Tomorrow, my friends, I’m travelling from Madrid to Paris so I hope will have nothing to tell. For now, though, I’m overflowing. Forgive me.

I went out first thing this morning to trek to an electronics store to buy an adaptor for my computer. But around the corner was a hardware store – a ferreteria. I went in and asked if she had an adaptatore. She did, just like the tiny one I left behind. It cost two euros. I went back and plugged in my lovely machine et voilà, she started to charge. Heaven. I am tapping on her now.

After breakfast – café con leche, huevos revueltos (scrambled eggs), tostados con marmelade, which is not marmalade but any jam — I set off for El Corte Ingles, which Lynn told me is a wonderful store with the best shoes. A twenty-minute walk later, I discovered that it is. I saw shoes I loved. But no, I’m not here to buy shoes. I did buy a gift for Anna, and take-out for lunch in my room. I’ve bought not a single souvenir, and there are lovely things everywhere. But no.

Then off to the Thyssen Museum, just up the street, which happily is free on Mondays. I’d been told two hours would be enough, but they were wrong, not even close. Another treasure-chest of art, an extraordinary collection in a lovely spacious building. At one point I thought, Thank God for rich people, who support artists and get their portraits painted! One section of pre-Renaissance religious art had lots of pix of Madonna and babe “with a patron” — the guy who paid for the painting, praying beside the manger. Thanks, rich guy.

I won’t go on and on, but here’s a list of just some of the artists here, from medieval to Robert Rauschenberg: the earliest guys I didn’t know, then Memling, Holbein, Carpaccio, Ghirlandaio, Bellini, Titian, Raphael, Cranach the old and young, El Greco, Caravaggio, Ribera, Canaletto, Claude Lorraine, Murillo, Tiepolo, Rubens, Frans Hals, Delacroix, Winslow Homer, John Singer Sargent, Corot, Manet, Toulouse-Lautrec, Morisot, Bonnard, Pissarro, Monet, Gaugin, Munch, Van Gogh, Egon Scheile, Kokoschka, Grosz, Kandinsky, Matisse, Chagall, Braque, Picasso, Gris, Robert Delauney, Sonia Delauney, Leger, Mondrian, Klee, Ernst, Miro, Magritte, Dali, Wyeth, Hopper, Balthus, Georgia O’Keefe, de Kooning, Pollock, Rothko, Lucian Freud, Francis Bacon, David Hockney.

Tired yet? The entire history of many centuries Western art. Not a single Canadian, sadly, and only three women, Morisot, Delaunay, and O’Keefe. Brave souls. Funny how genius shifts from Italy to Germany to France, with a few Spaniards and Yanks. And how the eye is drawn to genius — how entering a room with walls covered with stunning work, still, it’s the Caravaggio you are instantly drawn to. Loved how in the background of the huge painting of a knight by early Renaissance painter Carpaccio, there are scores of beautiful flowers, plants, animals — and it looks like he has a note or a hankie tucked into his codpiece. Hans Memling, “Flowers in jug,” painted in 1485 — iris, columbine, violets. I felt ignorant because so many paintings were of either ancient mythical figures or ones from Christian myths, and I had no idea who they were, will look them up. Hagar. Susanne and the Elders. Lot’s daughters. The Woman of Samaria. Loved how painters transposed these stories to their own culture – the Massacre of the Innocents, taking place in a snowy German village.

Then suddenly there’s El Greco, so stark and modern, such a shock. How did he jump so far in time? And then, finally, there are almost no more Marys and Jesuses. Real people, real life, and then abstract everything.

A nice touch — periodically the museum has raised panels of the paintings with explanations in braille, so the blind can touch the art.

Enough. After two and a half hours, I could not stand to see one more bit of beauty. Out into the hot sun, and there was Pearl. She took my course in 2005, follows my blog, has been travelling solo in Spain for 3 weeks. We walked and talked all afternoon, stopping twice for a nibble and a drink. She took me to the Mercado San Miguel, the market where everyone goes to eat and drink, but it was so crowded, we sat at a Peruvian place outside. And then walked on to see the royal palace and the massive cathedral opposite, and then another sit and talk. We feel the same about just about everything; what a wonderful, unexpected encounter. I was thrilled to hear she gets together regularly with three members of that class, 21 years later.

Once more, I ended up, with relief, in bed at 8 o’clock. I’m sure my stomach will be better back in France, where I know what to order. It’s been hard, not speaking enough Spanish.

Today, over 16,000 steps.

Yesterday, after the Prado, I met with Lynn’s son Christopher, whom I’ve known since he was a baby, and his partner Cristina and their daughter Marina, who’s twelve. Cristina is Spanish; they moved here two years ago from their long-term home in London, I used to stay in their apartment at Easter when they travelled. We walked to Retiro Park for a picnic in the grass and a walkabout through this spectacular place. How starved we are for green space in Toronto, even more now thanks to our moron premier. Here were fountains, statues, restaurants, ponds with boats, a crystal palace, peacocks, a big rose garden with many roses out, in April! An endless park, jammed on a hot Sunday afternoon. We finally left and had a drink in a lovely old bar.

And then home to bed. I had not eaten since our picnic lunch but was so tired – a mere 14,000 steps – that I did not want to go out again. So I ate everything in the room – a few nuts, half an energy bar, and the rest of the peanut butter I brought from home. It would have to do.

And so, goodbye Madrid, hello Paris, for two days, and then home. Where it’s cold. Where my heart lies.

A few pictures tomorrow, I hope.

I may regret those shoes.