Summer in the city

The plaza mayor was packed with people last night. The city was putting on a free classical music concert directed by Daniel Barenboim. Dan, Fran, Eva and I arrived over an hour early, but even that was too late and the seats were all taken. So we sat uncomfortably on the ground, squashed amidst the throngs of music lovers and tourists who had come to the Plaza in hopes of catching a glimmer of genius. Once the music began, the hypnotic effect of musicians in the ecstasy of performance held us in its sway. I was automatically in love with every woman on stage and feeling bonds of kinship with every man. And somehow, the warm cobblestone under my sore backside was easily ignored as waves of music rolled into the audience.

It is amazing how long the ground remains warm after a day of the sun's hot abuse; long after the evening goes dark. As I sat there on the warm stone, I was reminded of last summer, one night at camp in which I lay on the basketball court. Using its retained heat to keep away Burgos' nighttime chill, I gazed up at the stars for quite some time. The same was not possible last night, as the nighttime sky, bullied by city lights, kept its stars well hidden. Instead, as the orchestra played through Haydn's concert in B flat, I let my eyes trail across the scene around me. The plaza was as dark as a city center can be when it is bathed in lamplight. I love Madrid's downtown lamps; washing its stone walls in orange, light and stone giving the scene the appearance of a timeless sepia photograph.

Momentarily trapped in the past, I gazed up at the balconies that go around the plaza. For a moment, I wished I lived in one of the apartments that look down into the city square. Envious, I watched as the their residents looked down on the concert below. Different lifestyles were evident, even from the ground. Lights from one house revealed one snazzy group of onlookers holding wine glasses, as if dressed for the symphonic occasion. Next door, a couple sat by the window in the dark. Up above the windows, a few bohemians had climbed out their attic windows and sat on the rooftops, smoking and passively reclining on the slate tiles.