24 hours of love and loss in Madrid’s La Latina

Kade Krichko

July 20, 2022

Journalist Kade Krichko finds love and loss (not the kinds you’re imagining, though) on a serendipitous Sunday in Madrid’s La Latina neighborhood.

Los gatos. A term of endearment used among the citizens of Madrid.

It’s a moniker that dates all the way back to the 11th century, when a Christian soldier scaled the walls of the then Moor-controlled city and raised a flag of conquest, moving, it’s said, like a cat in the shadows. But ask any Madrileño and they’ll tell you that while that may be true, their nickname has stuck because of the population’s vibrant life after dark. Yet even though nighttime gets much of the acclaim in Madrid, the city’s mornings hold their own kind of magic.

One particular Sunday morning, I found myself making my way across the Rio de Manzanares in the soft early light. The heat of the day hadn’t arrived yet, and as municipal workers hose weekend debauchery into the gutters, gatos still in last night’s formalwear stumble and scatter toward their beds. And I, wandering, coincidentally bump into the magic of barrio de La Latina’s El Rastro.

A building lit up by dim yellow street lights at night. — Even though nighttime gets much of the acclaim in Madrid, the city’s mornings hold their own kind of magic, writes Kade Krichko. Photo: Amos Bühler

Sunday is a day of worship in Catholic Spain, but in Madrid, it’s the day of El Rastro. Every week, this sprawling flea market takes over the quiet neighborhood of La Latina, as salespeople, antique collectors and nomads with their mobile storefronts hock their eccentric wares. Franco-era propaganda manuals. Unsent postcards. A table of keys separated from locks unknown.

Bartering is the accepted language here, a dance accentuated by shouting and cursing, but rarely spilling over into anything more. Arguing my way out of a gringo tax, I buy two old flamenco records from a mustachioed hipster before picking through a crush of bodies.

Lining the side of the bustling market, tapas bars spill out into the street. I duck through a cloud of cigarette smoke into a dimly lit cervecería, assessing the joint not by its online review but by the number of crumpled napkins on the floor. The more the better, each a notch for tapas and cañas (beers) well worth the hand wipe.

I barely have time to bite into my tortilla de patata before Roberto swoops in. Or that’s what he tells me his name is at least. Talking a mile a minute, he’s singled me out for a reason, remembering his time in New York, how he loves the US, how he had learned to cut hair from barbers there.

A person looks at objects at a market stall. — Madrid’s most popular flea market, El Rastro, is held every Sunday. Peruse the goods and there’s no telling what you’ll find—from home goods to vintage records. Top: Mary Saxaroz; Bottom: Delfi

Items for sale at a stall in El Rastro. — Madrid’s most popular flea market, El Rastro, is held every Sunday. Peruse the goods and there’s no telling what you’ll find—from home goods to vintage records. Top: Mary Saxaroz; Bottom: Delfi

Now a barbershop owner himself, he looks over my record collection and scurries away before throwing a third vinyl onto my pile. “A gift,” he smiles, adding his business card. In case I need a trim someday, he says, as I step back into the human current.

Escaping to quieter side streets, the echoes of crowds give way to a familiar sound. Trumpet, conga, the rhythmic clack of the clave. Salsa? Here? I round the corner and come face-to-face with it. Bar Santa Ana. A slice of Havana in the heart of Iberia.

To connect with a stranger, however brief, had filled the cup. I feel an overwhelming calm as she gets up to leave, gratitude for a sense of belonging so very far from home. Somehow, that felt like enough.

Outside, a man insisting he’s a pirate shows me the gold coin hanging from his neck. Inside, bodies undulate to the sounds of the crackling music, as two women serve up pint-sized mojitos under aging photos of old cars and the iconic Malecón.

Through a sea of hips and elbows, I see her. A long flowered skirt and a track-stopping smile.

A man looks to camera, he is smoking a cigarette. — In the middle of Madrid, journalist Kade Krichko found himself at a Cuban bar playing salsa music, entertaining the company of a self-proclaimed pirate. Top: Kade Krichko; Middle: C Bascaran; Bottom: Mattia Panciroli

A building with a street art covered wall in front of it. — In the middle of Madrid, journalist Kade Krichko found himself at a Cuban bar playing salsa music, entertaining the company of a self-proclaimed pirate. Top: Kade Krichko; Middle: C Bascaran; Bottom: Mattia Panciroli

But this isn’t a love story. Instead, I bury my gaze and find my way to the mojito ladies. Grabbing a cold beer, I find the pirate. Unlike the rest of us, he’s actually from Cuba, spending every free moment on this cross street surrounded by African fabric stores and Halal markets. The doubloon around his neck is a religious medallion of San Lazaro, Cuba’s patron saint revered for his pilgrimages to heal the sick.

The pirate has lived a few journeys of his own, but seems to be on a path of self-medication. Bidding the man adiós, I take one longing look toward the whirling mass and step into the streets again. But as I pass outdoor fruit stands and dodge delivery scooters, I can’t shake the woman in the flowered skirt. I was leaving the next day, but I should have said hi.

Something. Anything. What harm would it have done? We’d never see each other again, right?

My spiral of self-pity hits a snag around Tirso de Molina. The records! Caught up in the scene, I’d left them under the bar. I’m 15 minutes away, but if I hurry, maybe they’ll still be there.

The dancing has slowed, but Bar Santa Ana is still packed solid. Squeezing through strangers, I find them hidden below the gaze of the crowd. The wave of relief is interrupted by a pang in my gut. She’s gone. Scanning the crowd, I can’t find the salsa dancers or their muse anywhere. But then, on my way out the door, I spot them.

A group of friends stand out the front of a green and cream coloured bar. — A bar where you can travel the world from your barstools. Cuba. Colombia. Mexico. A portal into the heart of the people and experiences of La Latina. Photo: Kade Krichko

Emboldened by nearly a half-hour of self-pep talk, I step toward the group. This is it. I see her as I take a deep breath and… introduce myself to her friend. It’s the most courage I can muster, and I do my best to hang on. The friend is wearing a Nirvana shirt and after explaining that I’m from Seattle, their city, I quickly reach the end of my Spanish. We both struggle to keep the conversation going until she waves over a friend to translate. The woman in the flowered skirt answers me in perfect English, one of three languages she speaks fluently.

I’m dumbfounded but hide behind a wall of cheesy jokes and eager small talk.

She doesn’t laugh, but doesn’t tune me out either, asking questions and leaning in for answers. The friend in the Nirvana t-shirt peels off, and suddenly we’re alone in a crowded room.

We travel the world from our barstools. Cuba. Colombia. Mexico. Where we’ve been, where we want to go. College. Home. Family. Conversation flows together, apart, together again. The bar melts away, and time goes with it. Too soon, her friend comes and taps her on the shoulder. It’s time to go.

“It was nice to meet you,” she says.

And it was. To connect with a stranger, however brief, had filled the cup. I feel an overwhelming calm as she gets up to leave, gratitude for a sense of belonging so very far from home. Somehow, that felt like enough.

“But I wish you’d asked me to dance,” she adds.

I double back and there’s the smile once again. My phone is dead, and I fumble for the right words, any words. I ask for her contact, but all I get is a name. The rest will be up to me.

Tomorrow I’m off to Portugal, but as she disappears back into the city, I know I’m not done with Madrid just yet.

Kade Krichko

Although Kade lives in Seattle, his passion for stories has led him from the Western US to rural China and the barbed-wire surf scene in Lebanon, with many a pitstop in between. Along the way, he's published work with The New York Times, POWDER, and several global publications, and picked up national writing awards.