Madrid in November: Christmas Lights

In Madrid that November I barely saw the sun, and I am not complaining about the weather, because the weather was fine. My days there were simply spoken for. The city I got was the one that starts when the streetlights come on, and in the second half of November that turns out to be a very good trade, because Madrid after dark was busy putting on its Christmas lights.

What daylight I did get arrived framed like this: a window in the north of the city, plane trees gone rust and gold along a quiet street, office glass in the middle distance, and far behind it all the Sierra de Guadarrama, with the sky doing its best work of the day while I watched from indoors. I kept two frames of it, and they are quietly among my favorites from Madrid.

Late afternoon through a window over northern Madrid, a brick apartment tower at right, autumn trees and parked cars along a small street below, pink clouds over distant buildings — My daylight ration, watched from indoors. The mountains kept their distance, the sky did not.

Autumn trees in rust and gold around low buildings in northern Madrid seen from above, office blocks and the Sierra de Guadarrama mountains on the horizon under a pastel sunset sky, ceiling light strips reflected in the window glass — My daylight ration, watched from indoors. The mountains kept their distance, the sky did not.

So this is an essay about an evening city. Plazas at eight, markets at eleven, a stadium at ten past ten at night, and one glorious exception at the very end, when a free afternoon finally let me watch the sun go down over the Royal Palace instead of reading about it.

Straight out into it

I went out that evening with no plan beyond dinner, and within ten minutes Madrid had made its point. At Canalejas the corner tower was floodlit against the black sky with a pair of Christmas trees already standing on the pavement, the street beyond it was strung with lights, and the pavements were full. This was a November night, and the city was out as if it were a warm evening in May.

A few minutes further on I found the bear. El Oso y el Madroño, the bear reaching up into the strawberry tree, is the symbol on the city's coat of arms, and the statue stands at the edge of Puerta del Sol with a constant small crowd taking photos. The plinth reads MADRID 1967 - 2017, fifty years since it went up. It is a modest-sized monument for how much the city loves it, and I liked it more for that.

A floodlit stone corner building with an ornate clock tower at night, two decorated Christmas trees on the pavement below and people crossing the street — Just after seven. Canalejas, the first lit street I saw, and the bear at ten past.

A pedestrian shopping street at night with strings of small lights zigzagging overhead between white stone buildings, crowds walking below — Just after seven. Canalejas, the first lit street I saw, and the bear at ten past.

Dinner was down the curve of Cava de San Miguel, the street of old houses backing onto Plaza Mayor, in one of the old cellar restaurants along it. You step off the street and the room is a brick cave: barrel vaults, a wrought iron chandelier, Christmas garland over the doorway grilles, the ceiling low enough to touch in places. Rooms like this do half the work of the meal before any food arrives.

A brick barrel-vaulted cellar restaurant, a wrought iron chandelier hanging from the vault and a doorway with an iron grille decorated with Christmas garland — Twenty to nine, under Cava de San Miguel. Dinner in a brick cave.

Cibeles under the moon

Another walk went the other way, east to where the banks and ministries live. The Banco de España does severity extremely well: a whole cliff of carved gray stone, lit white, with the taxis queuing beneath it looking small.

Across the junction the Palacio de Cibeles was doing the opposite. Madrid's old post office headquarters is the most operatic building in the city, white and spired like a wedding cake, and that night it stood floodlit with the moon hanging above the clock tower. It was built for sorting mail. No city hall in Europe has a better origin story than that.

The carved gray stone facade of the Banco de España floodlit at night, a lamppost wrapped in string lights and taxis passing in front — Twenty past seven. The bank, the post office that became a palace, and a taxi doing the honors.

The white spired Palacio de Cibeles floodlit at night with the moon high above its clock tower — Twenty past seven. The bank, the post office that became a palace, and a taxi doing the honors.

Shop windows and a carved staircase

One night was all details. A doorway near Sol had been swallowed whole by its Christmas decoration, the frame buried in fir branches and red baubles, with two teddy bears made entirely of red roses standing guard on either side of the glass door. I have no idea what the shop was selling. The doorway was the product.

Over Calle del Carmen the lights were a dense canopy of white twinkle, a ceiling of static sparkle running the whole length of the street with the crowd flowing underneath. And at a bar counter later that evening I met the most honest piece of food styling in Spain: a bocadillo de jamón the size of a paving stone, folds of jamón stacked several fingers high, labeled exactly what it was.

A shop doorway framed by dense fir branches with red and gold baubles, flanked by two teddy bears made of red roses — That evening. The rose bears at eight, the Carmen lights at twenty to nine, and the bocadillo at quarter to.

