Playing at Bridges

We’re standing on a bridge – six million car journeys of us are standing on the bridge between the Día de la Constitución and the Feast of the Purísima.

Some of us are lunching in restaurants. Yet more of us are eating fast food, sandwiches or hamburgers, while we trudge through the crowds of Christmas shoppers. They’re in from the provinces and the prices are twice what they’ll be in three weeks time. But hey we don’t mind, it’s Christmas – let’s not get rational about it.

It’s half past two and families are pouring in here for lunch. This place pays homage to the sea, to sailing and its literature. I see Moby Dick squeezed up beside a book about knots. The tables are small and round and covered in white table clothes that hang half way down to the ground.

The waiter is past middle age and wears a fleece jacket, a closely shaved grey hairstyle and glasses with very little frame – just bridge and arms.

It’s a motley crew, we’ve got; a Peruvian with a hat, some Germans with children and an old couple who only really came in because they wanted to use the toilet. That they have done and now they are sittings at a tiny table glancing at the menu.

There’s an elevator in the kitchen that takes the plates up and down, delivering and receiving. Right now it’s not in use; our fleeced waiter seems capable of working without it.

A bar runs above my head like a curtain rail in a shower. It originates in the wall on my right and carries many tiny light bulbs along its length till it runs to ground at the same height in the wall on my left. This is the sky, I believe.

You can believe your fancies.

We are on the bridge.