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I wondered around a bit in the streets of Madrid after a decent night’s rest. The morning was chilly, but the sun was out, so I stopped for a moment near a bench, letting my face absorb the sun. I stumbled upon an empty coffee shop near a small neighborhood park, and ordered a cafe con leche from a Swede named Nils. The shop was a tiny, narrow place, maybe seating four or five at the bar with a few small tables and cheaply made chairs placed directly along the dark cherry red painted wall that hung pictures of various Spanish figures of history.
Nils was a tall, slim, bearded gent who was very kind, and we talked of the world, politics, and art. He was a musician living here in the city for almost a decade now. His clothing was weathered, and the sole of his right sneaker detached from its base, and snapped back up with each step, fighting for its last days.
I became hungry after the potent coffee Nils served me started to work my empty stomach over. I asked him if they served any breakfast food.
“Not really,” Nils responded, “but I can fix something up for you.” Nils walked his slappy shoe through the crooked doorframe that led back to the kitchen.
I became unsure of his proposition, “What do you have back there?” I asked. I started to become even more unsure of a kitchen that did not regularly serve food.
Nils leaned his head over, back in sight through the doorframe, and simply told me, “It’s very good, trust me. Simple, but very good.”
A long slice of sourdough bread, toasted with minced tomato, salt, and olive oil was the breakfast he brought out to me, on the house. I was pleased with the taste, and how uncomplicated it was. It was unexpectedly delicious. As I ate my delicacy of a breakfast, Nils told me of a hostel in Rome that he had stayed at, and recommended it when I visit the capital city. I told him I would surely look into it.
An old man entered the quiet cafe, spoke a few verses in Spanish to Nils who then responded to the man quickly and keenly and handed him a fifty cent piece. The old man delivered over a newspaper, which Nils then folded and slid under his left arm as the man walked out of the shop. Nils looked at me and explained that the old man had just sold him a communist newspaper.
“Do you favor that political agenda?” I asked him.
“It is the neighborhood, and not my particular political view,” Nils replied, “I am actually quite liberal and do these things to balance out the coffee shop’s reading selection.”
“A true businessman,” I said.
Nils smiled back.
“Do you have wifi?” I asked.
“No,” he said almost smugly, “I believe that the internet is anarchy, so I do not wish to have it in here. Positive and negative all mixed together,” he shook his head.
I responded, “Isn’t that life in general though? Positive and negative all mixed together? Then the world is anarchy.”
Nils looked at me with a profound grin and he took my finished plate off of the counter. I thoroughly enjoyed my time with Nils, the Swedish liberal hosting a communist cafe in the middle of the Iberian Peninsula, serving tomato toast to those willing to lend an ear for a bit. We said our goodbyes after a while, and I carried out into the Spanish day.
I’ve thought of Nils from time to time, wondering if he ever found success in music. Wondering if he instead, joined the communist party. Wondering if he still collects political newspapers from the wandering folks of the neighborhood. Wondering if I can replicate that damn tomato toast when I get back to the states.
Communist Tomato Toast