I ordered a jarra of Cruzcampo at the 100 Montaditos and began to watch, to take it all in.
A black woman, probably African, dark jacket, blue jeans, large 'fro, earphones connected to her phone as she punches away at it, a hooker on Calle Montera, a common sight.
A man in red jacket and sweatpants skips along, erratically hopping to and fro, he zig zags along eventually walking "normally", all the fittings of junkie yearning for a fix.
A construction site, the whirring of saws, the dumping of materials, the clank and bang and ding, a song of destruction and renewal. Supermarket carts outside, presumably gypsies looking to scrape up scraps of metal for some cash or their own projects.
Tourists walk by by the thousands, speaking German, Polish, French, English and a myriad other languages I can't recognize, they traipse along with their kids in tow, with their baby carriages, snapping their smartphones and stopping for glimpses.
Madrileños walk past in blur, construction workers with spotted uniforms, young folks and their H & M duds, lesbian couples nuzzling and kissing as they shuffle past, checking WhatsApp, conversing, the city shifts with a bit of sun and return of cloudy, balmy weather.
Panhandlers carry signs, cartons with messages scrawled asking for change, I say "lo siento" and ignore their gaze, years of New York conditioning.
It doesn't stop, it never does, just as a grain of sand won't remain in the same place for long.
