Madriz is a gorgeous place full of gorgeous people who don’t know my name. I go on long walks here, as I have done for a thousand lifetimes and will do for a thousand more. There are rose gardens and a suicide bridge and clouds the likes of which I haven’t lived under for some time. What a wonderful place to fall in love. The singer-songwriter on the metro requested no videos, please.
“You know, a flower is so beautiful to look at. But when you pick it, it becomes a thing and it dies. I don’t want to be a thing.”
Gracias, compadres. He retrieved a bottle of honey from his bag and took a swig.
The metro at 10 PM on a Tuesday is a tired place to decompress, an unlikely place to chuckle with a man who has honey in his throat.
Yes, it is Tuesday night. Yes, I am writing about the metro again. Yes, I am still young and Irish enough to revel in the absurd, to feel human and happy in a big metal tube.
And I hope you are, too.
Good night and good travels,