A good friend of mine wrote once that, in his heart, Barcelona was twenty five. Now that I think of Madrid, I guess I could write something like that. I still remember when I reached that city in a moving van. I was carrying with me a cheesy poster of Splendor in the Grass, the complete works of Gardel, and The Little Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach. I had a black covered notebook tied to my bag with an elastic rope and I used to take fast notes of whatever I saw, anything I heard, somethings I read and mostly what I felt as brand new, familiar or somewhere in between.

I was a haunter (hunter, maybe?) back then, just like I still am somewhat, but in Madrid the preys weren’t grazing and stretching before me; they sprinted at the speed of dreams in a transatlantic flight East to West, fleeting, in dry flames. They showed their shiny fur as in a colored film and danced aimlessly under in the rain, up and down along the fire stairways, on the pavement of the backstreets as well. It was an animal ballet, it was a thrilling hunt.

I used to hold my mirrors gun (not sure what you mean here) and wait for the sun to leave to before watering myself down in electric lights. I used to walk Madrid at night. I crossed it underground to reach Heinz’s store and joke with him about noir, yakuza and cinecitta’s. I used to travel in time whenever I went to Salvador’s class and later came back home floating on a cloud, my heart between my teeth, my blood gushing out.

Madrid was also a set of shut eyes facing the sun. It was the sleeping car of a slow train, shared with mom and dad. It was the 5-year-old me posing with a flower avenue at my back. Hopper’s strips, red ballroom heels, charioteers and dramatic plays. Madrid was eolder than me, but it was also twenty five.

This was timely. You're getting me even more fired up for my trip!