A Temporary Sunday Afternoon.

In July 1977, I arrived in Madrid to learn Spanish. Before GPS, I had to inquire to find the hotel. Entering a bar, I asked first the bartender, then a lone person, but he wasn’t helpful. I didn’t realize it was Salvador Dali until I got out in the sun again, then it struck me. I never found my hotel but eventually picked one I liked. I stayed in Madrid for three months, a city I much later came to love profoundly. But that is a different story.   

Here is my journey. Please enjoy the trip with me.

A Temporary Sunday Afternoon.

By Jon Erii, 2016

In July's embrace, I journeyed young,

Nuremberg to Madrid, my trail begun,

Hoping to grasp the Spanish tongue,

In my car I drove beneath the sun.

Through hours of travel, in July's domain,

In Lloret del Mar, a pause I ordained,

I knew she was there on vacation reign,

Sea, soft sand, sun, and nightly gain.

Amazing youthful days, beauty, and grace,

When young, living is a temporary stage.

Roads meandered, and mountains passed,

Vineyards, monasteries with time amassed.

Madrid at last, in post-Franco's sway,

Then, dull and somber in July's display.

Joyous people are in the streets of today,

Perfecting the art of living in their way.

I was lost in search, sans GPS or guide,

At a small plaza's silence, I did abide,

A timeless hush, quiet El Greco skies,

Fate nudged me to a grand disguise.

The unknown façade of elegance aged,

It’s hard to confess - my ignorance caged.

Apparently oblivious to history's page,

Or deceased by youth sparkling race.

Carmen's tale sprung from palace lore,

Now at the Hotel Reina Victoria's door,

Bullfighters revered, lay within its core,

Before bulls kneeling, to gore no more.

Hemingway, Picasso, names renowned,

At my Plaza Santa Ana, they had found

Inspiration and solace in its surround,

Life's tapestry they shaped astound.

Yet solitude, Salvador Dali might prefer,

Avoiding the bullfights', it’s fervent stir,

A Catalan of heart, maybe a choice demur,

The heat of July in Madrid, that’s for sure.

The bar lay in darkness, shades of brown,

Wooden elegance, and the fan's soft sound,

Cigar smoke's haze, glasses clinging around,

A Sunday afternoon on Spain’s playground.

Approaching the figures in that place,

Asking the bartender, a linguistic chase,

Turning to a mustache, a unique face,

He brushed me aside in that idle space.

Ignorance mine to disrupt Dali's scene,

Savoring his brandy in a languid sheen,

Madrid's July is but a transient dream,

In a temporary Sunday's fleeting regime.