It was 20 hours from the time we awoke in San Francisco on Thursday morning to our next prone position in Madrid. Taking into account the mandated starts, stops, curious pauses, and fluid movements, our crossing nine time zones in just over twice as many hours did not seem either inefficient or onerous. SFO->JFK->MAD, arriving at our hotel at 10:30 a.m. local time. The Hostal Dulcinea—aptly situated on Calle Cervantes, the street where The Man lived and died—is Centro Madrid, only a few blocks from the Museo de Prado, and convenient to all the oldest parts of the city. Continue reading “Madrid–Part 1”
