A walk in Madrid (part two)

17-11-2021

I'm going down Carrera de San Jerónimo. There is a lady with trainers playing the violin. It sounds horrible. A woman is shouting to her phone that she won't go there on Monday and he should know it. I consider her as the main character of a future short story and I should be taking notes if that's my real intention, even on the phone. The idea becomes weak and I let it go. I don´t know if I'll regret it. There are lots to work on, her personality, background... No, not now.

There is a theatre. I don´t know the play but it's starred a famous actress (this time I know who she is). I'm surprised by the audience as it is not mainly eighty years old people. No, listen to me, with those actors and a big theatre it's usually what happens, and I say that after being at some similar plays.

Three fifty years old women are listening to a fourth one explaining how big Mexico was. I would have liked to follow them for a while to know if she is talking fully aware or has just misunderstood some notes. Their husbands are walking some meters behind them, in silence and, basically, bored.

The Congress is lighted with the French flag. I don´t know if there is a specific reason, but there are no cameras or journalists, so I don´t think so, which makes me become more curious. I pass an expensive hotel. They are playing classical music. The bellboy calls a taxi and a couple speaking Spanish jumps in. They seem like any other one in the street. What kind of people are they in truth?

I arrive at the Fountain of Neptune. I surprised myself by recognising the statue. However, I think about it and it makes sense: I've walked that way thousands of times during the last months. A father puts her daughter with a pink wool cap down. She tries her balance. I left them behind and hear the father running through her after a second. I remember some people. Carpe Diem.

I cross to the tree-lined boulevard. The moon is shining on top of Museo del Prado. Now is smaller but the view is prettier than in Sol according to my point of view. I should visit it in December. The museum, I'm talking about, I'm already used to visiting the moon frequently. No, I shouldn´t, I must.

The Jardín botánico is lit. Yes, it's beautiful, especially in terms of writing, of images from other worlds, but before that, I hate it: I don't think is necessary that much expense neither light pollution.

Atocha is covered in fog. It's interesting that it is just there but I have already gotten used to it. It reminds me of London, not my city. And with that thought, how Bournemouth appears again. I'm finally concerned that with my walk I have been looking for those wonderful things in here. No, I couldn´t find them but this... also... Do I like them? Yes, maybe it has come the time to say that.

I wait at the traffic light looking at a girl taking pictures. It's similar to Cecilia, a uni classmate. I should have learnt a lot from her. I ask myself what she has been up to and promise to investigate her as soon as I arrive home. I'm pretty sure she has already fulfilled some dreams as she was hard-working. Like Laura. I'm glad for her and ask myself if she is okay.

By a weird connection that I can not understand, after seeing a churrería, I remember that it has come that time of the year of buying Christmas cards. It's just that I wanted to send a postcard from Madrid to Lenka and Ale before. I should do it next week, although I have a lot to tell them and would be better to call. Well, we should do a group videocall. I should suggest it soon. It's just... it's not the same anymore... if it was at some point. It's okay. It's what happens with long-distance relationships. But I should type on our chat soon.

The station is bustling with its usual traffic of travellers. I go through the turnstile. While crossing the walkway, my gaze switches between the trains and my trainers, blue because of the trousers and brown because of the mud of any path I have definitely enjoyed.

I go down the mechanic stairs and walk until the end of the platform. The works haven't been finished yet. I think they had already started when I was back in Spain more than a year ago. I think about the messages I have to answer. Words in English and Danish come to my mind despite my messages will be in Spanish. I understand why this language mixture. I do not always understand. I do not always want to understand.

I board the train and sit on the last right window to be able to watch the border sign (that's another story). A girl with two suitcases sits close to me. I think that I would have been her in any other European city. Not anymore and that's also fine.

In front of me there is a family with two children, five and seven probably, but I'm not good at ages... I switch on my ebook while my eyes are more interested in what happens beyond the glass. Sometimes the reflection of the train. The five-year-old girl is looking at me, she hides and looks again. She smiles. Her father pays attention to me and scolds her daughter. I re-read the same paragraph.

I think about Glass, hear it on my mind. I consider if I should be writing this on the tablet. No. I perfectly know how many stories are tucked there for years. I prefer to enjoy this journey again at night. I decide that there won't be any excuses.

The girl is looking at me again. Some songs pop into my head. I have discovered some independent groups and singers. Their lyrics are about life and enjoying it fully, about good memories. I see myself sunbathing on a bench in the morning. I see myself taking pictures in the Rosaleda. The train passes the border and I close the ebook. The book is interesting but it's not the moment. There is another wound closing.

