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 In the dusty arrivals hall at Barajas Airport, Madrid, the air swirled with the scent of coffee, hair cream and strong tobacco

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 In the dusty arrivals hall at Barajas Airport, Madrid, the air swirled with the scent of coffee, hair cream and strong tobacco. A pretty flight attendant leant against a pylon, checking her nails. At the Banco de España booth a sign on the wall read 'By Royal Decree smoking is prohibited in airport terminals', but the man behind the glass sat puffing away regardless, squinting through a pall of nicotine. 'Bienvenidos a España,' he said, pushing my money across the counter. Outside, I hopped in a cab, promptly falling mute with fear as the driver gunned his way through the gears, leaning on the wheel like a demented chimp as he pushed the vehicle to a velocity approaching levitation. Once in the city centre, however, the traffic thickened and he slowed to a crawl, muttering to himself and humming. The world slipped by as if in a dream. The radio crackled. Towering billboards showed caramel-skinned women in fluorescent bikinis. At Calle Alcalá, two enormous cast-iron lions, luxuriant and grand, guarded the steps to Congress. Soon the dusky façades lining La Gran Vía, one of the city's main thoroughfares, loomed up like wedding cakes, wrapped around with layer upon layer of wrought-iron balconies. All the buildings were haughty and filigreed, a curious blend of baroque and art deco. Smartly dressed people scampered about in the early morning chill, wrapped in scarves and breathing steam. I felt excited and fatigued, exhausted but elated. My tongue tasted of cardboard. I'd booked a room in the festively named Hostal Playa - playa as in beach - a cheap hostel off the Puerta del Sol, the bustling plaza in the heart of Madrid from which all distances in Spain are measured. Despite the hostel's name, Madrid is actually 400 kilometres from the nearest beach, located smack bang in the middle of the country, with Andalusia and the Mediterranean to the south, the Atlantic to the north and Portugal to the west. Barcelona - Madrid's rival city in everything, especially soccer - lies to the east. Hostal Playa was a moody, gloomy place, much bigger on the inside than looked possible from the outside and full of corridors that appeared identical but weren't. It had one of those ancient boxy elevators, the kind with a criss-cross grille that you have to pull shut, and it made whirring noises like a spaceship at take-off. Ramón, the desk boy, was polite and cheery in an earnest, workmanlike way. Within minutes of my arrival he'd launched into a guided tour of the premises (flourishing his hand as he showcased the shared toilet), a review of the top five most economical restaurantes in the immediate vicinity and the location of the cheapest Internet café. Finally, his face darkened. 'It saddens me to say it, señor, but Madrid is full of bad types these days.' He called them manolos, slang for corner boys, anybody on the make. 'It pays to take care.' Once in my room, I stepped out onto the balcony to check the view, which was partly obscured by the cracked yellow 'Hostal Playa' sign. It was an old part of town, and the streets were easily narrow enough for me to see into the living rooms across the way. I stood there for some time, peering across, hoping to see something dramatic happening, but no such luck. Instead, I looked down into the street. A baker rushed past carrying a tray of piping hot churros, twists of deep fried batter dusted in sugar. In the café opposite, businessmen breakfasted on cigarettes and anis. In the cool moist air of the mid-March morning, the sounds of the city came curdling up like a fat man clearing his throat; car alarms, cat whistles and shop shutters, a steadily swelling cacophony of clanging, banging and cursing. The busier the city got, however, the lonelier I felt. What was I doing here? And who, I wondered, could care less about bullfighting?