her, because the tickles of that fur, its toothsomeness magnified by the thrill of the hunt, are an explosion of flavor.

But cats are not always so easily hooked. When the chase proves fruitless, she settles for other furs: hippopotamus hair tastes like green somersaults, bear locks have a bright pink aftertaste, monkey mane has tones of violet sweetness. But, in the end, the ones she rips from the book clump up in her mouth, and she struggles to swallow them, so she sets out once more after the cats.

For some reason, Isis is more amenable to petting on the balcony, where she likes to relax in the bright Madrid sun. Abril follows her, sneaky, and then lingers there for a long time, regardless of the success of her culinary mission. Since the rides in her carriage stopped, she has adored this space: it is here that the breeze blows, the wind chimes rustle, the colors shine, that clapping and dancing live. And at eight in the evening, it is usually she who initiates the nightly applause for hospital workers.

The people who live in the neighboring apartments play the same songs over and over, over and over again, every afternoon, and Abril enjoys their familiarity and dances to them and claps enthusiastically when they finish. The lady who always called her «little cutie» when they met in the halls is the one who launches the daily festivities with We Will be Together Again, by Lucía Gil, which is a bit sappy, but well, the melodrama goes over Abril’s head, and she never turns her nose up at a chance to applaud, clap, clap. Then comes, by tradition, the turn of that neighbor in his sixties — the one who scratched her with his mustache every time he saw her in the lobby— he plays I Will Survive, and by then Abril is already high and moves like one possessed and sings loudly and to her own tune and claps throughout the song and the sum of the clap, clap, clap reaches the end with tiny enormous enthusiasm. The hubbub concludes every night with the melody of the couple across the street —the one with the rectangular red, yellow, red cloth proudly fluttering from their small window— who insist on playing a song that reminds her a bit of a lullaby but is much more difficult to follow for Abril, who always gets confused and applauds after that part where her parents sing “and King Juan Carlos washes it with soap,” clap, clap, because it seems like the melody ends, but then it starts up again. It always continues. Clap. So much the better, that just means there is more applause. Clap. Clap. Clap.

When daylight savings begins, the neighbors across the street can see the little girl much better at that hour, and they blow her kisses and call out greetings. Abril is very good with grannies, so she returns their greetings with self-confidence, but she still doesn’t know how to blow kisses, so she unwittingly leaves them unsatisfied. Who knows: maybe she’ll learn soon and hurl little bits of happiness back at the women in the form of floating kisses.

Abril is happy bathed by the spring breeze. It doesn’t matter if she is in her bedroom playing with her reflection, or if she is hanging on to her mother while she does her housework: at the mere sound of the word «balcony,» Abril abandons everything and her hands start with the clap, clap, clap, as if pulled by irresistible force. She knows that she must clap her hands, and she complies. Just as she does when she goes out on the balcony, even if it’s not the right time for applauding first responders. By force of Pavlovian habit, the balcony has become infused with that gesture of joy: she spends time in the morning blowing soap bubbles with her mother and clap, clap; she stands in the sun with her father as he reads her a story and clap, clap, clap; she is dazzled by the windchimes and claps her hands and laughs every time the little bells ring, clap, while she bites the clothespins; she follows Isis to the terrace, and the cat lowers her guard, and Abril first claps her hands and then goes rip and yum in the blink of an eye. And at eight o’clock the clapping extravaganza begins, something she would miss dearly if the routine ever changed.

Abril already knows how to say “mama” (quite well-enunciated) and “Ithith” (with a lot of drooling accompanying the lisp), calling those whom she must stubbornly chase to feed herself. She often goes out with them to eat on the terrace —and not only dairy and fur— now that spring is in a good mood, clap, clap; and she gets mash all over her face trying to use the spoon and feels great happiness every time the sun hits her and she never tires of applauding.

Afternoons in the park and at the pool fade into the mist of oblivion, and she no longer remembers how quickly she used to get tired, or that she went to bed much earlier; and she has gotten used to seeing her grandparents via video call and pointing at them and smiling at them to indicate that she recognizes them, and then continuing trying to eat Nut and Isis’s fur. Normality for Abril does not mean going out into the street (street? what street?), but taking naps, eating fur and yet more fur, clinging to furniture, laughing out loud at peak-a-boo, breastfeeding, frolicking in her playpen, and listening to the neighbors’ music.

