It was like in 4 days, the city had decided to go out to party but also organize one giant bottellon covering her plazas with unknown faces and spirit bottles, while her skies breathed in the countless clouds of cigarette smoke dishcharged from a crowd of night owls.
But if you ever have to experience the essence of gay pride in any part of the world, particularly in Madrid, I highly suggest you to experience in on her last day.
That yearly sunday, as the city is waking up from one big orgasm and having her after-sex cigarette it is custom for the last survivors who still believe in killing the night as Hemingway said, to sit on plazas for an attemp at a last night-of-perhaps crazyness. [...] It is here that groups of strangers mytose into large circles of new aquaintances – like Cristina and her friends that we met that night – sharing cigarettes and conversations and tying new friendships. And though Madrid's annual gay pride is supposed to be about the gay community having their annual celebration, I don't think I have every experienced such a stronge feeling of community than here - not because of the underlying purpose of this event - but simply because Madrid just has that thing. Madrid is just that chubby classmate always out for a good laugh. Madrid is that tap in the back congratulating you on a dirty joke. Madrid is that feeling of satisfacion you get when you’re sharing a private smirk with a stranger in the metro. Madrid is that extra can of beer you forgot you left in your fridge. Madrid…? Madrid!? Madrid is just a beautifully punctuated stop on anyone’s road.