I lost these things in Madrid:

A brown purse containing the wallet I bought in Germany at age 15, my way, somewhere near Alonso Martinez, while stoned one afternoon, a notebook teeming with self-indulgent poetry, my virginity, as Yara said, to flamenco, and the red umbrella from Ross.

I found that tree, by the monument in Retiro, which in spring blooms lilac, 21 cañas sloshing in my stomach on a Sunday night, the setting sun in my eyes by the Egyptian temple, and that I have the ability to talk to almost anyone.