In 1976, it was a good time in Madrid. Franco was dead. The city, the whole country was coming out from underneath his heavy hand. I was nineteen, full of energy, full of desire. Like so many others, so many other young people, I had fled to the capital from the small town in which I’d grown up, from the sun and the seasons and the sheep on the dry, rocky hills. I had come hungry for my life to begin, to explode. And it did. In those days, in Madrid, every night there were parties on the streets. We…