I didn't see any bull fights...

If I had that many [frequent flyer] miles, I'd just show up at the airport, look up at one of those big destination boards, pick a place and go.

-Up in the Air

On Thursday, it looked like there was a pretty boring weekend ahead. I had no homework to do, and, except for a small cultural festival in my neighborhood, there was nothing to do. By Friday night, I was in Madrid.

Madrid has lots of hills.

Originally, I had not planned on going to Madrid, since everyone goes there and I don't really want to go to a place that "everyone goes" to. But Thursday I rolled out of bed with nothing to do and began poking around the websites of Ryanair and Easyjet, two low-cost airlines that operate out of London, but there were no cheap fares. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, I just wanted to go somewhere, even if I had never heard of it before. And so, I clicked on Ciudad Real. The flight was 58 pounds each way, about $92.

Ciudad Real, as it turns out, is in the middle of nowhere. The ground was completely dark all the way down to the airport, making it hard to tell when we'd land in Spain. It's a tiny city, and the Ryanair flight I booked was the only jet airplane that flew out of the airport, which was just built in 2008. The airport's lone duty free store looks like a scene from some apocalyptic movie since it's completely empty. About 100 people pass through this airport every day, and it felt dead.

No one really flies into Ciudad Real and stays there unless that's where they live. Spain's great high-speed rail service runs the 99 miles between Ciudad Real and central Madrid in under an hour, making the airport a good alternative to Madrid's main airport.

A woman named Leanne sat next to me on the crowded bus from the airport to the train station in Ciudad Real. She was in her thirties and talked with the mouth of a sailor. She was nearing the end of a journey from her home in Wales to Madrid for the weekend with two of her friends. Like the bed and breakfast owners in Blackpool, she had been to the United States once before, but not to see New York or Hollywood or the Grand Canyon, but to go to Disney World and soak up some of America's entertainment. When I asked what I should do while I was in the United Kingdom, she replied, "nothing." I still can't figure out if the British really don't like their country or if it's all just an act, an unspoken British code to pretend to hate the country in order to protect the good parts from foreigners.

Spanish band playing in Plaza del Sol.

Statue of a bear and a tree, the symbol of Madrid.

Madrid itself was beautiful. It was almost midnight when I stepped out of the train station, but Plaza Sol, the square near my 'Hostal' where I stayed, was just beginning to come to life. Plaza Sol and Plaza Mayor are home to the best street performers I've ever seen, including some who looked like they were levitating or falling or headless. (I still can't figure out their secrets.) Sunday morning at the 'Rastro,' Madrid's biggest market, I watched teenagers buying shirts bearing images of American culture, including t-shirts and belt buckles featuring The Nightmare Before Christmas and Green Day and other icons. Madrid's cafeterias are great for solo travelers. In these restaurants, diners order at the counter and sit in a bar-like setting on a stool at a counter until the staff brings out a sandwich on a baguette, still warm from being fresh from the oven.

Metropolis building on Gran Via, Madrid's Broadway.

The museums of Madrid were excellent. The famous Museo del Prado featured countless 500-year-old paintings, but the most interesting exhibits I saw were at the Reina Sofia. This modern art museum had a room full of newspapers from September 12, 2001, all of which had haunting pictures of the burning World Trade Center on the front. The newspapers were from all over the world, published in English, Spanish, Russian, Arabic, and Mandarin. There was also another room, arranged by the same artist (Hans-Peter Feldmann), with 100 photographs. The first picture was of a newborn baby. The last picture had a frowning old lady in it. Each picture in between represented a year in life, from birth to ninety-nine. After I looked at each portrait, I stood in front of the 20-year-old's picture. His was one of the only faces with a smile. I looked to my left and noticed that the pictures only stretched to the corner of the room, from nineteen down to newborn, a distance short enough so I could make out each individual photograph. Then I looked to the right, and saw the long line of photos stretching all the way to 99. I felt young.