Bienvenidos a Madrid

The time between landing at the airport and the arrival of the course coordinator, Paco, who is also our ride to the hotel, is four hours. After two hours, I have eaten a chocolate croissant, consumed what I imagine will be one of many cafes con leche, and written some postcards.

Note: autocorrect tried to make “croissant” into “Crosby.” Autocorrect knows it’s gameday. Oddly enough, “gameday” tried to be “Hammerfest.” Not sure what that’s about, but I’ll take it as a good omen.

I am saying “we” at this point because there will be multiple people getting the same ride, but I don’t yet know who they are. It’s entirely possible that they’re sitting in this same airport cafe.

I go on trips with high hopes for things like postcard-writing, but I have a whole box of cards that I’ve brought home from dozens of places. So, provided I can locate some stamps, I’m ahead of my usual game.

The same goes for journaling and so on. What I intend to be a neat record of what I have seen and what I thought about it becomes a tangle of stray lines and story openings, so much of what isn’t strewn between what is. But that is largely the point of the notebook this time.

(The notebook, for those of you who care about such things, is an unlined Clairefontaine, and I’m sad to be just using rollerball pens in it, but I didn’t want to worry about fountain pen refills on this trip. The unlined paper suggests another kind of hope, like I might draw something, which is a thing I used to do.)

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