February 21, 1992
[Translated from Spanish] It’s a big city, Madrid.
When I arrived a thick snow was falling. I checked into a pension close to the Puerta del Sol, took a shower to forget the planes and buses and the lost night, got dressed as if I’d just woken up, and spent the day at the Prado. At the end of the day I called the only person I knew in Madrid: Ricardo from NYU.
We met for drinks. I hadn’t really known Ricardo in New York, but after an hour, he invited me to stay at his house, and to join him and his crew in the south on a documentary they’re shooting for Spanish TV. So, pretty much everything I’d hoped for.
Yet somehow, after a night of drinking and carousing with Ricardo and his friends, the whole plan of moving to Madrid no longer seemed like so much fun. It’s not Madrid’s fault. I think I’m just burnt out on traveling. Arriving in yet another new city where I don’t know anybody and have no reason to be here, this time, didn’t feel like the right kind of adventure. It just made me feel tired. Or then again, maybe I just stayed at that nightclub too long.
I called Mark Netter in Albertville and said: “Let’s go skiing!” Bought a train ticket to Paris.
