Sunday
morning

On Sunday mornings, the night came to an end at the Rastro. Between the stalls of Ribera de Curtidores and the plaza de Cascorro, there were second-hand records, worn clothes and hand-stapled fanzines for sale, and half the city would gather in a bar on calle San Millán before lunch. There, whatever had been made during the week was shown and shared. The Rastro wears the taupe of dust and vinyl and, on its small seconds, the sage of Sunday mornings