madrid

as we walked around the city center of madrid, increasingly parched and sick of the sun, we pondered what the hell made philip II make madrid the center of his empire, save for the convient geographical location in the center of spain. indeed madrid is not a terrible city and had we known someone there and had more interesting things to do, it would have been different, but as it stands our experience of madrid has been a touch unsatisfying.
but, in addition to this, we have been experiencing mild existential drama concerning what it is that one does while traveling. i.e. do you race about all day in the draining sun desparately attempting to see everything you can in the short amount of time you are given, only to return home and have someone tell you that "you really should have seen this while you were there." or do you have a restricted itinerary full of empty time to read, daydream, cultivate anxiety about the future, sleep, dream up possible experiences, etc. work for school and future interviews seems to be more productive time spent than waiting in lines to see warehouses of art, yet the desire to actually see those goyas and bosch paintings is still strong. its funny, but i still seem to learn more about europe from an alejo carpentier novel than from actually being here and yet it is the ease of reference, culled from the actual experience that marks carpentier's novels so strongly. walking through the maze of glassy eyed tourists at the prado, or the louvre really makes you want to claim some sort of priority, because "i've studied these things, these artifacts of culture" but in reality, you are just as much of the horde. yet, is this something to be detested? i'm not sure. i waver constantly between a philistine notion that europe is degraded and my experience cheapened and the dull realization that this is the world, how it is, in other words.