“Gracias.”
A Spaniard in a wrinkled linen shirt hands me a homemade blueberry tarta de queso popsicle. It is thick and velvety, unlike the watery, generic versions I buy from the grocery store. Little bits of blueberry get caught in my teeth as I wander aimlessly, family in tow, through the warm streets of Madrid. When the treat dissolves, I chew on the remaining stick like a character from a Western movie.
It’s a Sunday, and the main street is closed to traffic so locals can take leisurely strolls under the canopy of trees lining the road. The paved expanse, usually concealed beneath blaring traffic, is now open and serene, almost village-like. Children clutch the hands of their parents, and grandparents push their walkers step-by-step along the pavement. A young girl on rollerblades soars by, totally at the mercy of a slender, fox-like dog that races ahead of her on its leash.
As the sky deepens behind the Palacio Real De Madrid, Spanish countryside green and vast in the background, we ease our pace to watch as the sun's departure transforms the city.
The nightlife spills like a kaleidoscope out of restaurants and onto the streets, and groups of friends exchange colorful drinks, tapas, and conversation. Music playing in dark restaurants and clubs becomes muddled in the open, creating a unique soundtrack just for Madrid.
The nightlife spills like a kaleidoscope out of restaurants and onto the streets, and groups of friends exchange colorful drinks, tapas, and conversation. Music playing in dark restaurants and clubs becomes muddled in the open, creating a unique soundtrack just for Madrid.
Today is my birthday, and we have reservations at a cozy restaurant called The Spanish Farm. I spotted it in passing the day prior, and when we arrive, it is nearly empty. We are served generous portions of meat with few sides and a cheese board of Spanish favorites. For dessert, I order a chocolatey sort of pudding that I will make one of my many excuses to return to Madrid.
The evening is nearing its end, and our waiter, a stocky man named Pedro, brings me a plate with a candle, a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and a chocolate message reading “Happy Birthday.” The music in the restaurant shifts to a birthday tune, and the kitchen staff of three emerge to clap and sing along.
I am surrounded by the friends and family whom I love most in the world, and both surprised and moved by the crew of burly cooks, who created the bonus dessert without being prompted.
The lights are dim and the faces are smiling, and as the candle blinks expectantly in front of me, I wish for nothing else.
The lights are dim and the faces are smiling, and as the candle blinks expectantly in front of me, I wish for nothing else.
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