Madrid

Madrid makes me smile. It also made me long to have explored it when I smoked and stayed up late into the night for what would turn into days. It reminds me of Prague, in some ways. The wrought iron work, the alleys, the sense of clandestine and charged. It's a passionate city but also one can feel the ridigity. I think of how deep the crevices between ideologies and how the legacy of police state can seem much of a muchness, communism or facism aside. I slip into a café, tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. I debate whether to ta

I planned nothing, not even the corners I turned in my own mind.  I think about those pockets of freedom, when I can eat, walk, sleep, read when I want, beholden only to the bare minimum of societal expectation.  The light is golden in these days, the air crisp. I am careful, keeping to myself, although I do meet up with the baby sister of a and her work colleague who are in town for a conference. 

I'm staring out the window, ticking of the list of things I remembered everything: toothbrush, passport, to book accomodations after the retreat, when I start to giggle. I've remembered everything but to book a hotel for this evening. I almost started to panic but in the end, there is no point or need in panic.  This is an error I can correct at my fingertips, with the magic contraptions that take centre stage.  I stare out the window and I think of that first almost-baby and walking into the Women's Center for that first appointment, the weight of certainty. These later recalls are different, there is less guilt, less shame. I hadn't made plans either way and still life happened.  I think about that boy (at 34 to my 22, he seemed very much a boy) 

It's almost 4pm when the plane lands in Madrid. The aircraft hovering, eager to make its approach and I find myself staring. Below. in awe again of how fields and landscape can vary, even if the plotting of a field is similar. 

The clouds are soft and marshmallowy. I sigh, knowing change is coming, shifting of geography.  I reckon 7-12 moves are left in my life story. Where next? 

Maybe we should move to Nova Scotia or to Labrador, I think.  The daughter would be up for that, pretending she lived in Republic or Doyle. 

The first night, I stay in Salamanca. The Belle Epoque architecture, the mansarrds, the cafes and buzz all feel familiar.  I walk around with no set agenda, eschewing galleries and museums to find the pulses before heading to the train station for 3 nights in Alicante, where I'll actively engage with my shadows, the ones I keep missing them in the just before and after moments.

Back in Madrid, I stay in a Garrett flat that advertises itself as a romantic two bed. Romance is in the eye of the beholder. It is charming and I let that soothe me.  The first night I take myself to hear a trio near by.  The second, to an overly fussy restaurant after which I loop back on myself for hours.  The third day, I spend the afternoon at the Hammam, pack and wonder when I'll be back. There are 8 journeys left on my metro ticket.