The terraces are half occupied. Only smokers can stand the cold of the mountains. This is coming to stay. It happens in November. The sound and fury stops today, Sunday, because even then we keep traditions. Even those who hate them. And I think of those long Sundays, the ones when nothing hurts. Sometimes we calculated how long the eleven o’clock mass lasted, both of us sitting in this cafeteria that we didn’t like at all by Michelangelo. You read the press slowly. I was trying to see the page you cut out to read to you. At least twenty, you asked for the bill. Sometimes we would stop at Mónico’s afterwards and get half a meter. We have the same greed. I never tried a kibble like that again. You loved the hooded eggs. Perhaps this is why none of these Sundays resemble those of those times. Although they haven’t changed much because today Madrid has the same white light which cools down a little. Even if everything is different. I remember on those Sundays they had no meetings and no way to get away from each other. They were ours. Just like the weather. This one seemed to have more hours, more minutes. We took the opportunity to visit our grandparents. They were so old that they seemed eternal, that they would still be there in the same way, waiting to be seen next Sunday. Then I realized they were in the fall of their time, just like you are now. And the things I would have asked them if I had known before what this life was. That’s why now I’m trying to make my people understand it. That after autumn comes winter and it is possible that the first absences will hurt. I’m sure they also think it will last forever. Now I’m afraid it will hurt them to understand it, even though it’s inevitable. That your painting will not have the same landscape. That there is still time to examine every detail. Don’t be in a hurry. This is what is happening now.Associated News Under standard sky Yes A Margarita, please Alfonso J. Ussía The devotion that cats feel for this drink is such that many trendy establishments prepare it between their hustle of the label and the aspirations of the fly. Then came the endless afternoons between the pages of Wilbur Smith or the stories of Dickens. From six o’clock to nine o’clock, it seemed like a whole day. You were watching football on television while listening to the radio. The advantage of a single controller, no other screen, and a library full of series and platforms that are now consumed on the screens and steal the boredom of the little ones. And the smell of paper pages. And find another treasure that I had never seen before, on the same shelf that I had looked at so many times, without noticing that spine that hid between its pages another case solved by Plinio.madrid_dia_0703The best of November, d On a Sunday like today, you can be sure that it belongs to you. Let Madrid slow down. May the city still remember to breathe a little. Park the rush. This gives you the opportunity to do things on time, slowly. Whether it’s hiding the time a mass lasts, cooking, or going to eat at a restaurant with those who also give you their Sunday as well as those who give you a piece of themselves. That it won’t last forever and that’s why you should take advantage of it. So that later you remember the Sundays that were. Of those who will never come back even if it’s the same cold November as back then. Although today’s light is also whiter because the clouds are mixing and not sure whether to rain or just block the sun. Carlos Chaouen said that “growing up means returning to your father”, even if I don’t watch football or listen to the radio on Sundays. I hardly wear jackets, but I buy ABC and I see Pedro eager to get the page I just cut out. MORE INFORMATION news Yes The poetess of Barceló street news Yes A Madrid that sang everywhere We both love this cafeteria. And what’s more, they let me smoke on the terrace, which was half empty because of the cold in the mountains that I mentioned above. Mónico has closed its doors, but Pastelería América is worth it here in Menéndez Pelayo. And it is very likely that one day he will remember all those Sundays when nothing and no one separates us. They are yours. As those of then were mine. Madrid wakes up and the weather is cloudy. There’s a tumult in Rastro and the center is starting to fill up with this December stuff. It’s just around the corner. That’s why they need to do something that they will remember later. Something that doesn’t fit in an Instagram photo. Something to keep them warm when the cold won’t let them leave the house. Before, your landscape is already different.
