Madrid

Despite a bagel-fire and a surreptitious and aggressive sprinkler system, I am still welcome here in Madrid and feeling quite nostalgic.

Isabel (my flatmate while in Madrid) is putting Amanda and I up in her very fashionable flat (I hope to provide an unsatisfying visual soon, though, in the meantime, a quick spin through the nearest IKEA (pronounced ‘ee-kay-uh’) peppered with stippled paraphernalia from a Lichtenstein exhibit should suffice).  The flat is downtown in the Alonzo Martinez area, which provides us good company with her and Bruno, and easy access to most all we could wish to visit.

As we walked around Madrid these past two days, the memories came rushing back to me—the drums in the park; the long, slow, chat-full walks; the cars parked in the middle of one way street with no driver inside and a chorus of horns shortly behind; the near-mulleted hipsters; and our server picking his nose as we awaited our order.

Even though Isabel cooked a spectacular Spanish dish of seaweed and carrots our first night here, such strange foods to my Bay Arean palate like tortilla patata (Spanish omelet), morcilla (blood sausage), tapas, cafe cubanos and mojitos are filling my days.  I notice myself trying to get tired of each of them so when I return I will not have unachievable longings.  Yet I have had no success thus far.

And we continue.  Off to see Lichtenstein or whoever replaced him.  And maybe some chocolate and churros, or two.