I arrive in Madrid at eight o'clock in the morning. I will only be here a few hours, so it's not worth phoning friends and arranging to see them. I decide to go for a walk alone in my favourite places, and I end up sitting smoking a cigarette on a bench in the Retiro Park.
'You look miles away,' says an old man, joining me on the bench. 'Oh, I'm here,' I say, 'but I'm sitting on this same bench with a painter friend of mine, Anastasio Ranchal, twelve years ago in 1986. We are both watching my wife, Christina, who has had a bit too much to drink and is trying to dance the flamenco.'
'Enjoy your memories,' says the old man. 'But don't forget that memory is like salt: the right amount brings out the flavour in food, too much ruins it. If you live in the past all the time, you'll find yourself with no present to remember.'
'You look miles away,' says an old man, joining me on the bench. 'Oh, I'm here,' I say, 'but I'm sitting on this same bench with a painter friend of mine, Anastasio Ranchal, twelve years ago in 1986. We are both watching my wife, Christina, who has had a bit too much to drink and is trying to dance the flamenco.'
'Enjoy your memories,' says the old man. 'But don't forget that memory is like salt: the right amount brings out the flavour in food, too much ruins it. If you live in the past all the time, you'll find yourself with no present to remember.'
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