It was the beginning of the end.
Today was the last day of our family holiday in Spain and, indeed, of our future travels together. A week before our holiday, Alex had graduated from the University of British Columbia, immediately garnering a job in Vancouver, starting only a few days hence. As a rookie, he was entitled to just two weeks’ holiday per year. This kiboshed any hope of extended leave together in future.
A taxi dropped us half a block from the royal palace, the heart of medieval Madrid.
Walking down the main avenue – closed to traffic – I was delighted to come upon what appeared to be lifelike sculptures: a golden C-3PO accompanied by a silver robot. A knight in gleaming armour – sword raised high, about to deliver a death blow – stood beside an upright Christopher Columbus, both hands clutching the edge of a wooden table, poring over a map of the world. They were so realistic. As I took the lead, my family in tow, Laura shrieked. The knight was marching towards her, sword whooshing through the air as if to chop her head off. Seconds later, a cacophony of heavy-metal music broke out from a boom box.
Next, C-3PO came to life, followed by the silver robot, all descending upon us. Abruptly, the knight lowered his sword, pointing it at a contribution plate at his feet. No sooner had they captivated us than the mannequins froze in motion, the music silenced. It wasn’t until I had deposited coins in their till that they stirred again – only briefly – to acknowledge their thanks before fading back into stillness, awaiting their next set of donors.
Instead of comforting their mother, the boys hooted with laughter. It was the kind of prank they loved. On their first journey out of Canada, visiting Laura’s family in the Philippines, they had persuaded me to take them to a fairground. Both boys were too young to ride the Ferris wheel on their own. It was left to hapless Pops to accompany them. The trouble was, I suffered from acrophobia.
I slumped into a swaying chair, with a son tucked in on either side, and promptly closed my eyes. “Tell me when we’re back on the ground.” A while later, the wheel came to a gentle stop.
“Boys,” I pleaded, “are we back on Earth?”
In a flash, they chorused, “Yes. You can open your eyes now.” We were dangling at the highest point, where the contraption had stopped to gather breath before descending. I felt like throwing up. Their laughter then was identical to the one they unleashed today on their poor, unsuspecting mother. Observing their mirth on one side, comforting a distraught Laura on the other, a brief smile escaped me – quickly replaced by a scowl at my boys and a reprimand.
For the hundredth time, we entered a magnificent royal residence. Having decided in advance not to hire a guide, we queued to gain entry. I glanced anxiously at my watch. An hour lost. The whole of the royal palace and its cathedral were centred around a grand, cobbled square, the Plaza de la Armería. Facing us was the 2,800-room palace, only four storeys tall, stretching across the entire length of the square, built on the grounds of a burnt-down Muslim alcázar. To the left stood the Catedral de la Almudena.
Suffering from heartburn, I sat on a bench shaded by an awning at one side of the plaza, while my family explored. I hoped they wouldn’t be too long. Alex came out first. “Mum and Chris will be a while. They’re looking at costumes and jewellery.” He examined me. “How’s your stomach? Thought I’d keep you company.”
Laura and Chris plodded towards us through the crowd. Sightseeing and picture-taking over, I chivvied them away from the packed square, down the main, gently curving Calle de Bailén, several kilometres long, wending its way to the city centre.
