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A friend of mine gave me the address of a bar he assured me I'd love.

Intrigued, one afternoon, just before nightfall, I decided to go.

The bar was located in a lower ground floor. After descending some stairs, I found myself before a maze of corridors lined with a skirting board, fire extinguishers, ventilation grilles, closed doors and some luminous signs indicating the location of the establishments in this kind of underground shopping centre.

There was nobody.

I spotted the name of the bar and headed for it.

A few steps later I was lost. The reddish light, the low ceiling, so low that I sometimes had to duck, the closed doors and the buzzing of a faulty engine disoriented me. I went back to find the way again. This second attempt took me farther than the first time, but when I arrived at a closed door behind the glass of which there was another very long corridor, I decided to retrace my steps and leave.

I went back home with a sense of frustration, as if leaving behind an unfinished business, but, over time, I have come to think that I am glad I did not find the bar, since I am sure it was much less mysterious than the corridor.


Enrique Marty.

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