Madrid

Madrid treats midnight as an institution and art as a public utility. Three museums within one walkable triangle hold Velázquez, Goya and the Guernica; outside, the city practices its true genius — the shared hour: vermouth at one, lunch at three, the paseo at eight, dinner at ten-thirty, and the firm conviction that going home early is a form of surrender.

The sensible traveller gives the Prado a long morning — Las Meninas will reorganize your standards — and the Reina Sofía an afternoon for the Guernica's silence. Between them: the Retiro's boating lake and crystal palace, La Latina's tapas crawl on Sunday after the Rastro flea market, and the Gran Vía at dusk when the rooftop bars light up like theater balconies.

The Guide's honesty: dinner before nine-thirty marks you as a tourist and the kitchen may still be closed — surrender to the schedule, it knows better —; August is a furnace the madrileños flee: follow them or embrace the empty city at dawn and dusk; and the tapa free with your drink is a Madrid right: change bars, not neighborhoods.