A canopy of dense white twinkling lights over a pedestrian shopping street at night, crowds walking beneath it — That evening. The rose bears at eight, the Carmen lights at twenty to nine, and the bocadillo at quarter to.

The night ended in a bar that looked carved rather than built. Dark polished wood everywhere, gilded balusters, tinsel hung from the ceiling arches, and a spiral staircase winding up past a carved wooden sign pointing to the Salón Velázquez upstairs. Two men stood at the bar with their beers the way men have clearly stood at that bar for generations. Madrid keeps a lot of rooms like this in service, and it does not make a fuss about any of them.

The interior of an ornate old bar, dark carved wood and gilded balusters, a wooden spiral staircase rising past a carved sign reading Restaurante Salón Velázquez, two men standing at the bar — Nine o'clock. The staircase to the Salón Velázquez, and a bar polished by decades of elbows.

A window table, and a market near midnight

One dinner was eaten looking down on a street. A first-floor window table, a cold beer, and red plastic baskets of fried things lined up along the sill, with the shop signs glowing across the way and people passing underneath. There are more refined ways to eat in Madrid. On a weeknight, with the street for television, I am not sure there is a better one.

A window table above a lit shopping street at night, a glass of beer and red plastic baskets of fries and fried snacks lined up on the ledge — Twenty to nine. Dinner in a window, street below doing the entertainment.

Then, because Madrid runs late and I was starting to run on its clock, the Mercado de San Miguel at half past ten. The market was still fully awake. At the Carrasco Ibéricos stand whole hams hung in rows under the gold lettering, orange-wrapped and tagged, with the slicing machines waiting below. A pastry case nearby offered empanadas at 3,90 the piece. It was nearly eleven at night and people were still arriving. That, more than anything on this trip, told me what city I was in.

Whole jamón legs hanging on a rack beside packets of sliced ham at a market stand, a slicing machine on the counter below an orange Carrasco Ibéricos sign — Twenty to eleven, Mercado de San Miguel. The ham wall at Carrasco, and empanadas at 3,90.

Trays of golden baked empanadas stacked in a market display case, a price tag reading 3,90 euros — Twenty to eleven, Mercado de San Miguel. The ham wall at Carrasco, and empanadas at 3,90.

The Bernabéu in scaffolding

I could not be in Madrid and not go and look at the Bernabéu, even though I knew perfectly well what state it was in. In November 2023 Real Madrid's stadium was deep in its rebuild, and I had already had the polished retail version of the club: the Gran Vía store with the new white home shirt glowing in its display case, the gold world champions badge at the shoulder, and racks of Champions League scarves in white and in black and gold.

A white Real Madrid home shirt with gold trim displayed on a mannequin in an illuminated case, a gold FIFA world champions badge at the shoulder — The club store on Gran Vía. The shirt under glass like jewelry.

Real Madrid UEFA Champions League scarves hanging in a club store, one white and one black with gold lettering — The club store on Gran Vía. The shirt under glass like jewelry.

Another evening started with dinner up in the north of the city, in a room with an entire wall racked with wine bottles, and ended at the stadium itself a little after ten. What I found was honestly better than a finished stadium. The new steel skin was on: those huge horizontal lamellas curving away into the dark like the hull of a ship, lit silver by the street lamps. Above one end a construction crane stood over the bowl in the night sky, and at street level the hoardings gave way to a floodlit pit of rubble and diggers where the old ground floor used to be. And in the middle of all that, over a gate, a black panel with the club crest at each end read PALCO DE HONOR, the box of honor, holding its dignity while the entire building changed around it.

The curved steel lamella facade of the Santiago Bernabéu stadium at night, seen along a fenced street under lamps — Ten past ten at night. The Bernabéu mid-rebuild: the new skin, the crane, the pit, and the box of honor keeping its composure.

A tall yellow construction crane standing over the curved steel facade of the Bernabéu at night, the moon small in the sky — Ten past ten at night. The Bernabéu mid-rebuild: the new skin, the crane, the pit, and the box of honor keeping its composure.

A wall rack filled with wine bottles stored horizontally, labels facing out, in warm restaurant light — Before the stadium: dinner against a wall of bottles laid on their sides.

Daylight at last

Then an afternoon came that was entirely mine, and I spent it like someone let out early.

Plaza Mayor in daylight was almost a different building from the one I had been circling after dark. Low winter sun behind the rooflines, the Christmas market stalls in their red canvas going up across the cobbles, Felipe III on his horse in the middle, and the painted facade of the Casa de la Panadería catching the light behind the plaza's red cone of a Christmas tree, still unlit at four in the afternoon and clearly saving itself. Through the southern arch, Calle de Toledo ran downhill toward a dome in the haze, with the cafe terraces doing steady business in the cold.

