A traveler walks along an abandoned road. Behind him, Toledo. In front of him, Madrid. Inside of him, the blurry faces of friends made on street corners, the soft-welcoming lights of deserted roads at midnight, and music, so much music.
And you, oh traveler, what do you see as you trudge along? What is inside of you?
In Spain, the gentle murmur of content voices gently flow from the open doors of bright cafés onto sun-drenched streets, and sometimes, you forget that you have responsibilities. For a day only, you say, this café will be yours. Then, because after all you are in Spain, after having only sat for an hour or so, you are swept up and away, going somewhere new. In Spain – after having rambled from cafés to bars to sandlots where old men play petanca every Sunday, you might sit down for a meal, but you’ll probably end up standing in a bar sipping vermouth, feeling very much like a writer from the lost generation, and substituting your dinner for the olives that are served alongside the vermouth. Here, there is not enough time in the day for something as orderly as a sit-down meal.