Hand of a Stranger

Stepping lightly, I wandered through the streets of Madrid following a vague, faded map line that led towards a stadium, for what, I did not know. On one side of the road there was a couture shop and I made a mental note that should I be rich and famous I'd return to wear a dress from the window. Continuing straight ahead however I encountered a plant shop with delicate cactuses, so numerous they spilled out onto the sidewalk forcing me to make a dramatic leap over them, less I faced the mediocrity of walking around.
A supermarket that would otherwise go unnoticed, except for the people walking out clutching armfuls of shopping, provided me with a plum, a block of chocolate and a two litre bottle of water for barely a euro, broadening the smile on my face and the spring in my step as I continued on my way.
Finally I reached the stadium that was a million times bigger than the speck on the map represented it to be, and I discovered it was for bull fights though there were none on that day. Instead commotion on the far side caught my attention and I followed the sound of cheering.
A procession of people lined the streets, all walking down the street together though separate. Some kicked soccer balls to each other and others wore scarves and mounting this evidence it dawned on me that Madrid was playing in the UEFA championship in under an hour. Gathering these revellers were headed to a good vantage point, I dodged between them and down the road glimpsed a massive projection screen, of which 10,000 people lay between us.
Downing my bottle of water as I went I stood amongst a large group of people as close to the front as a position I could ascertain. Pre-game entertainment came on in the form of acrobats and singers, but the greatest crowd support came from the opening sirens of the game.
I watched for an hour as the fans became disheartened, losing one goal after another, and I myself, became lightheaded. I decided to push my way back through the crowd, arm on a stranger in front of me who was headed the same way, parting the crowd. Right before reaching the end of the crowd, I was too tired to go any further and sat down right where I was standing.
Strangers reached toward me with foreign tongues of spanish and german, offering me water and fanning me with their programs. Such care you would normally only be afforded from your parents, offered in the streets of Madrid by strangers, was the universal language of kindness. I thanked them and walked away.