His name was Toro Bravo, and although I’m not sure exactly what he said, very little was lost in translation.

As I walked through the narrow cobblestone streets of Alcala (a town 50km outside of Madrid, where I was the house-guest of a lovely Spanish family for a week), I took in everything I could. I smelled the delicious food wafting out from the nearest tapas bars, listened to the sounds of children playing and adults socializing and enjoying the afternoon, and gawked at all the amazing buildings and historical features that are commonplace here in Europe, but oh-so-foreign to my Canadian eyes.

Then, on a relatively empty side-street, I spotted a non-descript doorway, through which I could see countless pieces of artwork. Just inside, an elderly man with long hair and an even longer beard sat on a chair, sketching.

Standing across the street, I was mesmerized. This man had to be photographed. The tiny dark art gallery of sorts obviously contained hundreds of works of this man – who unto himself was a work of art.

Feeling a streak of shyness, I sidled up to the doorway in a way where I couldn’t be seen, to read the sign on the door…drats – all in Spanish, of course.

Continue reading on theprofessionalhobo.com

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  • Nora Dunn

    In 2006, Nora sold everything she owned in Canada (including a busy financial planning practice) to embrace her dreams of full-…

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