Sketches of Spain

They had been in Spain now for two weeks; the pastels of the city of Madrid had yet failed to mesmerize them as they walked along the various streets in the city it was the great blues of the sky that floated with the puffy white Mediterranean clouds against the city heights that did not seem like

other cities.  She said that she would like to enter into the great Parque del Retiro (a park of rest for the city dwellers) and they all agreed to which opened to them a world onto itself of great greens and statuary only half-rivaled by that in Central Park New York City. The girls' clothing did not get

cleaned since the beaches at Barcelona and smell of salt and warm sand.  The sun was setting; yet their  American clocks inside had changed by now; the Spanish were beginning to pile onto the courtyards and cobblestones; a soft hum, chimed in by an occasionally louder roar of a laugh filled the pavements.  He knew they were only blocks from the Ritz Carlton where the world's finest Cocido would now be

sampled and he was quite sure that along the easy bends of the breeze, as it slipped in and out of the guarding trees of del Retiro, held the waft of the garbanzo beans, veal, the chorizo, the potatoes and the pinches of cumin.  After the walk maybe it was time to take a walk in the direction of the grand fountain.