Abril’s first April is born and dies with the reality of the balcony —the awning with painted oak and eucalyptus leaves, the pink chairs, the dried-up cacti, the windchimes— as her only contact with the outside world. New truths and habits and teachings dance incessantly in her memory. One month is ten percent of the little girl’s existence, so the balcony is no little oasis of open air, but a whole universe.

{Translated by Adam Lischinsky}

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

More tales of the pandemic based on real stories at
Love in the Time of Coronavirus,
by Patricia Martín Rivas

Love in the Time of Coronavirus
Navarrevisca

Genealogy

patriciamartinrivas
[Leer cuento en español]

In all of Navarrevisca, only Aunt Tomasa still retains memories of memories of the 1918 flu, and, until now, they had always seemed to her like tales of ghosts or distant worlds.

The anecdotes were bequeathed to her by her mother, Fermina, and had not cropped up in her thoughts for decades, but for the last few months they have become incessant reminiscences that appear to her even in dreams.

Aunt Tomasa rises very early, opens the window to air the room well, and those gerontological winds that shape her thoughts begin to invade her. At ninety-four years old, every action must be carefully planned — before going downstairs, not to return until evening, she washes, dresses, takes her pills, and makes her bed. Her mother and her mother-in-law died in that same bed, and very likely also her grandmother, Maria, with the flu, because back then in villages, one died at home. Once she is ready, she creeps down the stairs slowly, slowly, because her leg is a little bit crooked, and the descent aggravates the pain.

In order to distract herself from the ordeal of going down, she thinks, step by step, if back then they would have had vaccinations. Yesterday, she wondered if they would have worn masks. And the other day she was assailed by doubts about social distancing. The answer is always no to everything — that’s probably why her grandmother María died of the so-called Spanish flu: because they had nothing, and they didn’t know anything, and they didn’t protect themselves. Or maybe they did, who knows, nobody remembers those times anymore. As always, she reaches the ground floor without arriving at any firm conclusions, but at least the digression is useful for ignoring the pain.

She has her daily rituals, Aunt Tomasa, tidying up the house with energy and flair: she sweeps, gathers the dishes from the night before, and makes breakfast. Today there’s no need to cook, because she still has some croquettes left over from last week, as well as some tomatoes and torreznos that Maritere, her neighbor who keeps an eye on her, brought her yesterday. Tomorrow she will make an armada of empanadas and freeze them to eat them bit by bit.

Her leg is giving her a hard time. No wonder: yesterday she went with Currita to the pharmacy, and then they had a coffee and some churros at Casa Victoria, which filled them with enough energy to walk to Las Pezuelas and reach Uncle Ufe’s door, almost to San Antonio, and the morning flew by.

Today she’s due for a rest. She dangles the basket with her crochet tools on the crook of her elbow, grabs the wicker chair and skips nimbly out the door of her house, where she skillfully positions herself in the sun, her gray hair shining under the gentle caresses of the mountain air. If the town was already slowly fading away even before the pandemic, now abandonment has seized every street. This morning there is not a soul, except for a couple of kittens mewling in famished pleas, feeling the absence of humans directly in their stomachs.

Aunt Tomasa settles herself on the wicker chair, totally molded to her frame, and as soon as she joins the needles, the clinking invokes the figure of Fermina, and those memories rush back to her in a confused whirlwind and get tangled in the yarn. Her mother was always chatty at the loom, as she warped and interweaved, but those words were carried away by the wind and time, because they seemed unimportant.

Fermina survived the previous pandemic but was left motherless at the age of eighteen. Who knows if someone else in the family was infected, who knows at what age the flu took Grandma Maria, who knows how she faced the grim reaper, who knows where she died. Even though they were immediate family, Aunt Tomasa says she doesn’t know who those people are — I wasn’t even born yet, how would I know? She does not sigh, because she is of a cheerful disposition, and she is not worried about forgetting, but the loop of uncertain thoughts becomes unavoidable during these times.

