There was this one sunny afternoon in Spain, Madrid. I’ll never forget it. It was rastro, fleamarket day. The time, 14:00. I’m back there now. 

Many of the vendors are packing up their stalls, some more satisfied than others with the sales of the day. And there I am, wandering the streets—aimlessly. Suddenly, and out of nowhere I am hit as a soldier with a bullet with a deep sense of nostalgia. She, like a canine, head to the floor, following a scented trail, looking up every now and again, straight at you, trying to tell you something. 

Sometimes, she pops up and strangely, you get nostalgic not for the past, but rather for the present. She seems to say, ‘lean in even deeper, be even more here, for you don’t know how much longer you’ll have it’. Maybe this type of nostalgia serves as a reminder that time is precious and finite which is a bittersweet pill to swallow, but I suppose nostalgia never promised to be anything in particular, let alone sweet. That day, she told me, ‘soak it up now, this,’. So I heeded her. 

I savour the cobblestoned streets that wind, wrap and weave lazily through the city. I inhale the wafting, lightly  vermouthed citrus scents and pickled aceitunas. Mentally recording the sonic of people being human: stepping, spitting, speaking, singing, shouting, shuffling…all the sounds that make up the pleasant background noise for a bustling city scene in a play. I try to capture it all, not with flash, but with presence. 

I continue my amble, and as I head up Calle Santa Ana past the ancient churreria stand that’s been making churros and chocolate for years since 1895, a little further where the street meets Calle Ruda and forms a perfect perpendicular intersection, I bump into a crowd that has congregated smack dab in the center around a group playing live music. Music that leaps and delights, twists and twirls, doing flips in the air and then falling on its own two beat.

It’s a glorious collision of hustle and bustle and pulse as some people stop and watch the band, while passersby try to get through the congested, but intimate concert. It’s an orchestra of movement and rhythm. And I’m there, getting to witness it all. Some have a drink in their hand from the bar next door, others have a piti, others have both. This little lady has none, but all are here, gloriously here.

The tunes are absolute alegría and the bounce of the beat calls out all the dancers to jive. Before long, the crowd is swaying and shaking to the music. Slowly, a large van comes up from behind and the mass of people has to part and break like a watermelon being sliced down the middle, but the driver dances too in his seat, not wanting the music to stop just asking permission to get through. Classyness shows up in many forms. 

Next to come onto the scene, is a little old abuela, dancing in time, moving sporadically, having reached an age where she’s free from inhibition and we all cheer her on. I even take her hand and spin her around, showing her off in a favourable light which is hitting the buildings and casting off an alpenglow, tingeing everything more romantic. The air is infused with possibility. 

Sometimes, the best plans are the most spontaneous and unplanned—like this day at the intersection of Santa Ana and Ruda. Nostalgia whispers gently like a light Summer’s breeze, ‘this is what it means to be alive, did you enjoy it? Carpe diem. Carpe diem. Carpe diem…’