Sunday Morning

Plaza Mayor stands proud in the early autumn morning and gives a formal salutation to each of the bustling map holders that scampers across its cobblestones. But none of them seem to hear it. Instead, they concern themselves with their guidebooks, stiff poses for the camera and trying to figure out which archway they entered and which one they're supposed to exit in order to... see... the next sight on their schedule without losing time and accidentally straying from their direct route.

I look around at all the map holders as I walk slowly, deliberately. A crumb from my chocolate croissant is still on my lower lip. I lick it off and take a sip of my steaming chai that's been doing a better job than mittens at warming my hands for the past few blocks. I glance up at the pastel fresco and notice how it glimmers slightly.

"Good morning to you, too, Plaza!" I whisper with a sneaky grin on my face. The Plaza says nothing in return, but I feel its walls embrace me ever so slightly. I continue on until I reach the archway leading to Calle Toledo when my feet suddenly stop. Failing to tell the rest of my body of their plan, my torso sways and my arm not holding my chai throws itself in a full circle before my body regains its balance.

There, through that archway, is a scene so picturesque that it would put Monet and Sargent to shame.

Chorizo scented smoke gracefully swirls around me, enveloping me in a white cloud of Spanish charcuterie tradition. A pudgy fellow with a dark moustache (and a hat and suspenders to match!) plays a dusty accordion from which flows the richest, most authentically European soundtrack imaginable. The sun peeks through the clouds in that moment, illuminating all of the terrace cafes that line the street.

People in light sweaters fill the terrace chairs and leisurely sip their coffee while chatting causally and warmly with their favorite companion or two. Their Sunday Morning companion(s). See, because Sunday mornings have a coziness and authenticity about them. On Sunday mornings, society does not ask you to be anybody but your wonderful-lazy-messy-bun self. And so Sunday Morning companions are intrinsically the crème de la crème of your social circle. The people who love you for you. The people who you would get out of bed (or not) on a Sunday morning for...

A change in the accordionist's song brings me out of my daydream and I smile as I take in the scene one last time. I whisper to myself, then.

"This is real. This is your life. Sometimes I don't even remember how you got us here, but thank you. Seriously."

And I glance behind myself and give a goodbye nod to the Plaza before beginning down the steps, eager to get to the Rastro and browse the antique shops for typewriters.