Plaza Mayor in low afternoon light, red canvas Christmas market stalls across the cobbles and the equestrian statue of Felipe III to the right — Quarter past four. Plaza Mayor with the market going up, and Toledo street through the arch.

The red cone-shaped Christmas tree of Plaza Mayor unlit in daylight, standing before the painted facade and twin spires of the Casa de la Panadería under a blue sky — Quarter past four. Plaza Mayor with the market going up, and Toledo street through the arch.

Then a proper goodbye round of the Mercado de San Miguel, in daylight this time. The fried fish came from the Señor Martín stand: trays of fried squid rings and whole battered tentacles behind the glass, and a paper plate of fried calamari and anchovies with a wedge of lemon that lasted about ninety seconds. There was a tray of pintxos under the counter lights, and to finish, three glasses of red lined up on the marble of one of the wine bars, because the market makes an extremely persuasive case for a second and third.

Metal trays of fried squid rings and battered octopus tentacles in a market display case — Half past four in the market. Fried things from Señor Martín, pintxos, and three reds on marble.

A paper plate of fried calamari strips and whole fried anchovies with a lemon wedge and a wooden fork — Half past four in the market. Fried things from Señor Martín, pintxos, and three reds on marble.

The golden half hour

At about half past five I walked out west to the edge of the old city, where Madrid suddenly stops and the land drops away toward the Casa de Campo, and I got the light I had been owed.

The Almudena cathedral went first gold, then gray-blue as the sun dropped, its dome and towers standing over the esplanade it shares with the Royal Palace. From the slope below you can see why they built here: the city ends in a balcony, and the balcony faces the sunset. The palace facade held the last of the direct sun, a long wall of stone turned honey-colored under a hardening blue sky. And at 17:37, over the dark woods of the Casa de Campo, the sun sat down on the horizon exactly where everyone standing along that edge was hoping it would.

The Almudena cathedral wide against a clear late afternoon sky, its gray dome and twin bell towers above the long palace-side facade, a taxi and sightseeing tuk-tuks on the crossing below — 17:27, the Almudena holding the last of the direct sun.

The long stone facade of the Royal Palace of Madrid lit warm gold by the setting sun, a wide empty esplanade in front and deep blue sky above — The palace at 17:34, the sun touching down over the Casa de Campo three minutes later, then the pools by Plaza de España at ten to six.

The sun setting on the horizon over the dark wooded parkland of the Casa de Campo, under a clear gradient sky — The palace at 17:34, the sun touching down over the Casa de Campo three minutes later, then the pools by Plaza de España at ten to six.

Up on the Riu roof

I finished the daylight, such as it still was, on the roof of the Riu Plaza España, the tall 1950s tower on Plaza de España that now has a rooftop walk on top. The timing was mostly luck and it was perfect: 18:19, forty minutes after the sun went down, the sky still holding a full sunset gradient from orange to navy.

From up there Madrid explains itself. North, the rooftops run away toward the office towers on the horizon. West, the orange band of the afterglow sat over the black woods, with the Royal Palace floodlit below like a scale model, and from one corner you could line up the palace and the Almudena together between the building's stone finials. Straight down, an ice rink glowed white and blue in the plaza gardens. And east, the whole canyon of Gran Vía opened up beneath the terrace, neon and taillights running away into the center, with a line of people at the railing photographing it exactly as I was. The moon had come up by then, small and sharp above the whole arrangement.

A view north over the rooftops of Madrid at dusk, distant office towers on the horizon under a violet sky — The Riu rooftop, from 18:19. Dusk running its full course while the terrace fills up behind you.

The crowded roof terrace bar of the tower at night, people at lamplit tables under the moon, the rooftops of Madrid stretching to lit towers on the horizon — The Riu rooftop, from 18:19. Dusk running its full course while the terrace fills up behind you.

The Royal Palace floodlit at night seen from high above, dark gardens around it and a strip of orange afterglow on the horizon — The palace like a scale model, Gran Vía doing its canyon act, and the ice rink straight down.

The floodlit Royal Palace and the dome of the Almudena seen at dusk between two white stone finials of a rooftop parapet — The palace like a scale model, Gran Vía doing its canyon act, and the ice rink straight down.

The tower's party trick is a glass skywalk cantilevered off the parapet, and I did the thing everyone does, which is to stand on it, look down past my own shoes at the street a very long way below, and take the photo while my legs quietly filed a complaint. The RIU PLAZA lettering along the glass makes sure you remember whose roof frightened you.

Two pairs of feet standing on a glass skywalk ledge above a lit street far below, RIU Plaza lettering along the glass edge — The skywalk. My shoes were braver than the rest of me.