And those days… How hard they were, my God. Aunt Tomasa grew up among reeds and reels, and from a very young age, her grandfather and her father taught her the art of weaving, to which she devoted herself body and soul until she married her Aurelio, may he rest in peace, a handsome goatherd who captured her heart with the countless letters that he sent her from the front lines of the Civil War. She knitted better than her sister, anxiety personified, no comparison. Aunt Tomasa’s hands filled with peace and patience, and she didn’t break a single thread when she made the blankets for the shepherds. But she didn’t just weave: she also dyed the blankets on the fulling mill and cut them — from fifty meters to twenty-five and then to five and then to two and a half, it echoes like a chant in her — and left them to dry and made them neat and pretty, and she traded them around the nearby villages of Avila with her father. Struggling to heft endless blankets that seemed sewn from lead (especially when it rained) in exchange for cheese or chickpeas or paprika or potatoes or chestnuts or figs or oils or raw wool or whatever there was, sometimes a few pesetas, if you were lucky.

She eats in front of the TV. They say on the news that the people who were spared during the Spanish flu were those who did not go outside and lived in well-ventilated spaces and that they even banned keeping pigs at home. The rich were the ones who survived, of course. Here in the village, there used to be a lot of people and a lot of crude houses of piled-up stones with tiny windows, and there was always a pig in every home, which was enough to keep the pot full for the whole year. And the families lived all together (parents, children, grandchildren), and they didn’t even have running water, just the common troughs, and the streets were swamps. Her mother told her that during that horrible flu, there were days when they could not even carry all the corpses to the cemetery of La Mata, the one down there, the old one.

After eating, she returns to her chair. One by one, Aunt Paula, Aunt Leoncia, Aunt Maria, all the widows who live in the street, come out. Each one with her archaic wicker seat, her social distance, her needles, and without her cards. They miss that more than anything else: the games for hours and hours every Sunday, the heft of the deck in their fists, the dry sounds of shuffling, the triumph of calling “brisca.” They play less and less, because Aunt Felisa, Aunt Fidela and Aunt Rosario have passed away, but they pay homage to them with lively laughter and the occasional random affray.

Now they have to talk to one another each from a different corner, and sometimes they can’t understand each other, but they answer, «What can you do?», and they always end up understanding, because they’ve been keeping each other company since there wasn’t a wrinkle between them. When someone passes by, if someone passes by, they put on their masks. They spend the whole afternoon chattering like parrots, without a break in their weaving and, amidst the bickering, the days fly by, even though they miss the hustle and bustle of visitors whom they can no longer ask in the marked dialect of the village, «Where’s the crew headed?» or «When did you get here?» or «Has your sister arrived yet?».

They are fine, they are careful, no one who lives in the town has died, there is not much danger in this remote village of 200 people. Aunt Tomasa is an oak tree, if it weren’t for the pain in her leg… Although, a few weeks ago, she woke up feeling queasy and nauseous and, no problem, they gave her an injection, they took her to the town of Burgohondo, where there are doctors, and they shoved a little stick in each nostril, and it turned out she was fit as a fiddle, no coronavirus or anything. Who knows if she would have caught the old virus herself, and what tests did her grandmother take, the poor thing, so young, so young. It seems that two or three other women died that same day in Navarrevisca. Surely back then there were no tests or anything.

Today there is mass. From the door of their houses, the aged friends can actually see the shadow of the stone tower crowned with a stork’s nest, but they prepare themselves well in advance, because what a scramble it is whenever the bells ring: ooh, where’s my cane, ooh, where’s my mask? They go in and out, in and out, until they finally have all their gear. And they walk slowly, well apart, without holding each other’s arms, relying on only the support of a cane and the presence of their friends.

And now, you see, you have to do all kinds of things before entering the church: wipe your shoes on the doormat, wash your hands well with that gel that’s like an icicle, sit at practically opposite ends of the pews (one seat yes, one no, one yes, one no, meaning there is no one to give the sign of peace to properly), take the body of Christ in your hand, with a mask for the priest and a mask for the person taking communion. In the end they laugh, the old ladies, because all this fuss lends some excitement to the affair — there have been no changes in the mass for a long time.

At the end of the day, Aunt Tomasa feels happy in her home, in this mountain village. She has to make the most of the days she has left. Autumn is coming, and it’s starting to cool down, and on the news they ramble on endlessly about the second wave, and her daughters want to take her to Madrid, for another possible lockdown. She would not like to return to the months of isolation in the city, when the days stretched endlessly, because the only entertainment was looking at the European royal families in magazines, making socks for her great-grandchildren, and watching the police from the balcony. And, on top of that, when she went out for her first walk after two months of lockdown, her leg hurt something fierce: she was seeing stars, couldn’t take a step. But, my child, I’ll have to give in: if I stay here and get sick, what’m I gonna do? Her Maribel and her Lumi just want the best for her.

