It’s Sunday, and I could not have had a better first day in Madrid. Getting here, not so much. There was the hassle of the bus to the train, a much longer trip than originally planned. What astonished me, looking out the window, is that it seems the entire southern half of Spain is nothing but olive trees. A trillion olive trees. Which means, I assume, they must need huge numbers of migrant workers, because the trees will all ripen at the same time. I was also amazed that the young woman next to me on the bus did not look up from her phone once during our trip.

When we arrived, I realized the instructions the hotel had sent said absolutely nothing about where to go as you exit the train station. I got lost several times, asking in my stumbling Spanish, but at last found the huge avenue Paseo del Prado leading to where I needed to go. But not the hostel’s street — up and down, even with Google maps, I always seemed to be going in the wrong direction. It was very hot, and I was very stressed.

Finally I found it — it didn’t lead off the Paseo but was a bit further up. Wish they’d made that clear.

The huge wooden front door was locked. I banged on the door and on the panels on the side, and eventually the door clicked open. Up to the second floor where I’d been told the office was; that door was also locked. I banged and banged, and eventually a kindly old man in slippers who spoke no English answered. I thought, I am definitely in the wrong place! No, this was it; it’s a family run business and Grandpa lives here. His daughter who runs the place was not there, however, so I sat in the office waiting, wishing I could talk with him, but I could not.

She showed up and took me to my room, which is as small and basic as a hotel room can get. Still, there’s a private bathroom, so relative luxury, but I did think to myself, I’m 75, I deserve better than this. It’s a hostel, not a hotel, which I didn’t realize. I booked it because of its location, across from the Prado museum. But I should have checked more carefully. Anyway, it’s relatively inexpensive, which will be a relief when I get my Visa bill.

And then I discovered my unfortunate mistake. I’d checked and doublechecked before leaving the apartment in Malaga, but did not notice that when I pulled my computer cord from the outlet, I’d left the small adapter behind. I’d brought a big one too, but found out here it didn’t work, so the small adapter was the only thing I had for both phone and computer. Disaster! I went right out, asked several storekeepers, and was directed to the store Ale-Hop, far back in the direction I’d come from, which I finally found after again getting lost. They had an adapter for phone but not for computer. Well, the phone is most essential.

I recuperated and went for another walk, this time to the enormous and beautiful Plaza Mayor, which I remember from my trip here with Brucie, maybe ten years ago. I couldn’t get over the crowds, the narrow streets packed with people, every restaurant jammed. Saturday night, and it was hot; I learned last weekend was cold, so everyone was out celebrating. I saw lots of tattoos, wild-looking kids, a much rougher crowd than in, say, Paris. Sat with great relief at one of the many restaurants that ring the Plaza and had a cold beer, ohmygod it was good, and a seafood salad, and went back to lie down at a mere 9 o’clock.

That’s nothing — today, after 14,000 steps, I’m in bed at 8.

Today I had breakfast at a nearby cafe and then did some research in preparation for the Prado. I’d pre-booked for 11. Set off at 10.30 in resolutely the wrong direction, as always. But made it. And Jesus Christ, that is a glorious museum, beautifully laid out, room after room of masterpieces, often with a gorgeous piece of furniture or sculpture in the middle. And best of all, photography is forbidden. Why the Louvre doesn’t institute that, I don’t know. People are looking, not snapping. In many rooms I was nearly alone, although not in front of Velasquez’s La Meninas, or H. Bosch. Big crowds there.

Instead, I took notes. Some of the painters, besides the magnificent Velasquez and the very weird Bosch: Goya, El Greco, Ribera. Poussin, Bellini, Titian, Rubens, Caravaggio, Durer, Breughel, Bronzino, Raphael. This is while walking through a lot of rooms without looking, and a whole floor I didn’t get to. I’d given myself three hours, was meeting Christopher and family at 2, thought I’d take a break half-way through, but could not, too much to see. So guide map in hand I set out to be sure I saw my favourites. Only cried once — turned a corner and there was the most exquisite annunciation by Fra Angelico, the huge wings of the angel patterned gold, Mary perturbed with her little book, Adam and Eve on one side, the colours so rich.

Las Meninas, considered one of the greatest masterpieces of western art. It’s so interesting because of the multiple characters he painted, including two court dwarves, but also because the faces of the king and queen appear in a mirror at the back so you’re not sure where they are actually standing, and mostly because Velasquez himself is there, at work on a painting. This one? We don’t know. But he is looking straight out at us, and I thought: he’s showing us the importance of the artist, saying, I’m chronicling this so you will remember this time, and these people, and me. You will remember me. And we do.

A good thing the museum has done in the room with the Bosch paintings is a video on the wall, showing closeups of the incredibly bizarre stuff he painted. I thought, What drugs was he on?! Horrifying, grotesque, though painted with extreme delicacy and skill. The crowd in front of The Garden of Earthly Delights was so big it was hard to see. But I’d seen closeups. A very strange mind.

So many of these men – all men – painted with empathy and depth. The info panel pointed out that Velasquez painted Mars, the god of war, as “a melancholy warrior on an unmade bed.” Goya painted a man who was the Minister of Grace and Justice. Ribera painted a bearded woman, apparently a medical anomaly then although there are a few around these days, breastfeeding. Caravaggio’s David who’d just killed and beheaded Goliath had, I noticed, filthy toenails.

And of course Jesus everywhere, suffering, bleeding. I don’t like to look at those ones.

I laughed at one point – there was a later painting of a queen mourning over the coffin of her husband, Philip the Handsome. One thing is sure about the Philips of Spain — not a single one was handsome. They were a mighty ugly family, with long chins and big noses.

Finally, it was 2, and I couldn’t take another bit of artistic beauty, so left the magnificent museum, and there were Christopher, Cristina, and their daughter Marina. A story for another day. My computer is fading, and I can’t plug it in. Am going first thing tomorrow to a electronics store which I hope will fix me up, and I’ll finish and post pictures, though not from the Prado.

It’s 9 p.m. and I’m in bed in a very small room in the centre of Madrid, full of art and sun and friendship. Not food however, but I’ll have to make do with an energy bar and some caramelized coconut from Malaga. Because there’s no way I’m walking one more step today.