A late night in Madrid

Going home after a long night in Madrid.

Ernest Hemingway said, “Nobody goes to bed in Madrid until they have killed the night.” I’m not sure I like that wording. I’d say nobody goes to bed in Madrid until the last vestige of darkness has been drained from the sky. It’s as if the night is a long banquet and the Spanish refuse to leave the party until every last morsel has been consumed, every drop of wine swallowed.

On weekends in particular it’s not at all unusual to find the streets full of revelers making their way home, still dressed in fine evening wear, as the pale light of dawn approaches. I know. I passed them on the street last night, singing arm-in-arm, as I myself wearily made my way back to the Hotel de las Letras.