I’ve been in Spain only two days, and already my fingers hurt. It’s a prickly, high-pitched sting, like when a fallen-asleep limb returns to life. The sensation delights me. It means I’m doing something right.
Yesterday, after arriving in Madrid, I took the metro to the Delicias neighborhood, home to Picasso’s Guernica (in the Reina Sofia Museum) and the magnificent iron-and-glass Atocha railway station. I didn’t visit those places. Instead, I walked to a nondescript apartment building and knocked on a stranger’s door. A thin, soft-spoken woman with sleepy eyes and floppy bangs invited me in. We chatted a bit, and then she handed me a $3,000 guitar. “Can you play something?” she asked.
This was the reason I’d come to Spain. Because I once believed I was destined to be a tocaora.
(photos by Laura El-Tantawy)
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For breakfast tomorrow, how about a bowl of tangy Greek yogurt topped with fresh apricots, almonds, and a drizzle of local honey? For lunch, how does a peppery arugula salad with cucumbers, radishes, feta, mint, and olives sound? Or a hearty pumpkin soup with . . .