A walk in Madrid

17-11-2021

The screen is black and the credits have just started. I usually wait until their end but, today, I can't. I have to go. I really enjoyed the film and I want to watch it again with someone else. There are thousands of points to analyze. But I have to go and breathe.

I feel like a hot drink. Look through a coffee shop's window. No, not today. I keep walking and arrive at Plaza de España. My hands are asking if I'm going to take my gloves. I don't.

I stop at the traffic light and look to the left. Rosa comes to my mind. Should call her and catch up. I miss her. What about a quick visit?... It's just that I should finish that first. I need a deadline. No pressure, just keep going.

I realize that I can go across the road when I'm involved in a french tourist group. There's another coffee shop. No stop. It's very... not what I want. So then I remember a cozy place close to Sol. There is no time for excuses.

Go up Gran Vía. I remember them. Obviously, they are not there anymore but their shapes. A few hours before, there was a woman hugging a man. It was sad, a lot. He was distant and let her arms wrap him. I would have liked to see her face too.

A man with little white long hair is dancing. He has white headphones. He stops in front of an American film poster. He examines it while keeping his body in action. Close to him, there are two ladies discussing their ailments and the crazy amount of pills they have for breakfast. The one with purple hair points to the man. They both forget the conversation and smile at him. He turns around, winks an eye and keeps dancing up the road.

The Lion King poster is shining again on the theatre. It's soon yet for the usual long queues to go in but there is some audience already waiting. There is a group of four elderly with canes trying to take a selfie. They are having fun but I don´t think the picture will show their happiness, just some diffuse light. I don't think it matters.

I realize that my walk is so fast and I force myself to notice the buildings. I realize the place that is taking Madrid in my life and that now I want it to be that way.

There is an event at Callao, there must be a famous person and her name is kind of familiar but... I'm finally able to cross the elegant crowd and the first elves helping Santa Claus at a mall.

There is a man playing the bagpipe. It reminds me of Galician forests. Its greenness and its silence. I listen to the drums from the Festa do boi on my mind. For a few seconds, I'm also walking through the Allariz cobblestone streets. No. I have to come back to the Calle del Carmen. Carpe Diem. That's our message. I want Friday to come. No, that shouldn't be now neither. Carpe Diem.

It is not possible to find the end of the Doña Manolita's queue. I consider if I would be one day on that waiting time. I don't have time to answer as the smell of chestnuts roasted is intense. It can be related to autumn but for me, it's more connected with Christmas time, with the walkings on those streets when we were younger.

There are some people on the terraces, even of those of ice cream shops. And then it's Sol. The moon is shining over the top of roofs but the lighting billboards are catching the attention at the square, those that you have to tear your eyes away from. It's sad because the big silvery is almost full.

I cross the road, go up and turn left. It's like everyone has disappeared. I find the coffee shop. I went there a few months ago with Carmen and Sofía. I really like to discover places like this with nice people.

I order a coffee and a piece of cake (one day is one day and today's walking is long). I settle on a table in the middle of the business. It's small but very welcoming. I start writing but my eyes and concentration are more interested in everything around me. When the senses are awake is difficult to let them shout. It's not necessary.

The girl who is serving me: short, blue ponytail, worn-out trainers. The other one is in charge of coffees and it's taller. They are a good team. They speak sometimes, they look at each other complicit.

There is an American lady in front of me (I know where she is from after hearing the waiters), she is eating two salads and drinking glasses of water. Then they come two young: he with a suitcase and she with light on her eyes. There are two boys by my side; they have already finished their drinks but are still catching up. I like the light, it's quiet but enough. There is music. It's this.

I finish my coffee. There are still many stories to be written but I don't want to be late. I'm not wearing a watch anymore but I'm still too addicted to time limits. Time and memories. I collect my things and say goodbye to the friendly waiters. I'll be back. Very soon. I step out into Madrid streets...

Multilingual

They were speaking with the dog in Spanish: ven aquí, siéntate por favor, para, muy bien,... They were two men in suits, modern looking, who were talking in English between each other, with a strong accent from the north, probably Scottish or holidaymakers from the highlands. They both changed from one language to the other easily. They must have adopted the pet abroad without introducing it to the bilingual world.

A tall, pale skin, blond, man started to play with the dog and asked them about its age. Just the birds seemed interested in answering. The man was talking in Spanish and they... tried some guttural sounds with brilliant English accent... monosyllables that were supposed to be Spanish but that definitely didn´t define their pet's lifetime. Indeed, it was not the same to wear a suit but to understand many other languages.

