The day was dreary, and dark sky, leaden, almost gray, only predicted that the situation would worsen in a few moments, the cold air flowed unchecked through the streets, giving the face and leaving you stiff. Seconds later, the sky Plumbi began to release water. It was raining in Madrid.
The truth is that the day offered few alternatives for pedestrians, it was Sunday morning and the weather I was shaking with water, while air swayed you the first opportunity. Normally, it would have been, in my case, find a library, all of these life-the few that remain, "for the McDonalds and Starbucks, are mercilessly devouring large school premises. Well, what he said. Normal to me, had been doing something, I usually do often get into a bookstore and spend the long hours, surrounded by books and maps, searching and researching until the morning or afternoon feed, or until the close bookseller tired of me hanging around there. Street would then, with a few books of the hand or in a bag, and immediately afterwards I would get a coffee, too, the lifetime-the-left, do not make me repeat what franchising American, please. And assail, including coffee or reeds would touch, the smell and read the first pages, and even the introductions. After weighing their value, being first editions, or to be a volume that has long sought, "finding it hidden behind an encyclopedia of art, in the bottom of a shelf. I'd eat a sandwich on squid, and holy Easter.
But as I said before, it was Sunday, and luckily these libraries, are "as good booksellers, respecting the holidays, and Sundays, closing its doors and spending the day off to do what is good for them cimbrel quit. Therefore, the only solution bibliophile, was to go to Corte Ingles or Fnac. Finally gave up, being surrounded by families who loose children between the shelves, or wait longer tails, for a boy edge, or a pretty face, or vice versa, look up whether or not this or that issue by consulting a computer, while my feet rest on a dirty carpet, and see books that have as much seniority 6 months, I wanted the same as me headers in the ruins of the ancient synagogue of Lavapies.
Asique, I left the High Street, up for bids, dodging the tourists coming down surprised by the English climate, they had caught in shorts and sandals, complaining in their language, bad weather in February Iberian . I figured, while covering my head with a hood, "that also would think we would all go dressed as a bullfighter or civil guard, mustache and cocked hat, and we spent the day drinking wine boot, as we scratch our eggs into pants and criticize until exhaustion in front of the neighbor-clear that something is right -.
When I arrived at the Plaza Mayor, the rain had rages, it seemed we were in the middle of spring rather than winter. The waiters, who picked up a few minutes ago and covered up terraces, again riding a time trial, not to escape the Japanese tour coming up the Arch of Cutlers. The Toledo street painters, returning to deploy all his sketches and cartoons, human statues, the attempt to be certain, "and dressed in superhero types, they returned to their places of work. And in the middle of the square, just away from the statue of King Philip the third, Gianbolognia and Pietro Tacca. Sitting in an old wooden stool, facing the House Bakery, was a man of about fifty, white beard, big nose, like an antique dealer in Istanbul and a wool hat covering her hair the gray.
When I approached him, toward the remodeling market in San Miguel, I could not look at books, but if food and wine ", the accordionist, an old acquaintance of the bullring, and that we are moving there from Portuguese origin, began playing the accordion Yesterday, the Beatles. The accordion sounded pure, its clean sound, show and prove that the musician who was driving an expert, and knew where it went. I stopped a few seconds to listen, recognition, winked, and I put a few coins in the case of the instrument, which lay at his feet.
After this many seconds of contemplation, I went my way, for he began to paint again, and why, and addressed to the statue of the monarch and the accordionist Portuguese, Japanese group, who had managed to outwit the waiters in white jacket , who tried to sit under the huge umbrellas their establishments and regarles bleeding. As I walked out of the square down the street Ciudad Rodrigo, Portugal ended its subject, and the Japanese group, broke into applause with a loud bang. And I, with a half smile on my face, I went to drink a cane, with a top of cod. It's Portuguese.
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