street sense

The streets smell like a combination of cigarettes, fresh cut flowers, dog poop, bus exhaust, roasted nuts, and women´s purfume.

They sound like clicking high heels, whining engines, excited crowds, scuffling shoes, angry horns, laughter, hurried words.

They look like Madrid was dropped into New York City, and their buildings took turns lining up. And then the Madrid-NYC mutt wondered if London might want to join in, and maybe Paris´cafes as well. But that wasn´t good enough, so they asked Minneapolis and Baltimore to work together to form a little neighborhood by the water, and they threw a dash of Sevilla in for good measure. And then they realized they´d almost forgotten Italy and found themselves stumbling over apologies to beg for its pastas, ice cream, mercados and colorful buildings of its northwestern coast.

They feel like fall without the crispness of October or the warmth of September. Like disorganization and sure-footedness, rumbling automobiles and fashion runways, friendship and lonliness.

They taste like chocolate melted in hot milk. Like steaming empanadas filled with meats and cheese. Like strong coffee, flaky croissants, fried potatoes and dulce de leche.

They fill up my senses, every day, with their stink, their chaos, their noise, their words, their steaming concoctions. And I love it.