My best mate Phil – also the girl’s Guidefather – and his partner Andrew have been hanging out in the Europes and making us hideously jealous with their social media snaps for the last month. They visited us in Luzern for their first weekend, and we’d been biding our time until meeting them in Madrid to bookend their visit before they went home. We arrived last Friday and were greeted by heat in the high 30s, instantly forcing us to slow down, relax and drink cerveza (which happily this pregnant lady doesn’t actually like, so it wasn’t until the lads hit the gins that I got surly).
When booking the trip it was unusually difficult to find somewhere to stay. The apartment we chose required a minimum four night booking, despite its website claiming otherwise. On querying this we were told this was due to it being one of the biggest events of the year in Madrid: Pride! Apparently the largest festival of its kind in the world, Madrid Pride has over 2 million people celebrating over the weekend. The whole city had its glad rags on.
We spent our Saturday moseying around the city, spending some playing time at the surprisingly lush El Retiro park, where the girl’s father and uncles seemed to have more fun playing than she did.
We lunched with our Spanish friends Paella and its noodly cousin Fidueà, and then embraced that other excellent Spanish tradition: the siesta. We figured we couldn’t be in Madrid for the party of the year without giving it a go, so we got our fiesta on and hit the streets for Pride. As we walked the few blocks to the parade, we could hear music and revelry increasingly escalating, and the girl’s dance moves kicked in.
For a two million people strong party, the city was amazingly relaxed. There was a vibe of good cheer with costumed people, DIY-sangria-sellers, families, and general revellers throughout the city, but no angst or overt drunkenness that I associate with epic street parties (well, those in Australia at any rate). The parade itself was huge, starting at 6pm and continuing well into the early hours. We’re used to the spectacle and flamboyance of Sydney’s fabulous Mardi Gras; this parade, although enormous, was much more low key but in a way was more inclusive. Anyone and everyone was in on the act, with no fencing between the crowds and the parade so bystanders could become part of the act if they so chose (which many of them seemed to do). Rather than being solely focused on the parade, the party is city wide, with stages, DJs and live music set up in squares and greens across town. We strolled the closed off streets, watching the festivities and (in my case not) drinking litre-large beers before hitting a nearby rooftop bar to eagle eye the crowds, lights and spectacular Madrid sunset (and, of course, indulging in late night exceedingly garlicy tapas on the way home).
The following day we’d planned a cycle tour around the city. It was Laidey’s first time on a bike and although the set up was fairly laborious she got into the groove quickly enough (although her ‘smile for the camera’ face needs a bit more work).
It turned out to be just the five of us on the tour, and we scooted around the streets we’d partied on the night previously. We started at Point 0 in the city and made our way outwards, circling palaces and vine covered buildings down towards the river. The main piece of trivia I remember from the tour guide was that Madrid is clearly party central – there is more than one drinking establishment per each person living in the city, and beer is far cheaper than water or soft drinks. Hurrah for Madrid!
The day was again hot – it clocked 38 as we were cycling around – and the heat took it out of a certain little someone. I realise she looks in a bad way here, head lolling as she slept against her father’s back, but rest assured she perked back up as soon as we stopped and got stuck into a plate of olives (still with that ridiculous ‘grin’).
We spent our final night with more tapas, questionable premixed sangria and discussions of the holiday just gone and those to come. Despite their best efforts over the weekend, Uncles Pip and Sunny were not able to get the girl to say their names before she says ‘mama’ (thank goodness. I would be furious…and yet unsurprised). We flew back together to Zurich where they embarked on the long haul home, and we made tracks back to Luzern to play with a circus themed puppet show from the already much missed Uncle Pip. And, of course, work on our smiles.
As Tim pointed out en route, it was a glorious day and there was really nothing awful at all about hiking through the stunning Italian countryside. Summer blossoms scented the air, olive groves shimmered in the hazy light, and we thirstily looked out across lush vineyards as we – and thousands of other people – walked towards Sulzano and the start of the installation (happily with refreshments along the way).
To our great disappointment as we arrived we were told that we weren’t able to go on the floating part of the installation as storm warnings were declared and as such kids weren’t allowed on. We were directed away from the three (!) hour (!!) queue (!!!) to get on and instead advised to get a ferry across to the island.
