I would like to say thank you for these past three weeks. It's really been a wild ride old girl. We danced in the streets, walked for hours, stood jaw-dropped at eloquent masterpieces, peered from the sides of mountains, and ate till our stomachs could hold no more. We talked for hours without saying a word. We laughed. We cried. We embraced life.
Oh Madrid, I must declare before I depart that this last week has really made me love you. After all the excitement of the first two weeks, I like to think I used these last few days to show you my sensitive side and to express this love. I went to your Basilica de San Francisco and crooned over your enormous frescoes. It may be the fourth biggest by the world's standards but it will always be the absolute biggest to us. When I bowed my head to pray, I swear I heard you whisper to me that all is well and will be well forevermore. A bold promise that only you are capable of keeping.
I dined at your Cafe Commercial, a haunt of the writers and artists that use you as their muse. I, too, must say I felt the inspiration as I ate your calamari, sipped your coffee, and enjoyed the views of fellow writers looking for a story. How selfless, Lady Madrid, we use and abuse you for inspiration and you ask nothing in return.
I ambled, as I have many a night since being here, in your center. I moved with the people like blood towards your heart; your streets serving as arteries. I felt as a part of your body. I felt your boundless energy with your street performers and post twilight dinners, your pride with your majestic buildings, town halls, guards, statues, fountains, festivals, and fairs, your appetite with your gourmet paella, cocido, jamon, salmorejole, churros, and tapas concoctions, your love with your romancing couples in the park and your passion for living, and your intellect with your monumental museums chalk full of nautical, artistic, architectural, and societal innovations.
Oh Madrid, you took me out to dinner on my last night. You took me to the oldest restaurant in the world. You treated me just as you did Hemingway years ago to the roast suckling pig. And I felt like the old bastard as I listened to the hum of the vibrant crowd and the acoustic music emanating from upstairs. I sat in a hobbit hole of a cellar that has been used for the purposes of fine dining for nearly 300 years. I was astonished at the brisk movements of the bow-tied waiters as they navigated though said tight space. It was here in this solitary cellar, in the bowels of Madrid, that I felt how hard it would be to leave you. And in the same moment I became so glad that you were a part of my life for however brief a time.
I realize, Madrid, that I don't own you. You belong to everyone. You will stand for centuries providing the same passion for life to others as you provided me. And as I leave you today Madrid, I know that not only was I a part of you, but that you will always be a part of me.
Yours Truly,
Bryan Anthony McIntyre
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