She is convinced that it could be worse when she recalls the blurred chronicles of the previous pandemic in the village that her mother narrated to her over the loom, testimony that now dwells only in her memory, because it is not collected in any newspaper library or in any church register or in any other collective memory of this world, and it is sinking deeper and deeper into the mysterious recesses of history. Those memories of memories are hidden like an ephemeral treasure in the oldest person in Navarrevisca, who has just gone to bed to rest her leg, which hurts less when she stretches it. Aunt Tomasa dreams of dreaming that her grandmother survives and tells her everything that happened in Navarrevisca during the Spanish flu.

{Translated by Adam Lischinsky}

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

More tales of the pandemic based on real stories at
Love in the Time of Coronavirus,
by Patricia Martín Rivas.

Art Bites Madrid

patriciamartinrivas

The Hermitage of the Vera Cruz de Maderuelo
unknown artist, 12th century, Prado Museum

This is definitely the best place to start your visit to the Prado Museum, to directly immerse yourself in the history of artistic representation. This wall belonged to a small hermitage in Segovia, a city 100 miles from Madrid. Its fresco paintings were transferred to canvas in 1947 and brought to the Prado Museum, where they were displayed in faithful imitation of the original layout, so visitors can walk amidst it. Of course, the theme depicted is unoriginal for its time — after all, we’re talking about the 12th century here. However, its religious scenes — the creation of Adam, the original sin, Mary Magdalene, etc.— are very interesting when viewed through the lens of perspective. Its fairly crude perspective provides a starting reference for the progressive refinement of perspective by painters in the subsequent centuries, and it should be kept in mind as you progress through the rest of the gorgeous works in this museum.

Table of the Seven Deadly Sins
Hieronymus Bosch, 1505-1510, Prado Museum

One of the artistic jewels of Madrid — and the world — is The Garden of Earthly Delights, a magnificent and still-mysterious work by Dutchman Hieronymus Bosch. However, in the very same room where his famous triptych lies, there are several more of his works that are worth focusing on. One of them is the Table of the Seven Deadly Sins, dominated by Jesus Christ, in a central circle, warning of his constant vigilance. Around him, there are several scenes of sin: lust, gluttony, sloth, etc., are everywhere, and they reflect eternal punishment. Of course, this punishment takes place in hell, and for those who can’t take a hint, there’s also an image of hell on the table, with all those sinful souls receiving their just deserts — everlasting torment. The table is both a marvelous artwork and a creepy piece of furniture — who could really enjoy brunch with so much guilt?

Las Meninas
Diego Velázquez, 1655 – 1660, Prado Museum

If there is any must-see when visiting Madrid’s museums, this is definitely it. Diego Velázquez had a good job and universal recognition as an artist, since he worked as the royal family’s official painter. Despite the heavy responsibilities and strict constraints of such a position, his creativity flourished. Las Meninas is a good example of this — instead of merely painting a typical family portrait, Velazquez added touches of the bizarre. The painter himself appears on the left of the work, in the midst of painting Princess Margarita (in the middle), interrupted by the arrival of the king and queen (in the mirror), while one of the several servants or ‘meninas’ uses that precious moment to offer a drink to the princess, no doubt thirsty after posing for such a long time. First, the quotidian is key here, since the people depicted are taking a break and thus relaxed, with unusual stances. Second, Velázquez was very bold, painting himself alongside the king and queen — as much as he could, since he’s technically alongside the reflection of the monarchs. Lastly, the characters are looking at us — in the conceit of the painting, at the king and queen — seeming to break the fourth wall. This is one of the most oft-studied works in the history of art, still mysterious, and definitely one of those masterpieces that should be seen at least once in a lifetime.