The exhibition continued for three kilometres, bordering the village and then circling an island. We plodded along for a while, enjoying the sun and the hustle and bustle of our fellow pilgrims. Due to the kid restrictions, our poorly feet and the 34 degree heat we didn’t make it the entire way around, but we figured that some gelato compensated just fine.
Given we had a few logistic issues (massive queues to get off the island and back to our car) and a few health ones (turns out being almost four months pregnant and walking for hours in the blistering sun may not be the best idea I have ever had) we called it a day in the late afternoon. As we left, the queues were still enormous (the exhibition is open for 24 hours; apparently night time is magical) but the feeling of general enthusiasm and goodwill remained, even on a sardine-packed bus back to the starting point.
We’ll definitely return to Lake Iseo once the exhibition is over – we are keen to sample wine from afore mentioned vineyards, and the area itself was spectacular. However as much as we enjoyed our shared pilgrimage, next time we’d prefer to experience it without the other 99,997 people that were there last Saturday.
Genova is home to one of Europe’s largest aquariums, and although our little lass has the attention span of a goldfish we gave it a go nonetheless. It made Tim’s water lust even worse, but was a refreshing break from the almost too warm afternoon sun.
Saturday started, happily, with pastries and a break the rain. We seized the opportunity to walk through the Besançon’s old town up to the Citadel, about half an hour’s stroll. The town itself is delightful: winding streets and garden filled squares, wrapped up by a richly flowing river.
…past the astronomical clock of Saint Jean (located inside this cathedral, the clock has over 70 dials which indicate times, tides, sunrise and set, orbits of the planets and much more over the span of 10,000 years. Given my loathing of the regular chiming of bells in Rotkreuz, I am terrified to imagine the havoc such a beast could wreak)…
…and through the outskirts of town to the Citadel.
Like many people I generally find zoos inhumane and depressing, and even though I want to encourage Ads to continue roaring like an adorable little lion when she sees them, such creatures aren’t supposed to be in cement enclosures in cold, rainy France. We didn’t last long, preferring to wander the site and climb the wall to get a view out across the town and river.
Lago Maggiore straddles the Swiss and Italian border and boasts crystal waters and, of course, Alps. Like its easterly and slightly more popular cousin – 
The afternoon held island-hopping. We jumped on one of the local ferries and made the short trip across the lake, Motsy taking advantage of the opportunity to add to his ‘flags on boats’ collection.
Part of our mission complete, we left the gardens and headed towards the sea. Gera, Tim’s mum, is having a milestone birthday later this year and since neither Tim or Dom will be around for it, we’d decided to take her for a surprise seafood lunch on the Mediterranean. Purely selflessly, you understand.
The tour started at the Brandenburg Gate, which we suspect was designed to be a wind tunnel specifically focused on cutting through our inadequate clothing. Luckily for it, the gate was also reasonably impressive.
Berlin is, of course, an amazing city. Actually that’s incorrect – it’s an amazing metropolis. It’s a major world hub, complex (and potentially sensitive), diverse, super cool, proud yet humble. It’s the heaving capital of a country about which everyone knows and has an opinion of some sort; infamous is too negative a word and does no justice to this magnificent place, but I can’t come up with a better description.
We saw some of pre-war Germany. Not all of it survived bombings, and some has been rebuilt in the image of its former glory. Some are kept in their bombed state as a reminder of the war. Yet others remain, miraculously untouched.
We were staying in the apartment of a friend who’d spent Christmas with us (and was currently out of town – which worked out well for digs, but poorly for catching up). We made our way back to her gaff to give the baby some freedom from her aunt’s headwear. (We didn’t stay in the water tower below, but apparently it is now apartments. Funky German apartments.)
That night the weather deteriorated, and although beautiful it didn’t accommodate my small, overtired (and unbeknownst to us, about to have new teeth) baby. Tim took snaps after which we all adjourned, shivering and damp, to the restaurant on the corner for birthday champagne and flammkuchen.
We legged it home to get the munchkin into bed, and to plan our hopefully rain-free day ahead (aka birthday eve). 
Hey Mamalaide 