I first visited Madrid in the summer of 1998.  Flying into Paris, I had traveled north to the Netherlands where I attended a conference in Groningen.  Following that, I traveled back to Paris on the Thalys from Amsterdam. My freind Joel —my traveling partner for a number of years— met me there and after a few days of wandering around we traveled by train to Spain.  We went first to San Sebastián, in the Basque country, and then on to Bilbao then Barcelona.  From Barcelona we took the overnight train to Madrid. 

It was early June and the summer heat had not reached its maximum.  But it was still hot.  And compared with Barcelona, Madrid was a hot, stifling, backwater city that didn’t leave much of an impression. 

I was glad I had visited, but it wasn’t going to be on my list of places to see again.  Been there, done that.

I was back in 1999 for the presentation of a literary anthology where a story of mine was included.  That second visit was vastly different.  I discovered that Madrid is best experienced at night: in its bars, its pubs, its clubs, its streets. 

But still, it was a city that really didn’t grab me.

I’ve written about my relationship with this city on this blog, check out the archive.  Here’s one in particular, “Gato no naces.”

In the years that I’ve been traveling to Madrid, I grew to consider that city as a type of home, one of my many homes in the list of places where I’ve passed through.  My friends there joke that in reality I live in Madrid and only occasionally commute across the Atlantic. 

For a number of years it felt that way, to the point that when it came time to leave, I never felt like I was leaving.  I was merely stepping out for a bit.  Then I would be back, walking the streets of Madrid with Diego, hanging with Inma, attending events at the Casa de America, meeting friends in bars and at terrazas. 

My last day in Madrid began at 1 am, when I got off the train from Valencia.  At Atocha station, in the arrivals hall, there is a gigantic baby’s head.  In my tired state from a mad weekend rush to the beach, the head staring off into the distance at 1 am was unsettling. 

After a few hours of sleep I was walking down to a café to meet Edmundo who was due to leave that afternoon.  We sat around drinking coffee, talking and reading before heading over to a nearby bookstore.  I wanted to buy Murakami’s Norwegian Wood (I really like the British Vintage editions of his work) and a collection of essays that Edmundo co-edited on Roberto Bolaño, Bolaño salvaje.  The bookstore had neither and I figured I woudn’t have time to look anywhere else.

Walking back up to Chamberí, listening to the National’s “Apartment Story” I began to think about this being my last day in Madrid.  Before, I always knew when I would be back.  But at that moment, I had no plans for return. 

In the early evening I was in the downtown area, taking photos and  walking around.  I was able to pick up the books  I wanted at the FNAC and then I raced over to Diego’s to see Edmundo off again.  His airline company had cancelled his noon flight and placed him on the midnight flight.  We joked that Madrid wasn’t going to let him leave so easily.

Riding the metro I watched the people around me.  The changing face of Madrid.  A man sang a bolero quietly.  A Dominican woman played a game on her cell phone.  A punk rocker leaned back in his seat. 

Later, lying beside I on her bed, I listened to the sounds of the city from outside, trying to record them to my memory: the wind, the neighbors talking, the windows closing or opening, the occasional siren. 

In the morning, the taxi driver asked me if I was going off to take my vacation, “¿se va de vacaciones ya?”  I responded yes.  Off to take my August vacation.  I didn’t continue the conversation.

When the jet lifted off into the sky, I closed my eyes and did not look out the window at the city I was leaving.