200. I wonder if I should move to Madrid.
Or maybe I'd go completely crazy again if I did.
It was the thirteenth of June, and I was sitting in a small bar watching my life-long friend play the guitar and sing at his first solo concert. I’ve watched him play since I was fifteen years old, on many different stages. I’ve seen him play Coldplay covers, and I’ve seen him play his band’s own songs that I knew by heart, but this time was different.
I hadn’t seen him in person for six years. University, the pandemic, and then adult life got in the way, but somehow, he’s always remained a part of my life. Some friends disappear off the face of the Earth, while others never drift too far apart, even when the odds aren’t in our favor.
The concert was in Madrid, which meant messaging all of my friends who live there to come. I live in the countryside, and most of my friendships exist through my phone or laptop screen. A lot of the time, being a good friend feels like a full time job. My WhatsApp is never just a green square, it always has that little red bubble stuck to it. I rarely open the app and see that I’m caught up. I spend so much time thinking about birthdays, panicking that I’ve forgotten one, or trying to catch up, replying to messages, sending photos that remind me of someone, scheduling calls, listening to voice notes, and sharing updates from my own life. I feel like I’m always behind, chasing everyone and still failing. Luckily, some friends make it easy for me and call me randomly, knowing that if I haven’t reached out, it’s because I’m swamped. Others are even worse than me. And honestly, I can’t blame them either.
As soon as I stepped foot in Atocha, in Madrid, I felt like I was at home. There are so many corners of the city where parts of my life and memories live. I know exactly how to exit the train station and walk straight to Martín Tostador. I know how to get to Carlota’s house without Google Maps, and I know where my favourite bookshop, Parent(h)esis, is. I automatically feel bigger when I’m there, walking with my chest lifted, because I feel open and safe. Madrid, to me, always feels like a city where everyone is your friend. There is this kind and joyful atmosphere, the terraces full of people, friends chilling in parks, crowded coffee shops, and the Feria del Libro filled with bookworms. People throw themselves into the streets, and the city feels welcoming and social.
When I heard the concert would be on Calle Pez, I felt a hum in my bones, because that street lives on my mental map and it’s full of memories. It’s close to where I first met Isa with Gema, where we stayed as a family to surprise Tato for his birthday, where I grabbed a cold brew to-go every morning, where I sat and had drinks with Ana, and where I’d be reunited with all of my friends this time around.
I’m lucky enough to visit Madrid and see ninety percent of my friends in one place. My travel plans usually turn into a mission to see every single one of them before I leave, and I end up with a packed schedule of coffees, lunches, dinners, breakfasts, walks, and catch ups. It’s intense, and it’s a lot, but it’s the one place that truly fills my social battery.
I’m an introvert, and I need alone time to recharge, but in Madrid it’s always the other way around. The more people I see, the more I walk its streets, the more plans I make, the more alive I feel. Madrid does something to me in the best way, even if I don’t fully understand it.
I made the mistake of not writing this text while I was still there, and now it feels so far away it’s almost impossible to tap back into everything I was feeling. I knew this would happen, so I wrote down the main theme in my notebook, but it’s not the same.
When I was in Madrid, I felt this constant buzz, a push and pull, a hum in my bones. It was electric. I had tapped into a higher vibration, and everything felt right. Now I’m back home, trying hard to replay the conversations and moments that inspired this text, trying to get back to where I was, but I can’t quite reach it.
The memory I have saved as a core moment, the one I’m holding on to in hopes of translating it for you, was of me sitting on a tiny stool in the front row of the concert, right in front of my friend. I pictured myself connected to all my friends scattered around the room by red strings. I was connected to Gus, right in front of me with the guitar, to Jesús, Iris, and Into with three strings to my right, and to Dora, Carlota, and Júlia on my left. Two more strings stretched all the way to the back of the room, where Juandi and Cecilia were sitting. I felt in balance, being pulled in every direction at once, safe and steady. No matter which way I looked, I saw someone I care about. It’s a feeling I rarely get to experience where I live. All these people had gathered in the same room, at the same time, and I was lucky enough to know them and love them all.
The second idea that sparked this text was a conversation I had with Iris and Lau at Iris’s house. I had only just met Lau, but within five minutes, I felt like she could easily be one of my friends. Madrid does this to me: It introduces me to people I’ve never met, and somehow, I feel like I’ve known them forever. Maybe that’s part of why I love it so much. Anyway, Lau shared this metaphor. I can’t remember the exact words and I wrote down a rough idea, but it was that some people are the legs of our chairs, others are the legs of the table. They give us stability, and we need them close and steady because everything rests on them. Then we realised that some people belong to chairs we’ve tucked away in storage, chairs we don’t use every day but keep safe for special occasions or when the timing is right. That’s exactly what happened at the concert. I hadn’t seen some of those people for over seven years, but I still cared for them deeply, and seeing them again made my day. They are still the legs of my chairs, even if those chairs aren’t around my kitchen table right now. Knowing I’m keeping them safe for when the time is right felt special. It reminded me how lucky we are to reconnect with people from our past, to catch up and wish them well, fully and sincerely.
One of the sentences I have stored in a special place in my mind is something Dora whispered to me in the middle of that dark bar. “Tu sonrisa es como la de una niña viendo a los Reyes Magos.” And she was right. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world, standing in a tiny bar, in the city that holds so many people I love so deeply.
I could never fully write what being in Madrid feels like, but maybe I don’t have to.
- - Me encanta cómo ve Gala el mundo, pero este texto me ha parecido un verdadero 10/10 y si eres paid sub, vas a tener acceso a herramientas que me ha costado años aprender y encontrar por mí cuenta.
- - Esta carta es la que más ilusión me ha hecho recibir esta semana en mi buzón porque le echaba tantísimo de menos por aquí y no sé yo, pero cartas de verano número uno suena a que quizás haya alguno más… Ojalá. Welcome back amiga <3
Introducción: apuntes de cosas bellas de
- “Llevo toda la vida persiguiendo cosas bonitas: portadas de libros, carteles de cine, la ropa que utilizo, comidas coloridas.” y qué suerte poder ver todas las cosas que le parecen bellas a Teresa.- - It’s no secret que soy muy fan, Leticia + libros es un plan perfecto y sus recomendaciones son geniales. El libro de Las hijas horribles lleva meses (muchos) persiguiéndome, pero los mommy issues pertenecen a una herida enorme, quizás sea hora de leerlo.
El jardinero de las flores mágicas de
- Qué belleza de texto, el aura de Meri siempre está presente en tus textos, pero en este caso quizás sea el de su tío. Precioso <3Elena Ferrante: Un mal nombre de
- y yo tenemos un podcast y eso de que “está feo que lo diga yo pero…” lo cambio directamente por: nuestro podcast es muy guay así que suscríbete para recibir cada mes el aviso de que ya está publicado + vídeos + referencias + cosas guays. Este mes hablamos de Elena Ferrante.
😍 bonita mía qué ilusión
200 posts!!! Crack