The Bent Page

There I was in Madrid, Spain, hankering for my Coca-Cola. I could have taken one from the fridge in my room. The place where I stay knows me well and always provides a fresh stock of my favorite beverage. But that wouldn’t put me in the thrall of the city. I didn’t have to venture very far. Diagonally across the street from my door was this little market.

The people working there might have been straight from central casting. There was a husband and wife team, both about five feet tall and exhibiting that charming helpfulness that makes every visit to the store a joy. It took them two tries to peg me as American. They quickly begged forgiveness for the graffiti on the wall outside their store. I told them it meant nothing to me, that I was in search of an ice-cold Coca-Cola. Still, they were ashamed that someone had defiled their corner. They didn’t want me or any other visitors to get the impression that their neighborhood was full of bad people. I said in my shabby Spanish that this is one of the nicest neighborhoods in all of Madrid. They agreed but shook a fist at some kids who needed a lesson or two. I purchased the Coke, a few small items, and took my leave.

Those shopkeepers are a declining breed, not only in Spain but the world over. They’re the ones who will chat with you, take an interest in the neighborhood, and tell you to ask for their friend, who on their recommendation, will treat you like family at a local restaurant. Patronize them whenever you can. It’s a genuine experience that makes a trip memorable.

As always, ENJOY! Coca-Cola ICE COLD.