there is a blinding whiteness to the walls in the juderia, the old jewish slash muslim nucleus of cordoba, and there is the glittering of copper and gold trays in a tea house and the blue white yellow tiles lining the inside of a patio coronated by a palm tree. there are hundreds and hundreds of orangeson the street. there is me, armando and conso walking past a pile of discarded coat hangers on the footpath and decorating a tree with them, there is the twirling hand of a flamenco dancer and the clapping clapping clapping from the next room. there are three rooms, from the first comes the strumming of paco de lucia, from the second comes the slow reggae of jacob miller, from the third comes some unknown hardcore punk band, followed by the emerging of conso's mohawk, still standing from the night before. there is a small light in the right hand corner of this boy's eye, there is the rooftop and new friends and pasta and an abundancy of cerveza in constant circulation and really, who could ask for more right now?
...there is the pervasive missing of certain little ones... which is kindofnice.

gitanos put flowers in front of an oversized cross...