Couples in gold-rimmed sunglasses and English shooting jackets with Collies and Huskies—proud parents of exotics—take over the lower square. Kids on BMXs with training wheels pass me, perched on a rattley orbit. Quarter past five in the afternoon with a hangover can be pleasant. Frail perceptions. I’m alive in the sun. Someone’s asleep on the bench along the convent wall. Two Policia Municipal in blue-black come down the Via Sacra. The beggar who’s been shouting, sits down. A hippie woman whistles to her white wolf dog, and goes. The cops stand a while, then stroll on towards the Obradoiro: the public face. A man in a beret swigs from a carton of red wine, scowls at the little girl skipping past in a school uniform and Paddington Bear toggle coat. The punk boy beside him yawns, a knee drawn to his chest. He has a high-shouldered, consumptive look. Tight jeans and red Doc Martens; the West German army surplus coat hangs off him, back cricked from squat living, face like someone coming down.