Castas
Miguel Cabrera, 1775-1800, Museum of the Americas

In addition to all the other Spanish atrocities during the colonization of the Americas, they established a system based on the so-called castas, which codified ethnic inequality — of course, white people were at the top of this racist hierarchy. This system was thoroughly represented in art, even leading to the creation of a new genre called pintura de castas. The Mexican Miguel Cabrera was one of the main artists to depict this system, and the Museum of the Americas houses many of his paintings. This racial classification is thus much in evidence, and it is certainly very interesting to view because it shows clearly how race is an arbitrary concept to impose social superiority. The system shown in the paintings is often ridiculous to the point of laughter, with racial categories bearing names like “wolf,” “floating in mid-air,” and “throwback.”

The Drowning Dog
Francisco Goya, 1820 – 1823, Prado Museum

This magnificent work is part of the fourteen Black Paintings which Goya produced during the final years of his life. Practically deaf and holed up in his house in Madrid, he painted a series of works on the very walls of his house. These were later transferred to canvas by a banker who, not finding any buyers, donated them to the Prado Museum. These paintings depicted powerful and horrible human feelings, like anguish, fear, and despair, a far cry from his previous trite neoclassicism, leading him through a carnival of horrors and, at the same time, amazing, groundbreaking creativity. The Drowning Dog is not only strikingly beautiful, but it is probably the most interesting work in the series from a historical perspective — painted in the early 1820s with such lack of perspective and detail, it’s a harbinger of styles which wouldn’t arrive for nearly another century, like impressionism and abstraction. The poor dog is trapped in the sand, trying to escape that terrible fate of drowning. Other gorgeous Black Paintings, like Fight with Cudgels, are in the same room in the museum.

Mata Mua (In Olden Times)
Paul Gauguin, 1892, Thyssen Museum

Paul Gauguin had several exhibitions when he was alive, but his work found its true audience after his death — in fact, in 2015, one of his works was bought for $300 million, becoming the most expensive painting ever sold. Both this painting and Mata Mua are part of his body of work from when he lived in Tahiti, his most characteristic works. Gauguin went to Tahiti to flee modern civilization, but he didn’t find the primitive society he had dreamed of, since French Polynesia had more colonial influence than he had expected. Still, the artist fell In love with the island and created works that mix reality and fantasy, western and eastern concepts, modernity and primitivity, creating an extremely interesting document of life in Tahiti. He also gave Tahitian names to his paintings — though sometimes not 100% correct, admittedly. In Mata Mua, Gauguin depicts an impossible yet captivating and dreamily colorful landscape, with idyllic scenes of women playing music and dancing around an idol, idealizing the noble savage in the untouched paradise of “olden times.”

Photo Report of the Evolution of “Guernica”
Dora Maar, 1937, Reina Sofía Museum

Like many other photographers at that time, Dora Maar’s work was less valued than that of painters, since this new form of expression was considered a lower form of art. However, this French painter, sculptor, and photographer is nowadays considered one of the most outstanding artists in the 20th century. Among many other things, she photographed the development of one of the most popular modern works in Madrid, Picasso’s Guernica, a masterpiece depicting the horror of war. It’s really interesting to turn around when seeing that painting, since Maar’s photographic documentation of the work, which she did between May 11th and June 4th, 1937, is truly impressive. Given the lack of light in the studio and the immensity of Guernica, she had to retouch every photo to make it perfect, and due to this, nowadays we can see all the changes, modifications, additions, and elimination the Spanish painter made. More of Maar’s works can be seen in the Reina Sofía Museum, great photographs with very high contrast of quotidian street scenes.

Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening
Salvador Dalí, 1944, Thyssen Museum

When eccentrical Salvador Dalí met Gala for the first time, his world collapsed, and the focus of his paintings turned almost exclusively to her. She soon divorced her first husband and married Dalí, becoming his muse for life. Of all the paintings starring the eternal Russian muse, this is probably the most interesting, because of the mixed feelings it inspires (and definitely the one with the most charming title). One feels a certain peace at first glance, due to the colors and the balance of the work. However, upon closer look, the calm shatters — the violence disturbing Gala’s serene and deep dream is simply breathtaking, with the cold-looking stone over which she’s lying naked, a shotgun touching her skin, and two tigers striving to reach her while one of them is eaten by a fish. An elephant with impossible legs and a bee flying around a pomegranate make the scene even more disturbing. Is she dreaming about those strange things, or they are happening around her? That’s open to interpretation — this is surrealism in its pure state!

