El Rastro rolls off the tongue. The words evoke its history. It's the name of a flea market in Madrid. Trading for more than 500 years,it's possibly the oldest and largest open air market in Europe.
Rastro comes from the trail of blood from carcases dragged from the slaughterhouse down the Calle de la Ribera de Curtidores to the tanneries. Rag and bone men selling clothes and gypsies from southern Spain selling antiques to dealers were the original traders down this street.
A visit to El Rastro is a Sunday ritual for Madrilenians. For tourists it is an opportunity to step away from the museums and magnificent edifices,interact with locals or people-watch. For everyone it is a chance to browse,haggle and hangout in the numerous bars and cafes. Unlike the iconic Les Puces in Paris,El Rastro is right in the city,an easy 20-minute walk from our apartment in Atocha. Proximity and food are my bargaining points with my two reluctant travelling mates. But I am on a mission to find the antique and retro section of the market.
I tell them to hurry up at the Plaza de Cascorro,the gateway to the market. They complain it's only 9am. For me that's late. At the top of Calle de la Ribera de Curtidores,I think we're in the wrong place – there's lots of cheap touristy stuff,Asian imports,heavy metal and revolutionary T-shirts,badges,Spanish ceramics,fans and synthetic flamenco frocks. These give way to stalls selling birdcages,bull-fighting posters,bric a brac,and racks of secondhand fur,wool,leather,suede and tweed coats. Laneways shooting off to the side look interesting,one with art materials. But the junk continues.
My travelling mates are clearly not impressed and make a beeline to a lively bar on the corner of Calle Mira el Rio Baja for a second breakfast of tortilla de patatas and a cafe au leche,then another drink with cakes. Many tourists can make the mistake of thinking the market is just the arterial strip down the hill ending with what looks like a car boot sale. One stall has a cluster of men hanging around,looking at the ground,hands in pockets gazing at bits of plumbing,beautiful old tools,and anything else you would find in a dream shed.
I am getting warmer. A vintage comic and magazine stallholder points the way to antiques up the hill along Calle Mira el Rio Baja and intersecting streets. I start scanning the stalls,tiny shops,glitzy showrooms and jumble sales.
A tiny vintage toy shop is full of seriously collectible stuff. Adults look longingly at wind-up tin toys,kids are restrained with firm hands. I ask to look at a Spanish police car from the 1960s. The weary shopkeeper opens the cabinet. It's a cool €500. I'm just another tyre kicker wasting his time.