Down into the lights

Then I came down and spent the rest of the evening walking back through the center, and this was the walk everything had been building toward, because by then the Christmas lights were on everywhere at once.

Gran Vía had garlands of green and red strung across the traffic. Calle Preciados had the best installation in the city: a canopy of red light mesh that ribbons down the whole street in waves, diving and rising over the crowd, glowing like a lava flow against the dark. From below it fills the entire sky of the street. By the Fnac corner the neon shop signs underneath just added to the noise, and I mean that as a compliment.

Green Christmas garlands with red dots strung across Gran Vía at night, cars and a bus on the wet-looking street between white stone buildings — Quarter past seven at night. Preciados wearing its red ribbon, the best of Madrid's light installations.

The red light mesh canopy over Calle Preciados at night, a Fnac sign and green neon shop signs below, crowds filling the street — Quarter past seven at night. Preciados wearing its red ribbon, the best of Madrid's light installations.

Puerta del Sol had two showpieces going at once: the giant golden cone of a tree, a solid pillar of warm light with a white star on top, and a set of enormous red arcs flying over the street on the plaza's edge, framing the old Post Office clock tower below them. Around the corner from the square, rings of red and purple mandala lights hung over the crowd next to the vertical neon of the HOTEL MODERNO. Every street had its own idea, and none of them had been assigned the same one.

Huge arcs of red light mesh flying over the edge of Puerta del Sol at night, the clock tower of the old Post Office lit below, a dense crowd in the square — Sol at twenty past seven. The red arcs, the golden tree, and the mandalas by the Hotel Moderno neon.

A giant golden cone-shaped Christmas tree of dense warm lights with a white star on top, towering over Puerta del Sol at night — Sol at twenty past seven. The red arcs, the golden tree, and the mandalas by the Hotel Moderno neon.

And then Plaza Mayor again, twenty minutes later, for the payoff the afternoon had promised. The red cone tree was on, deep glowing red netting wrapped in white stars with a lit star at the tip, the market crowd milling underneath. Behind it the Casa de la Panadería had curtain lights falling from its balconies, the painted figures on the facade just readable in the glow. Same square as four o'clock, entirely different building.

The red cone Christmas tree of Plaza Mayor lit at night, wrapped in large white star shapes with a lit star on top, seen from close below — Quarter to eight. The red tree lit, and the Panadería behind curtains of light.

The Casa de la Panadería facade at night, curtain lights hanging from its balconies and its twin spires dark against the sky — Quarter to eight. The red tree lit, and the Panadería behind curtains of light.

A looping ribbon of blue and red neon light over the Carrera de San Jerónimo at night, strings of icicle lights hanging along the street, crowds below — Ten past eight, one last installation on the way to dinner: a loop of neon cracking over San Jerónimo like a whip.

The farewell dinner, and a dome of light

The farewell dinner was in a dining room just off Sol, and it began at the charcoal grill, which was working in full view with the smoke rolling off it. Then, in order: little glass mugs of a warm squash cream with bread rolls the size of golf balls, a glass of rosé cava poured in front of a wall built from the bottoms of hundreds of bottles, thick slices of grilled pork with roasted peppers, and ravioli under a chunky tomato sauce with a single basil leaf doing the garnish for the whole table. It was a long, unhurried, properly Spanish goodbye, a full hour between the first course and the mains, and nobody in the room seemed to find that unusual.

Cuts of meat cooking over a charcoal grill behind a counter, smoke rising into the extractor hood — From quarter past eight. The grill, the squash shots, and cava against a wall of bottle ends.

Three small glass mugs of orange squash cream soup on a paper doily with three small round bread rolls — From quarter past eight. The grill, the squash shots, and cava against a wall of bottle ends.

Thick slices of grilled pork fanned out on a white plate with roasted red pepper and tomato — The mains arrived at twenty past nine. Madrid dinners are a long game.

Ravioli in a chunky tomato sauce on a white plate, topped with a single basil leaf — The mains arrived at twenty past nine. Madrid dinners are a long game.

I walked back toward the hotel after ten, and Madrid had saved one more for the road. Over the street by Canalejas, a full dome of light beams fanned out from a single point above the crossing, blue and violet and red rays caging the sky over a turreted stone corner building. People just stopped underneath it and looked up, myself included, at quarter past ten on a cold night, in a city that never once went to bed before I did.

A dome of blue, violet and red light beams fanning out over a street crossing at night, a turreted stone building lit within the rays — 22:15, the last photo of the trip. A cage of light over Canalejas.

The Madrid I got is the seven-to-midnight one: lit plazas, late markets, ham at eleven, light strung over every street, and a city that treats the evening as the main event rather than the wind-down. Judging by where all the madrileños were, they agree with me.