(A tribute to the city equally artistic in its well-lit galleries and on its darkest streets)
Sometimes I like to think of Madrid as a broke bohemian. A self-taught musician possessing nothing but a second-hand guitar and an endless love for singing in the streets. A colorblind painter and a bold thief who would rob a gallery and spill its contents right in the heart of the city. A forgetful poet who never brings a notebook along and rather scribbles down his thoughts on the pages of the city – on its pavements, on its buildings, even on its skies…
Rumor has it Madrid is generous with his words. A friend of Orwell, Hemingway and Lorca, he would feed his guests with the sweetest sentences ever written, the kind that melts in your mouth, and would not let them leave until they are so full that they can barely move. So full that they almost feel pregnant with beauty.
Sometimes I like to think of Madrid as the city I am destined to marry… Yes, I do.