Night life in Madrid
This place is so crammed I can barely find a place to stand. I post up wedged in between an old lady in a floor length fur coat and fuchsia lipstick, bocadillo of ham in one overly-ringed, fleshless hand. On my other side is a group of college-aged Spanish suburbanites shouting wordlessly to the tune of “Seven Nation Army” and spilling their dobles on the napkin-littered floor. Pablo dropped his sandwich and is mocked. It’s not quite 4 pm. The walls are lined with colorfully-wrapped ham legs. I suspect at least the uppermost level must be papier-mache (how could this much ham exist in the world?) and the barmen are grizzled and in clean crisp uniforms of starched collars and red and blue vests. Two out of four have a gold medallion of some version of the virgin Mary nestled in wiry chest hair.
The food is cheap and decent. The…
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I left my heart in London 10 years ago and I haven’t tried to get it back. I’ve been there so many times between then and now I could practically naturalize myself, but immigration law doesn’t work that way. I have unattainable loves there who I yearn for but never want to end up with; they aren’t the kind you’d want to keep even if you could, and you can’t. I have grand visions of fantastic life and vibrant joy and whiskey sex and parties and black poetry. I’ve lived it in small spurts always peppered in between long blocks of confused idolatry of inconsistent men and jobs of small responsibility and even smaller consequence.
I’ve drunk a lot of bad gin waiting.
Now I’m back in Madrid. The…
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