Madrid, it's like New York on croissants

The long dark haired Penelope Cruz lookalike straps on castanets and clicks them loudly in my face whilst stomping her foot and tossing the frills of her long dress around whilst I sit there looking like Kermit after he has been slapped by Miss Piggy.

At least this is what it feels like to be spoken to in Spanish when you don't speak a word beyond 'Hola' of it. I try the one word of Spanish I know, which is 'sangria', just for the sake of something to say. She raises a dark eyebrow archly at me.

Any sneaking suspicion she may have had that British tourists are stupid ignoramuses who don't speak Spanish is now firmly confirmed for life. She bangs her hands together which I fear may be the cue for someone to 'release the bull', so I leave and get a taxi. The taxi driver spends more time looking at the map than the road and I take a good look out the window convinced this will be my only sight of Spain and my last view of anything before crashing to certain death.

As the website promised it is not far from the airport, and confusingly six miles away from where the Google map showed it to be. This shows that even if I could read them, maps can be useless too.

The campsite manager has a backing group of barking ferocious looking animals and greets me with the same level of friendliness that I would have expected if I had just ran upstairs into her house and peed like an unhousetrained collie dog all over her bed. She takes my passport, my money and waves me to the furthest end of the campsite.

I ask a question about the showers in an as yet undiscovered language that is a cross between French, Italian and making-it-upanto. I see her eyes narrow and darken, and her mouth moves as if she is working up a ball of spit to hurl in my direction. I vamoose to the far end of the campsite. I have yet to get a tent from somewhere. I lock my pack up to a tree with a nifty little retractable combination lock I bought before coming away. No one's stealing this girl' s knickers and smelly socks, no siree.

I venture over to speak to other tent dwelling unworthies. There is a young couple who appear to be packing up. Gretel is from Austria and speaks perfect English, I'm not exactly sure what the fella said but it sounded like "My name's Kurt and I'm incorrigible." They are as sweet as strudel and immediately suss my map and direction ineptitude and offer to accompany me to the metro stop as they are leaving shortly to interail on to Lisbon. I have half an hour to kill whilst I wait for Hansel and Gretel so as always I put the time to good use by going to the bar for a beer.

The bar lady speaks a bit of English. She is wearing a very short leopard print dress, eyeliner as thick as a skid mark on the road and has bigger hair than me. I think she may just do bar work part time and has another job as an extra on the Spanish equivalent of Eastenders (which is probably called HHH'east hhh'enders - yes, I think that clunking noise was me just scraping the bottom of the barrel). Hansel and Gretel kindly take my hand, pluck gingerbread from houses along the way and lead me to the nearest metro stop. They point out the name of the line I need to take for when I come back (I would have completely forgotten to do this) and deliver an eternally grateful me to a central point in town.

After the carefully crafted calm elegance of Paris, my first sight of Madrid is a wake up call. It feels like eating space dust when you were expecting jelly beans. Madrid is mad, it is like New York on croissants. It is Danny Zuko the cool crazy show-off bad boy in the class who wears his leather jacket with the collar turned up and smokes. In front of the bike sheds.

I encounter Madrid from the vulnerable position of the bottom of a set of metro steps. Above me looms a bold chunky but elegant 15 storey building with a 100ft blow up pipe work sculpture stuck onto it's façade. It looks like Kane from Alien. It is fabulous, and I immediately fall in love with Madrid. I actually feel a bit taken aback, this is so not what I was expecting.

I retreat to the nearest café to regroup. It is a 1930s ornate, leaded lighted, glass and brass canopied, wood panelled building. Once through the door I find I am inside a McDonalds. I order Coke and fries and count the number of words I know in Spanish on the fingers of one hand. I take stock of what I'm doing and then shudder, oh God, I've become an American.

The most expensive tent in town.

Now I've met a lot of hookers in my time. I used to work at Holloway Prison after all, but I am still fascinated by the groups of girls I see lining the main street from dawn to dusk in Madrid. How do they do that universally recognisable 'I'm for sale' stance? I try not to stare, in case they think I'm up for a bit of business, but I am really curious to know how they do it. And if sticking your hip out like that and dangling a handbag off your shoulder all day results in the need for chiropractic attention.

I still don't have a tent. A fellow tourist suggests I try El Corte Ingles, a large department store in Madrid of which there are several branches. It is the equivalent of going to Harrods for a tent. The top floor is the sports and leisure section. I pick a salesman who does not speak any English and begin to mime in my best Marcel Marceau, the word tent. He offers me a variety of products from Frisbees to golf clubs, eventually we arrive at a tent. It is three times the price of others I have bought and I resolve to try and sneak it on the plane somehow.

It is nearly dark when I get back but I am a dab hand now so this doesn't bother me and I am pitched in under five minutes (I actually timed it). My neighbour is an Australian touring round Europe on a Ducati. We get chatting as he pegs out his pants to dry. Pitching a tent is thirsty work and it's still pretty warm so I suggest we go for a drink at the bar. He is good company and we swap stories over a few beers. I am tired after an early start that now seems like it was several days ago so say I am turning in. He looks surprised but says goodbye.

Now I don't know whether after I left he started necking tequila or had a bet with the barman, but fifteen minutes later, when I am all zipped up in my bag and super duper tent, I hear a noise outside and say "Hello?" I recognise Ducati man's voice and ask "Are you lost?" a rather instinctive and thinly veiled , " ... and if you aren't then get that way snappy" if I ever heard one. "No, I was thinking I would quite like to ... ", embarrassed silence.

I am sure he can hear me shaking my head in my hands as I hope he isn't a David Duchovny type, and if he is I hope El Corte Ingles zips will hold him back. I feel like telling him that 'quite like to' would never persuade any girl, never mind one who has the luxury of a live-in Beard back home. He then says "Oh I feel really embarrassed" and departs.

I am hugely relieved but also worried he might come back. In the morning his tent and motorbike are gone. It seems he has decided to go walkabout.