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photograph courtesy of david_fisher
There’s a bar across the street from our apartment in Madrid. The joint serves chicken, though we’d never order it. It’s the only bar on the street open late—by which we mean through the night.
In the wee hours, lurking locals duck under its half-closed garage door, emerging moments later.
It’s a safe bet that their orders don’t have anything to do with chicken.
We don’t mind though because every so often, the pony-tailed Gypsy owner hosts a wedding party, a birthday party, or, as in last night’s case, a bachelor party.
On party nights, we don’t sleep. The parties flow out of the bar. The narrow street we call home plays venue to the best Flamenco tablao in the city. And we have box seats.
The offbeat stomping, half-tempo clapping, raspy masculine voice, and a guitar that jumps cords like Paco de Lucia all beat the hell out of counting sheep.