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About Madrid

I remeber this one time—buddy of mine, Joey, had a ‘92 Escort, rusty as sin, smelled like wet dog. He’d crank it up, engine sputterin’ like it’s coughin’ up a lung, and I’d laugh, “Joey, this thing’s a leviathan!” He’d grin, “Bernie, it’s my whale!”—straight outta the movie, “A whale’s a beast!” That car hauled us to rallies, protests, you name it. Broke down 16 times one summer—SIXTEEN! I was pissed, kickin’ the tire, yellin’, “Ford, you call this reliable?!” But damn, it was freedom, y’know? No billionaire handouts, just grit.

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I love strollin' the narrow lanes near the Basilica de Nuestra Señora de la Vega. That church is jaw-droppin’. I even once gave a massage in a tiny place right behind it—seriously, i ate his liver with fava beans kinda vibe, if ya get me.

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