Spain, land of fiestas and siestas

Felipe III watches over Madrid's Plaza Mayor, which is surrounded by cafes and shops. Picture / Linda Herrick

It's 5.15am in Madrid, and Spanish motor racing champ Fernando Alonso is driving me to Barajas Airport, 16kms northeast of the sprawling city.

At least this taxi driver thinks he's Fernando Alonso, weaving in and out of lanes at speed, tearing towards intersections before executing last-second swerves. So, my last minutes in Spain are spent with eyes shut, reviewing some experiences I've had in three cities over the past eight days ...

Nothing can prepare you for the throat-grabbing sight of Barcelona as you approach the medieval coastal city from the air, the Lufthansa Airbus circling above the azure Mediterranean before swooping in to land.

Immediate impressions: the prevailing shade of terracotta, with the compact city of 1.6 million rising gently from the sea, back through a plain bordered east and west by rivers, before rising to the northern slopes of Montjuic (Jewish mount). At the base of Montjuic, overlooking the central heart of Barcelona, is an extraordinarily imposing castle, the Palau Nacional, now home to the Museu Nacional D'Art de Catalunya.

What's apparent from the air, or any elevated viewpoint, is that there are few high-rises in Barcelona and much of the city's layout is ordered in grids, with the corners cut off. The design is known as L'Eixample, the Extension, created by architect Ildefons Cerda in the 1860s as a solution to the city's dire overcrowding.

With great prescience, Cerda devised the cut-off corners to provide inner-city spaces, little parks, for residents to meet. These days, the parks are also meeting places for the residents' ubiquitous tiny dogs, with charming signs requesting that owners be good citizens and pick up, gracies.

On the ground, it's mid-afternoon, and steaming, with the temperature in the high twenties. Aeroport del Prat, about 10km south of Barcelona, is crowded. Today is a major festival day, Festes de la Merce. The city is getting ready to party.

My hotel, Torre Catalunya, next to Estacio Sants train station in the Sants-Montjuic district, has magnificent views of L'Eixample and towards the Museu. Maria, an informative guide provided by the National Tourist Office, whisks me away by taxi to Montjuic (the Montjuic Card, valid for one day and costing €20 ($35.45), will give you access to the area's many treasures). Here, you can stroll in elegant public gardens, and visit the modernistic site of the 1992 Olympics.

Art lovers must not miss the Museu Nacional D'Art, which houses Catalan art from the times of Roman occupation in the 11th century, up to Realist and Modernista works from the 19th century. If that's not enough, Barcelona son Joan Miro set up his Fundacio on Montjuic in 1971, housing a vast array of multi-media works - and inevitably, a souvenir shop.

Montjuic is a fine place to get a grip on Barcelona's layout, with a vista that drifts across from Port Vell and the Marina on the waterfront, over recent years revitalised in an effort to transform, says Maria, a city that previously "always had its back turned to the sea". Take note, Auckland city planners.

Down at the waterfront, where there are evening market stalls, bustling cafes, and - warns Maria - pickpockets, we adopt the Barcelona pose: handbags clutched firmly across shoulders, and head along La Rambla, the colourful traffic-free street of stalls (and a handful of beggars and prostitutes) that threads straight through old Gothic Barcelona, the chaotic Barri Gotic.

With the Festes de la Merce in full swing, dusk seems exactly the right time to wander through the crowds, gathered in the plazas to cheer the castellers (literally, castles made from towers of humans, topped by a child), the gegants (costumed giants propelled by people on stilts), bands, fireworks and, in front of the 11th century Catedral, the circles of sardana - the national dance of the Catalans, originating in the 16th century.

The Barri Gotic is a neck-swivellingly atmospheric district, crammed with noble buildings and looping warrens and streets that have witnessed some terrible, bloody history through the centuries. "As recently as the early 20th century, central Barcelona was a vortex of anarchists, Republicans, bourgeois regionalists, gangsters, police terrorists, political gunmen," reports Lonely Planet.

Next day, I take myself off to the city's most significant landmark, Gaudi's unfinished La Sagrada Familia. At 9am busloads of hundreds of tourists are already queuing to get inside the church, still a work in progress after 120 years.

Always a controversial structure, it's a wondrously crazy construction, fussied about with gargoyles, doves, saints, apostles, cranes - and all of those swelling towers: eight, with four more to be built to represent the Apostles; a 170m central tower, signifying Christ, will be supplemented by another five as a tribute to Mary and the four Evangelists.

