I’m in some idiotic department store again, with my friend looking at headphones. It’s not a gaudy looking mall at least, it’s street level and well lit but still there’s nothing to do but consume. I leave my friend to whatever he’s up to and motion towards the clothing aisle where Trotsky is looking at a Guayabera. He shows it to me “Look, you think this’ll do?” Is he foreshadowing his move to Latin America with this? His hair is already white, it must be time. He reverses the shirt and shows me the label “JF” in stylised letters with the smaller text saying “Jomon Faudi”. But it won’t do. “Leva, you won’t stop being recognisable just because you have changed your style. You haven’t even shaved off your goatee yet.” I also haven’t parted with my facial hair, even though it’s getting ridiculous. “You need to stop wasting time with this shit and move to Mexico”. I know what’s going to happen to him in Mexico, but we all have to play our parts in history. It’s more interesting than Spain anyway. The track on the store speakers change: "Here's to you Nicola and Bart..."

I see that right next to us my friend managed to get a seat in the cafe section right next to us, just a few metres away. We both sit down and I keep yammering Trotsky on what he needs to do - and I add “Look, we’re trying to help you we’re not the fucking Spanish Inquisition”. At that instant I look at my left and standing next to us is… the Spanish Inquisition. They are wearing blue though. I say hi, but they appear to ignore both me and Trotsky - when my friend says Hola they do get talking, I guess they don’t give a fuck about two foreigners. My faceless friend motions to his wallets, and seeing what he does I mimic him and give the dudes a $2 silver coin from my pocket. Of course, religion has become a travesty of itself and it’s no surprise the ominously dressed dudes were in fact just begging for money under the excuse of some charity or whatever. For the “donation” they give us the fried pieces of chicken they’re selling - it’s just a tiny strip of breaded chicken, but anyway it’s in front of me and I’ll eat it. I taste it and it’s the exact same taste as the perfectly fried pork cutlet I had in that Michelin starred tonkotsu place in Tokyo. I inhale the aroma and feel that just so slightly vinegary apple sauce contrasting with the perfectly crisp meat on my tongue.

The scents, the songs and the places.