A strange outbreak is slowly spreading on the iron veins of Madrid. Colorful mosaics of rectangular stickers are taking over pipes and garage doors, an orderly relentless growth in your perriferal view plastering names and phone numbers over the old paint. They call themselves locksmiths and the name, although appropriate, is for the neophyte traveler considerably misleading. But call them. A deep and regular breathing will greet you, strangely artificial in its clockwork rhythm. Don't let that turn you away though: whether you lost your keys or you lost your direction, it will still wait patiently for you to build up the courage, to open up and spill over all what has been burdening your heart all these years.
It's not completely understood how your worries, a faint stream of dark matter flowing through the phone lines, would feed the expansion of the stamps, or what's the mechanics of their thriving. The calling numbers aren't registered with any operator and the (few) names don't look like being real either. Nevertheless, the hearts of the locals are definitely growing lighter and even for you, if you stop for a moment to enjoy the malty sting of a Red Right Hand ale, the street will warp for a second around your phone call, the Panda brewers like Madrilene locksmiths will lighten your steps and your heart and... well, what else could a traveler want?