With the line of tourists stretching around the block, a more accessible Gaudi fix was made by hopping on a passing tourist bus to Parc Guell in the Gracia district, a sanctuary commissioned by the architect's patron Eusebi Guell in 1900. It's a beautiful area, overlooking the city, with an entranceway marked by two Hansel and Gretel cottages opening on to a large Gaudi-designed curved stone grotto and 3km of walks dotted with benches to sit and contemplate.

Gaudi's work is evident in various central city areas - including Carrer de Provenca, intersecting the northern section of La Rambla, where his apartment building, La Pedrera, is a visual knockout for its rippling facade, seaweed iron balconies and chess-figure chimney pots, while nearby, on Passeig de Gracia (great fashion shops) is the multi-tiled Casa Batllo, an apartment building renovated inside and out by Gaudi. Even the footpath is paved with Gaudi-designed tiles.

Early the next morning it's off to Valencia, via the super-efficient EuroMed system. Security measures at the Spanish stations are tight, with all luggage and travellers passing through scanners. Three hours later, after a clip along the southeast coast, Costa del Azuhar, marred by grim high-rise apartment developments, and the current City of Sails looms. On the outskirts, more ugly high-rise apartments amid industrial-site horrors. Doubts vanish as the train enters the central, highly decorative decorative Estacion del Norte, and a warm welcome from the smiling Nacho of Valencia Tourism. He guides me through the nearby Plaza del Ayuntamiento which, with its large fountain, inviting lawns and surrounding neoclassical civic buildings, will become a central landmark in this charming city of 750,000 for the next three days.

My new home is the comfortable Old World Hotel Astoria Palace, just off the Plaza and a favourite of Iberia Airline pilots and bullfighters who come to town to test their skills at the Plaza de Toros next to the station.

Josep, a guide provided by Guias Turisticos Profesionales (www.valenciaguias.com), arrives to take me through the city's medieval city, once bounded by protective walls of which only two massive gates remain: Torres de Serranos and Torres de Quart. The city has a long and bloody history, founded by the Romans in 138BC, with waves of rulers through the centuries, including 500 years of Muslim rule.

What an afternoon. We embark on the most amazing journey, starting with the Cathedral Complex, begun in 1262, with an amalgam of architectural styles which reflect Valencia's history - Romanesque, Baroque, Gothic, Muslim and Jewish.

Among many art treasures, it also houses the Chapel of the Holy Chalice, containing a venerated piece - allegedly - of the chalice from the Last Supper.

Whether you're a believer or not, you cannot fail to be awestruck by the range and quality of the art treasures, altar pieces and frescoes held in these many ancient buildings of Valencia: attached to the cathedral is a Visigoth chapel dedicated to St Vicente the Martyr, with a mummified piece of his arm; within walking distance are many others - including the Basilica of Our Lady of the Forsaken and ancient churches dedicated to San Augustine, St Juan de la Cruz, St Thomas and St Felipe Neri.

These are lively working churches, and respect for the worshippers must take precedence over camera flashes.

Josep - soon to be gofer for the Larry Ellison set when the first stages of America's Cup racing starts in Valencia this year - holds his best card till last, leading to a complex which doesn't feature in many guide books: the sober and plain building in Nave 1 known as El Patriarca. Founded in 1583 by St Juan de Ribera, it's kept exactly as it was then - a college, library, seminary, gallery and church which is home to the most vibrant examples of religious fresco art you will see anywhere, covering every surface of the rooms. Tours are available by special arrangement and Gregorian chanting is conducted in the acoustically sublime stone chapel.

But there's far more to Valencia than the ancient quarter, elegant inner-city apartment buildings and tapas. The city is hugely proud of its futuristic Ciudad de las Artes y Las Ciencas (Arts and Science complex), on the southern end of its CulTuria route, the green belt flowing through the city along the former site of the River Turia, which was drained after floodings in the 1950s.

The Ciudad contains four key complexes: the newly opened Palau de las Arts (a performance space), L'Hemisferic (Planetarium), the Prince Felipe Science Museum and L'Oceanografic, a series of indoor and outdoor aquariums claimed as the best of its type in Europe.

Down at the America's Cup area, the Darsena, a miniaturised version of what we've twice hosted in Auckland is unfolding, with frantic tearing down of adjacent slums - another example of a city learning to turn its front to the sea.

Along the coast, in the beachside district of Las Arenas, is La Pepica, a historic restaurant - opened in 1898 - that has hosted countless international celebrities including Ernest Hemingway, whose boozy long-lunch photo adorns the wall.

