"Joan," I asked my friend as we walked the streets of Madrid on an early evening in late winter, "why does it say 'ONCE' on all the kiosks here?"

Joan stopped to look at me. "'Once'? It says 'Once' on a kiosk?"

"Not just one kiosk, Joan," I told him. It says 'ONCE' on every newspaper kiosk I've seen in Madrid."

"I can't imagine what you're talking about," he said. Joan, I might add, has a degree in communications, and is perhaps the best-known photographer/theorist of the post-Franco generation. (His name is pronounced YO-an, by the way.) "You'll have to show me next time we pass one."

I knew that this would be no problem. It was February of 1992; we were both in Madrid as participants in a symposium, Joan coming in from Barcelona, I from New York. I'd been flaneuring for days during my off hours -- Madrid is made for walking -- and I'd seen many of these newspaper kiosks. I'd even taken to photographing some of them. There was one every few blocks; all were of the same design, and invariably, on each side of them, at the top, in big white letters, a sign read "ONCE."

We continued strolling the streets in the twilight. Sure enough, a block or so later we came to a little plaza containing a kiosk. "There," I said, pointing to it. