I wrote her back: Funny you should say that. We were just talking about that a few days ago in Madrid. With the Dutchman.

I met the Dutchman over twelve years ago. He was one of the first people I met when I moved to Texas. He's since moved back to Holland, and we've visited him there. We still keep in touch by email, of course, but I haven't seen him for four years or so. Neither has my friend in the US, although the two of them are very close. She's been talking about trying to come visit him and us next year.

On Sunday evening, we were wandering around a pedestrianized shopping district, along with what seemed like two-thirds of the populace of Madrid. To say the streets were crowded would be a bit of an understatement. They teemed. Eventually, we arrived at a particularly teeming corner by one of the most popular Plazas in Madrid. There was a Peruvian flute band there (there is always a Peruvian flute band somwhere, set up in the spot with the maximize inconvenience), surrounded by a seething mass of people listening to them. We had just started pushing our way through the crowd when Elvis said: "Look! There's Dutchman!"

Miss Kitty was amazed. "How could you possibly find someone you know? Especially in this crowd."

Then she met the Dutchman, and she understood.

The Spanish are not a people reknowned for tallness, and spotting a six foot, seven inch blonde man amongst a bunch of Spaniards is not exactly challenging, no matter how big the crowd. We hadn't been looking for him, either. In fact, we didn't even know he was in Spain, much less Madrid. I know his wife's parents live in Spain part-time, but I guess I assumed that she lived someplace warm, or nearer to Holland.

So we went off to the nearest bar (which, as it happens, was an Irish pub we'd gone to the night before), and chatted for a couple of hours. I do hope we didn't get him into trouble, though. He had told his wife (whom I have never met, and was at home with the baby) that he would be back in an hour. He was on his way back when we ran into him, and he couldn't call because he didn't know his in-laws number. Oh well. He's a big boy. Literally.

While in Madrid, I got up early every day (if you can call 9 am early), and went to the museums while my wimpy companions slept. What's sleep when you could be at the Prado? Or looking at Guernica?

I must say, the Reina Sofia doesn't have the best selection of Picassos. The exhibit I saw last year in Milano was far superior. What it does have is Guernica. I've seen pictures of it before, so I was aquainted with what it looked like. Still, I wasn't prepared for how I would feel when I actually stood in front of it, my mouth probably hanging open unattractively in awe.

The Mona Lisa is another painting that is instantly recognizable, but it's not until you are actually standing in the Louvre among a bunch of camera- wielding Japanese tourists that you understand what all the fuss is about. There's just something about her, and you can't quite figure it out. Guernica is the same, but more so. Much more so. Partly, I suppose, it's the size, which is massive. But it's more than that.

It's a masterpiece, pure and simple, and it's an unbelievably powerful work of art. I won't say I'm a better person for having seen it, but maybe I am.

At the Reina Sofia, I also enjoyed the cubists. They have an entire room devoted to Solana, who I'm not sure I've ever heard of before, but I really liked his work. And Dal�. I just love surrealism, possibly because I seem to live in it so often. My favorite there was not The Great Masturbator, which is a powerful painting that makes me quite sure that I wouldn't have wanted to sleep with the artist. I suspect that it's so famous because of the name. No, my favorite was The Maximum Velocity of Raphael's Madonna. I know why, too. It's a fab painting, of course, but there's something more.

It's definitely the name.