Lessons Learned from People Watching
Nestled quietly between two bustling streets in Madrid's liveliest neighborhood, Calle del Tesoro is easy to overlook—until you stop to notice its hidden treasures. Its existence is almost unnoticeable to passersby, save for the vibrant paper flags that hang like laundry across the balcóns, loose shoe strings lacing their way from the top of the hill to the bottom.
This second-thought street gives shelter to an array of characters. It is where I sit each morning, stretching out my spine and listening for the pop-pop-pop of bones as my coffee grows cold. Where, on lazy afternoons, I tune into the faint guitar strums at my diagonal, whose chords pull me out of novels and beg my attention.
The horizon isn’t visible through the cracks in tall buildings, but on fortunate evenings you can find a glimpse of an egg yolk sky.
The street wakes in stages: first, the screech of tin shutters rolling up, revealing dark bars and tired waiters rubbing sleep from their eyes, cigarette smoke curling lazily in the air.
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Then come the terrace drinkers, tossing frutos secos away from their tables to keep pigeons at bay. Slowly, the night swells with laughter, shrieks, and the occasional shattering of wine glasses against the pavement. B-list actors sip beer, basking in the thrill of being half-recognized, while misfits and men without homes gather to sell hand-knit dolls or sing ancient Spanish ballads for coins.
Across from my perch sits a papery woman. Her flowered nightgown flutters in the breeze as she steps out to her balcón, one unsteady foot at a time. Each night, she turns her chair to the east, her crooked back facing the sunset. A small grin plays on her face as she watches a couple stagger down the hill, cigarettes hanging from their lips, glitter clinging to their beards. Her bony knuckles grip her cane, and she rests her chin against the cool steel railing, meditating with the late howls of the night.
Sometimes, though rarely, I see her and another grayed woman leaving the building. They take turns propping each other up against the heavy door, moving with the unhurried ease that comes only with old age. There’s a man in the apartment too, though I’ve never seen him leave—not even to step onto the balcón for a bit of sky. I wonder what he has seen that keeps him inside. The years sift by outside the brownish glow of his little flat. He’s lived through a dictatorship. He’s lived through war. He’s watched the neighborhood change, yet he stays within.
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Fittingly, Tesoro means treasure in Spanish—a name that feels both ironic and perfect for this overlooked, colorful street. I often wonder who took the time to name each street in the city. Who stood at the top of this channel, resting timidly along the edge of the neighborhood, and thought to themselves, treasure?
It's a street one might stumble upon after a wrong turn, only then to take in the layers of color and chaos. Its countless stoops offer refuge to the drunk and the fighters of the night—the ones unwilling to make their way to the metro and into their homes, where exhaustion will inevitably claim them. For the ones battling the comedown, its long fingers press against their throats as they dig keys into tiny baggies in hopes of release. There's a scavenger hunt of secrets hidden here.
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It’s these findings I take in as I read, write, drink, and watch.
Insecure. Insignificant. Alone. Full. Capable.
Their expressions fill my thoughts as I sit here each afternoon and wonder if the reflections before me reveal my future. This small street, the buzzing energy I still don’t quite fit into, the language I still don’t fully understand.
How many others sit here too—swaddled in safety, drawing Xs in the dust, waiting—just like this street—to be discovered.
