The capital was then more than ever the breakwater of Spain. A gray breakwater, with ration cards, tender and cruel at the same time, poor even in his joys, convalescent (always with tenths at sunset), but also mischievous, festive and surreal. A merry-go-round, in short, of survivors of whom, whether we like it or not, we are heirs. This film has no plot. It is rather an etching or, perhaps, one of those minute portraits made by untalented painters in the streets of Madrid around 1950.