The police rang our doorbell at 3am on the hottest night of the summer, while Madrileños were being gently oven-roasted at a still and steady 30 degrees centigrade. I opened the door, semi-naked, to find two municipal police officers staring at me. The fan in a guest’s room was keeping the downstairs neighbour awake, so could we turn it off? I wish it had stayed that polite, but they wanted to play games, making me march dozily around the apartment doing pointless tests with the fans. When we got fed up and asked them to leave, tempers frayed on both sides, a policeman’s boot was wedged against our door, passports were demanded and they eventually stomped off, promising to “file a report” on us. One officer’s eyes burned with hatred. For the past 25 years my encounters with Madrid’s police have been respectful, easygoing affairs and, for a day or two, I was convinced that only my new status as a future non-citizen of the European Union could explain the change.
© HAL BERGMAN PHOTOGRAPHY
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