A gloomy fall day is the perfect time to visit the Retiro: sloughing ankle-deep through fallen leaves, inhaling the sharp scent of damp earth, magpies flitting between the branches in flashes of black and white and metallic blue. It hasn't rained yet but the leaden clouds hang unusually low over the city, a still, heavy presence that makes sound seem duller, somehow muffled. The children too are quieter, subdued, and the wild cats stalk silently through the grass, undetected amid the refuse of autumn. The only sound, besides occasional footsteps, is the trees shaking free of their summer apparel: a dry creaking from the branches and the air is filled with motion, leaves floating and twirling like a shower of gold coins.
