Cab!

Cab!



Julio Cortazar fixed earthly hell on the subway, an overly literary consideration. I did not listen to him. At the beginning of the seventies I discovered with joy all the neighborhoods of Madrid thanks to the subway. I did not want to do urban tourism, it was the medium that allowed me to know all the neighborhood cinemas. The double programs were cheap. When my economy improved, and I did not know how to drive, I moved daily by taxi. But the idyll between us never emerged. Physical and mental hygiene has always seemed an unbreakable principle, not an end. For decades, most of the drivers insisted on explaining to me how they would fix Spain in two days, disregarding my right to the sound of silence. Also to listen obligatorily to consabidas and racial radio stations, in case I had not been clear his ardorous vocation of salvapatrias.

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