…and alive with just a hint of the smell of shit. And I’m not being facetious or critical!
I knew not the origin (a busted sewage pipe?) but I definitely got a vague whiff of the stuff. And I said to myself, “Wow, this is so great! We’ve not only been saved from another antiseptic corporate experience but allowed to walk down one of those old-fashioned, open-air airport staircases and onto the warm tarmac with the radiant blue sky above, but there’s a vague aroma of poop in the air…very slight but noticable.”
And I said to myself, “Wow, welcome to Adolfo Suarez Madrid-Barajas airport!…I love it! I’m here and alive and tingly inside and not far from a great European city…welcome to organic life on the planet earth!”
If you’ve seen Stephen Frears‘ The Hit (’84) you know all about arid Spanish landscapes…almost no green grass and a lot of sandy brownish typography…hills and patches of pine-tree forests, occasional jutting plateaus and mesas…not as dry as Morocco but leaning in that direction, and certainly no kin to the verdant, well-watered France.
I humbly apologize to the misandrists but a fair-sized portion of the under-45 women I’ve run into here seem a tiny bit hotter than the women from the New York City area…no offense. Strange as this sounds, they actually seem interested in presenting themselves as attractive and fetching. I’m not allowed to use the term “kinda foxy” but it comes to mind regardless. I know this is a terrible thing to notice but I’m not just getting that “good God, don’t even look at me…get outta my life…men are either monsters or pathetic losers or both so fuck off” vibe…sorry.
When I return to Madrid in 15 days I’ll be paying a visit to that high-rise duplex in The Hit…Frears used an apartment inside the Torre de Madrid, which is next to the Edificio España at Plaza de España.
