In Madrid

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Plaza Mayor. Madrid.
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I said it and I repeat it: travel diaries are not my thing. It’s the fifth day of the supreme goal and here I am, writing for the first time so far…

Anyway, Madrid rocks! My reconciliation with the Mother Homeland (after the infamous theft of my Brazilian dream guy by a Spanish girl) is complete.

I did it my way. El Retiro, Madrid.

I did it my way. El Retiro, Madrid.

This is time to declare, once again, that I have NO flag. Let’s face it: Costa Rica is an eco-greenly successful country and whatever you want, but San Jose must be one of the worst cities that decorate this God’s world map.

To say otherwise is to defend the indefensible. San Jose is a dead city. DEAD. And what can you expect of that urban stinking corpse? When, in San Jose, can you find lots of cars and people walking on the sidewalks, and buses that run at 3 am in the heart of the city? When? Anyone who has had the experience of eating tapas in a tiny, crowded bar, everyone standing drinking their wine or their cañita, listening to flamenco rumba, with the Rastro flea market next to you, and dare to say that it is better to go to a soda and just sit there, watching all the time if among the crowd in the Mayoreo market appears a hand with thieves intentions, while listening to Mario McGregor recite an ode to a football match between Carmelita and Santos… Come on, dude!

Tapas! Flamenco Rumba, everyone standing and drinking. Spanish prototype ...

Tapas! Flamenco Rumba, everyone standing and drinking. Spanish prototype …

The truth is that, indeed, we should organize something like the day of  “take back the streets”.  All the honest people in San Jose would go out (I have full confidence that we are the majority, even when The Extra newspaper tries to scare us) and we would take back the parks late at night, we would use the buses to go out until the sun rises and we would declare that San Jose is ours again, no fear, no criminals, no tabloids.

What a BEAUTIFUL feeling is to be free of fear… Because San Jose is mine. It’s ours. And we DO NOT enjoy it. Let’s take the parks as an example. I love Spain Park and Morazán Park and I’d love to sit down there on a cold December night, just to talk to a friend and share a cigarette, watching the sky after having dinner…

BUT NO! These parks belong to a minority that survives at the expense of others. These parks are theirs and after a certain hour, you can’t go unless you are willing to pay the price, which is measured in Ipods, cell phones or watches that you can carry that night so they can steal them from you. It’s so depressing that the city is not yours…

Plaza Mayor. Madrid.

Plaza Mayor. Madrid.

But here, in Madrid, they allowed me to go in. Last night I walked around socializing: I met Miguel, a friend whom I haven’t seen in 11 years, and then I went to visit some vegan guys (there will be a chapter about them, because it was quite a Dadaist experience). I returned to Fernando’s place, my couchsurfer, at 11.30 pm, by myself, without fear, using public transportation. It has been a while since I was able to do that without being paranoid of urban legends…

So I can only say: THANKS MADRID! This is FUCKING AWESOME!

PLEASE NOTE: English is not my mother tongue! These ones are rough translations from
the original Spanish version Sobre el caballito.Sorry about the mistakes!
😉

Do you like the rocking horse? Then, down here you have 3 ways to support it to keep rocking. I'll thank you forever for 1 (or even better for the 3 of them):

1. Follow the rocking horse on or on

Or:

2. If you feel extra-super-nice today and you have at least an extra dollar this month:


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3. Or maybe you would like as well to...


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