Dear Unknown

Who are you? Do you belong to earth or heaven? Do you have wings or spit fire? Can you boost me through the river or take me to quiet floods? Do you prefer the cliff or the abyss? Do you dream of crushing with the wind or rocking the hurricane? Do you greet the poppies or say goodbye to the butterflies? Do you use knives or daggers?

Who are you? No, 'cause it's great to be hidden under the "unknown" name, but I perfectly know that I've met you. Yes, by the way you talk to me, by your use of emojis, by your full stops... Although I also think that you are not just one. I may say that you master several people voices, the certain men's shouts and the silences from some other women. Maybe from countries half-world apart. Maybe part of the same home. Or it is just that I recognize you from another life.

Who are you? I like to imagine you as a shadow in front of the computer. A shape without a body pursuing the thickness. The inhabitants of a hall of mirrors. The resident of a sweet ocean. The citizen of a leafy desert. Sometimes almost a mass of stone. Perhaps chalk. Sometimes an invisible being. Perhaps the fog. Sometimes a clear glass. Perhaps the exhausted thirst. You don´t want to turn around and show me your face. I do not want neither. I like to keep thinking about you as a mud figure always dancing.

Seagull

Flap your wings and let the wind caress your feathers. Flap your wings and let the wind drive you. Flap your wings and let the wind drag you sometimes. Flap your wings and remember that you have legs to rest onshore. Legs to walk and trip. Legs to scratch and keep the balance.

Remain close to the ocean and explore beyond the cliffs. Swim in the sea and imagine what could be beyond the horizon. Fly together with sparrows and doves, talk with mermaids and seahorses. Feed yourself but not just your stomach. Yell to the turmoil of cities and sleep warmed by the waves.

Flap your wings and dream that it is real. Flap your wings and wake up when there is still no light. Flap your wings and show them that you can travel. Flap your wings and remember who you are.

Serenity

Have you ever thought about being friendly with yourself?

A few weeks ago I broke off. I was worried, among other many things, of being unable to cry and then a simple "hello" on a videocall crushed me. I was embarrassed by the weeping but it was what I needed at that time.

I was really surprised of crying like that. I felt heard and felt the hug in the distance. However, it wasn´t enough. I asked for helped and it came quickly but, stupid of me, decided to get angry because it wasn´t the solution I was looking for... when it was the one I was refusing to hear: be yourself. To be me... myself.

I remembered that I like to be positive and everyone to notice it, I like to be alone at home or walking in Madrid but not to feel alone, I like so much to learn and face new challenges, I like to be a bit clumsy at cooking because it's funnier, I like to study Danish in the mornings, I like to feel brave sometimes despite that I usually describe myself as a coward, I like to start writing notebooks and convince myself that this time it's all going to be clean and tidy although I perfectly know that the chaos will begin on the second page (I don´t like that chaos, I love it).

If I was supposed to be more "me", I had to write again. Yes, of course, I never stopped writing but it wasn´t my decision ("Sin con tacto" and "Los Olivos" are obviously out of that negativism, those are treasures), and even sometimes it wasn´t pleasant at all. And that's a problem. So I decided to get back on my mission as short stories giver.

I knew everything was right when, after thirty minutes lying and with frozen feet, I woke up and desperately searched for a notebook because I had found the main thread of my tale. I had so much fun writing as I remembered, as I thought was forgotten. I knew everything was right when I fought with myself because "to stop" do not have a synonym suitable enough to my needs, for the short story and, now that I'm typing this, I realized that neither for my life.

This is not a self-help speech but an automatically writing of what could be a diary. If I decided to publish it here is because this blog is also my story as an author and a witness of my recovery as it has been so many times before. I sometimes re-read old posts and I even like them...

Self-portrait

A drop is going down the hill, avoiding the river, hesitating to fountains but looking at them in the distance; it tries the imitation game, allowing itself to flow in the mud and, when it's getting closer to the ocean, it stops, carefully, holding each atom against the force of gravity and then... disappears.

A voice discovers its tone, trivialising its pitch and spitting out in silence; is hidden in that northern city of stars without night, to start living in the moon and, when finds the sun that is lighting it, decides to run with a steel case. A new home is that other southern city where it was possible to sing even without a melody. Is a shelter that is carried out by the wind, not a storm but the time going by.

A hand is showing its chapped skin and pats lovingly. The fingers touch broken wings and knit a net above the head. The naked body lies down to dream awake, it covers up the legs with flowery autumns and shakes the sand from that imagined beach where the wood was crackling next to a bunch of marshmallows.