Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the dry heat (82 degrees Fahrenheit, 28 degrees Celsius), or the fact that we’re aimlessly wandering the city, but my sister Flo and I are finding it hard to figure out what other city Madrid—or more precisely, the cozy and quirky neighborhood of Malesaña—most resembles. Maybe it’s Bilbao, the first and closest Spanish city I visited back in December, and one of my most beloved places to tour. Or maybe it’s Saint-Gilles in Brussels, in the way the leafy, narrow streets snake up and down unpredictable slopes at sharp angles. Or maybe it’s La Brera in Milan, with every aging building concealing a fashionable boutique, a humble alimentación, or a chic cafe deep behind its facade. Or maybe it’s Jackson Heights in Queens, the bustling micropolis in the larger New York ecosystem where every Hispanophone and Latin American country plants its flag in the form of a restaurant or bodega.
I. I wasn't prepared for any of it, at all. Three weeks to move three years and three months of possessions three thousand and twice three hundred miles back 'home,' wherever that was supposed to be. Three weeks of idle, quiet calm concealing misplaced hope for a golden ticket that could have prolonged my stay. April afternoons preoccupied with the
calendar, counting down diminishing time left to share with closest friends. April nights of North Sea rain lashing the windowpanes with mahjong memories. April weekends of solitary walks, circling familiar places just to keep the city alive, somehow, should I ever forget one day that I was here, that I loved it all, that all of it was and is and will stay true.
Between Two Rivers 
