Sunday morning in Madrid. Diffuse sunlight, a blue sky dimmed by high, hazy clouds. Everything quiet.
Went out to an ATM, found the streets nearly empty (normal on a Sunday a.m.). Stopped in at a neighborhood joint for a quick espresso. On the way back, the forlorn look of the wall across the street caught my eye, I stopped to glance at it. I confess, I miss the old back and forth between the poster pasters and the city cleaning crews, the poster/no poster two-step. I miss the constantly changing array of album ads, concert lists and cryptic, unclassifiable images, all the colors and images, spanning the entire spectrum of taste from sophisticated and subtle to cheesy as all get-out. Right now, except for the handful of posters off at one end, the wall is an unsightly expanse of old poster fragments and faded, splotchy gray paint. Way attractive. In the lot behind the wall, the sumac trees -- one a full four and a half stories tall -- are in full foliage, providing a graceful bit of green.