Me and Madrid

There are those times in your life when you ask yourself "How did I end up here?" You mentally backtrack through the chapters of your life and settle on the moment when a choice was made that lead you to this place. My choice was travelling Europe with an Australian boy with a love of graffiti, which lead me to this moment, sitting in a sunny square in Madrid with a teenager on a bicycle trying to mug me and not another soul around.
Every other European city I had followed him down dark dingy alleys, looking at another cultures version of urban art. But not here, not in Spain, after all the stories, the warnings, of theft and muggers, in Spain I refused to take any back alleys or shady looking streets. I demanded the safety of the sunny Spanish square and watched as his silhouette disappeared down a gravel track without me. Siesta time had deserted the streets and taking a seat in the square, it was just me and Madrid. I smiled as I felt that warm intoxicating sun beam down on my face, closing my eyes I let it warm my soul. I felt a connection to this land, these people. I envied them, their afternoon siestas, midnight suppers, smiling young children, animated adults and the deep set wrinkled elderly joining together, celebrating life in the streets, over food, wine and laughter. The Spanish they know how to live. I lost myself in that moment, in that connection, sitting in the sun I told myself, this is my square.
Aggressive Spanish words broke my spell, brought me back, I opened my eyes to see his hand stuck out, demanding money, to eat. Our eyes met, both dark brown, he studied mine for fear, and realising it wasn't there his gaze faulted. Our standoff, seemingly an eternity but probably mere seconds was broken by an angry shout. Turning our heads we saw him, a tall, muscly African with an imposing spirit that radiated across the squares cobblestones. Yelling threats at my potential mugger, the Spaniard looked at him, looked at me, then biked away. I felt a wave of relief, watching as his grand presence looked beyond me and exited the square. As he walked away I realised what this was, this kid was on his domain, it wasn't about me, it was about the square, his square. This square had never been mine.
I heard the words leave my mouth with more volume than I knew I could muster, "Bryce, we are leaving. Now!" It wasn't long until he was back at my side, giddy with his tales of graffiti, African prostitutes, Spaniard men and a powerful looking pimp.