Out doing errands this morning, I'm walking down a side street, the air mild and fresh after the recent days of rain. A quiet street, both residential and commercial in nature, buildings stretching upward in several floors of pisos, the street level featuring some small shops and restaurants. I'm almost at the corner, ready to step out into a bit of sunlight and head off to the right, toward the local bakery for an excellent baguette, a sandwich, maybe one or two other items. A splash of yellow catches my eye, I look across the street to see a narrow storefront I've never noticed. New, it seems to me, a place I don't recall seeing before. A big, goofy papier mache sun hangs halfway up the rear of the small display window, shining down on a quirky, hand-made scene of what appears to be a busy neighborhood. In the uppermost part of the storefront, the business's name curls around in big, friendly, sprawling letters, spelling out SR. GOMA -- La Condonería de Madrid [MR. RUBBER -- Madrid's Condom Shop]. (I am NOT making that up.)
I cross the street to check out the display, I find myself gazing at a small, cheery barrio, just as it appeared to be from across the street. Several apartment buildings stand shoulder to shoulder along the rear, a few miniature stories high, windows and balcones looking out over a hand-painted two-lane street on which three or four cars are planted, all convertibles, their drivers happily in transit to carefree places, driving in safe, relaxed, orderly fashion. Two cheery people stand at the far side of a crosswalk, waiting for the light. Along the front of the display are three small patches of green -- one a park with a tiny bench, the one in the center featuring a fountain, the third a teensy pond, surrounded by minuscule flowering bushes. Parked off at one end of the street stands a truck, one of those hefty concrete-mixer type buggers, hinting at the kind of ubiquitous activity one encounters in this hopping, full-sized barrio I live in, Chueca.
This cheerful, midget-sized scene is dotted with denizens of the mini-neighborhood, each resident made from a condom packet of square, various-colored foil wrappers, one sporting dreadlocks, all suggesting a happy multicultural community. Littlel bitty condom people with arms ending in white Disney-esque gloves, legs ending in rounded black shoes. All frozen in easygoing postures, singly or in pairs.
A sandwich and a baguette waited patiently at the bakery to come home with me, so I didn't linger, didn't go inside Señor Goma's joint to check out the wares. Maybe another time.