I’m trying to remember Madrid as it used to be. Which is futile. Nothing is at is used to be. My face for instance; not what it used to be. So, as nervous as it makes me, I’m going to try and let Madrid be what it is when I get there. I have faith that Mercado de Anton Martin is still standing and the Prado and my niece. I’m nearly sure that I’ll still be able to cook when I get there, which I’m really hoping for, since that’s what I’m getting paid to do. But you know every time I get on a plane I panic that when I get wherever I’m going, my cooking is going to act like it never knew me. It’s that dream you have that the one you love doesn’t love you anymore. That’s a killer. I hate that awful dream. I’m not going to think it. I’m going to mow it down and pretend that I live a life of the most beautiful thing ever, which is when you get off the plane when you come home, there they are, waiting. And when you search their face for truth, all you see is eyes that love you.

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