San Ginés

Before it was a street, the Arenal was a stream: a trickle of sand that ran down from the town toward the river and that, dry and paved, became the road out to the west. Beside it San Ginés kept watch from of old, one of Madrid’s ancient parishes, when all this was still a quarter beyond the walls. The slope filled with trades. Embroiderers and dyers gave their names to the streets that run down toward the church, and along the Arenal came and went the Madrid that made and bought. Next to the church, a narrow passage had long kept the smell of hot oil. There the chocolate house still stands, open when everything closes. At dawn those leaving the night cross those coming to the first mass, some with churros and some with the rosary, and no one finds the meeting strange. San Ginés has seen it all, and still keeps watch on the corner.