Know Your Servant #1
Martha Rosler, 1976, Reina Sofía Museum

The work of American conceptual artist Martha Rosler focuses on social and political themes. Through different forms of expression, such as video, photo and performance, she criticizes aspects of life, often quotidian, usually from a feminist perspective. In the series Know your Servant #1, Rosler combines text and photography — something that has grown increasingly common since the beginning of the 20th century, and ever present in conceptual art — to sarcastically discuss American waitresses and the physical and behavioral requirements they must follow to be perfect menials. She uses an old drawing of a perfectly beautiful waitress to present the instructions, like “stocking free of wrinkles,” “make up simple” and “nails manicured.” There are more documents with rules and instructions, in a serious, believable tone, and pictures of waitresses (and of a male client staring at one of them), creating a profound, pointed criticism.

AAA-AAA
Marina Abramovic and Ulay, 1978, Reina Sofía Museum

Serbian Marina Abramovic is the most important performance artist of all time. In the late ’70s and the ’80s, she had a turbulent relationship with German artist Ulay, and they did many performative works together before breaking up in a very poetic way — they walked from opposite ends of the Great Wall of China, met in the middle and said goodbye. While together, they recorded and photographed themselves in very extreme situations, both physically and emotionally. The performance video of AAA-AAA starts with Abramovic explaining the action: “We are facing each other both producing continuous vocal sound, we slowly build up the tension, our faces coming closer together until we are screaming into each other’s open mouths.” That’s exactly what they do, in a 9-minute-long sequence where tension is slowly built up until it reaches a level that is truly hard to watch, because of the powerful feelings that are aroused — feelings that bring us closer to the purity of life and art.

Information about museums in Madrid

Prado Museum Tickets and Hours

Admission: Adults €16, Visitors aged 18 and under (25 and under if students) – free. Free every day from 6 pm to 8 pm and Sundays and holidays from 5 pm to 7 pm
Opening hours: Daily 10 am – 8 pm, Sundays and holidays 5 pm – 7 pm
Address: Paseo del Prado, s/n 28014 Madrid – Spain
Getting there:
Metro: 1 (Atocha), 2 (Banco de España)
Train: all lines (Atocha)
Bus: 9, 10, 14, 19, 27, 34, 37 and 45
Website

Museum of the Americas Tickets and Hours

Admission: Adults €3, Visitors aged 18 and under and students – free. Free on Sunday
Opening hours: Monday to Saturday 9.30 am – 3 pm, Thursday 9.30 am – 7 pm, Saturday and holiday 10 am – 3 pm. Closed on Monday
Address: Av. de los Reyes Católicos, 6 28040 Madrid – Spain
Getting there:
Metro: 3 (Moncloa), 6 (Moncloa), 7 (Islas Filipinas)
Bus: 1, 2, 16, 44, 46, 61, 82, 113, 132 and 133
Website

Thyssen Museum Tickets and Hours

Admission: Adults €12, Visitors aged 12 and under – free. Free every Monday from 12 pm to 4 pm
Opening hours: Tuesday to Sunday 10 am – 7 pm, Mondays 12 pm – 4 pm
Address: Paseo del Prado, 8 28014 Madrid – Spain
Getting there:
Metro: 2 (Banco de España)
Train: all lines (Atocha), C-1, C-2, C-7, C-8 and C-10 (Recoletos)
Bus: 1, 2, 5, 9, 10, 14, 15, 20, 27, 34, 37, 41, 51, 52, 53, 74, 146 and 150
Website

Reina Sofía Museum Tickets and Hours

Admission: Adults €8, Visitors aged 18 and under (25 and under if students) – free. Free every day from 7 pm to 9 pm and Sundays and holidays from 1.30 pm to 7 pm
Opening hours: Monday to Saturday 10 am – 9 pm, Sunday 10 am – 7 pm (no all collections on view). Closed on Tuesday
Address: Calle de Santa Isabel, 52 28012 Madrid – Spain
Getting there:
Metro: 1 (Atocha), 3 (Lavapiés)
Train: all lines (Atocha)
Bus: 6, 10, 14, 19, 26, 27, 32, 34, 36, 37, 41, 45, 59, 85, 86, 102, 119, C1, C2 and E1
Website

[Article originally written by Patricia Martín Rivas for travel company Wimdu.
The images in this article are from Wikimedia Commons and copyright-free.]