"Sí," the man grinned. "But tonight, so is everyone."

For thirty glorious minutes, Terminal 4 of Madrid-Barajas was not a place of delays and duty-free. It was a pazzo , beautiful dream.

The crazy man in the yellow vest was gone. But on the floor, where he had been standing, lay a single half-eaten jamón sandwich and a handwritten note:

Marco had been traveling for eighteen hours. His flight from Rome to Madrid was supposed to be a simple two-hour hop, a quick connection to Bogotá where his wife was already waiting. Instead, he found himself at 2:00 AM in Terminal 4 of Madrid-Barajas, and the airport had gone pazzo . Completely mad.

Marco picked up the note, folded it into his passport, and walked toward Gate H. The jet bridge was normal now. The plane was waiting.

Marco rubbed his eyes. Next to him, a German businessman in a starched white shirt shrugged. "Probably a hacker," he muttered. But then the PA system, instead of the usual robotic boarding announcements, began playing a frantic flamenco guitar, the rhythm so fast it sounded like a heart attack.

"Bienvenido a Madrid. Ahora sí puedes irte. Pero volverás." ( Welcome to Madrid. Now you can leave. But you will return. )

He didn't know how. He didn't know why. But suddenly, he was doing a sevillana with a Finnish woman who had a parrot on her shoulder. The German businessman was clicking his heels. The nuns were clapping. Even the Hello Kitty suitcase had sprouted little paper legs and was doing the robot.

But Madrid-Barajas was pazzo . And for one night, so was he.

"You are pazzo," Marco said.

And then he saw him .