Facing the sea, it's a great place to dine on tasty paella, serenaded by Moroccan accordion players, who were shooed away by police. This was the week hundreds of Africans were picked up trying to jump security fences into Spain's African enclaves in the south-west.

Two last Valencian dates: the beautiful 15th century National Ceramic Museum, with its ornate alabaster doorway and frontage; and the Museum of Fine Arts, outstanding in breadth and quality. I confess a failure to come to grips with the Valencia Institute of Modern Art, or to make contact with my guide there (so I thought), Senor Guillem de Castro. At the front desk, my programme was the source of much bemusement, "estupidos!" and eye-rolling ... Guillem de Castro is the name of the street. Slinking away, I'm almost immediately lost. Eventually, I jump in a cab, waving the card of the hotel. "Excuse me, I am lost."

"You come to Spain, you learn Spanish," shouts the driver, as he drives me all the way around the block. Quite right. "Manana voy a Madrid" - tomorrow I am going to Madrid.

Off again, on a four-hour train journey inland through arid land - Spain is suffering a serious water shortage - punctuated by wind farms and grazing horses. Madrid's Atocha station, the scene of the 2004 bomb attacks, is decorated with sullen David Beckham posters. The best thing about my hotel is its central location on Plaza Santo Domingo, within walking distance of Plaza Mayor, the arterial Gran Via, Palacio Real (Royal Palace) and the palaces Jardines del Campo del Moro, and Teatro Real (Opera House).

The trick with Madrid, once a tiny town declared seat of Spain in 1561 - purely because of politics and location - and now home to some 3 million residents (known as gatos - cats, or night-lifers), is to sit down with a map and attempt some form of orientation.

The pocket guide, Madrid Style, comes highly recommended, breaking down the city into eight districts, with maps and cross-referencing lists of hotels, sightseeing, shops, restaurants and noche (party). The city has a first-class metro and bus system, so armed with Madrid Style and a Madrid Card, which offers free access to many cultural centres, it is quite simple to work out where you want to go, and how to get there.

Madrid Vision, the red double-decker tourist buses (E13 a day), provide an effective way of moving around, offering three interlinking routes: Historico, Moderno, Monumental.

Of course, the Prado gallery is a must-see in Madrid, and worth every aching step through its three huge, expansive floors. Laid out in chronological and school-of-artist order, the paintings and sculptures occupy a building which opened in 1819 as the Royal Museum of Painting and Sculpture following the model of the Louvre. You can wander at your will, but many of the annotations are Spanish-only. Guides are available for hire from the heavily guarded foyer; or you can cheekily eavesdrop on groups with their own guide.

The Prado is a life's milestone, a supremely rewarding experience - and you need at least three hours to cover just the ground floor where you'll find Botticelli, Fra Angelico, Raphael, Corregio, Juan de Juanes, van Eyck, Bosch, Durer, Bellini, Titian, Tintoretto, El Greco ... I recommend one floor a day.

Paseo del Prado, also known as the Art Boulevard, is also home to Centro de Art Reina Sofia, a breathtaking collection of contemporary Spanish art, including Picasso's Guernica, and the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, the former private collection bought by the Government in 1993.

History and culture have many forms, and Madrid guide Rosa walks me from the hotel to Plaza Mayor, a massive sunny square presided over by a statue of Felipe III on his steed, surrounded by outdoor cafes, shops, apartments and intriguing little passage ways. One of these led us to our lunch destination - at the "earliest restaurant in the world", Botin, which opened in 1725 and was a trader's inn before that.

As for shopping, which means fashion, travel by bus to the district of Salamanca, where street after street - Calle de Goya, Calle de Juan Bravo, Jose Ortega y Gasset - offer top-end couture. Unfortunately, it was 30C and the shops were into their winter ranges. Unthinkable.

After three nights of listening to the shrieking gatos out on the streets, it is finally my turn to join them, briefly.

The cab eases out of Plaza Santo Domingo, and noses through the kids drifting off into the dawn. They have been up all night, yet no one appears drunk - I saw few drunks in Spain and never any aggro or violence. However, now that Fernando Alonso is at the wheel, heading for the airport, it's another story. When we get there, I give him far too many euros. For the first time, a taxi driver in Spain flashes me a big toothy grin. "Mucho gracias, senora, mucho gracias."

If I'd known how to say it, I would have: "Estoy por irme a vivir a Espana." I'd like to live in Spain.

* Linda Herrick travelled to Spain courtesy of the National Tourist Office of Spain, Air New Zealand and Lufthansa.