Only the rustle of my feet the way he drew, just lit by a poor electrical light yellow and far from the street. The trees were putting sidewalks around me, revealing the small, low houses with red roofs facades bicolor, as a hat without style. Behind their unequal sizes sticking (and at that time some buildings could not be very high standards as the circulation area of the time did not permit it) and still-closed-eyed Cyclops by drunken sleep. As I approached the bus stop is humanized space, finding a travel companion (at least stop) of those who did not know their names but his gait, his clothes and his gestures and of course, your next destination. From this moment, I would fear leaving the warmth and color of the a colaa bus invited me to recognize a part of the journey this vehicle lost its front a limited visual perspective. With good morning and a Please go appropriations by standing at the collector's delanteraa opened a path different from the feet.
The bus then left the village, accompanying the railway line until the next population, Vicalvaro (today by the dynamics of segregation capital district of Madrid), had a path parallel to the road. On both sides of it, and even at night, were distinguished factories and warehouses, each having a common shadow: the utility poles on those small bottles of white porcelain or glass English green. Vicalvaro to Madrid, once the military headquarters and the a cementerio East, with its cypress tip, the light of day was waking up to get us through the architectural irregularity of the streets adjacent to one of the most popular and recognized streets of the capital: Calle Alcala.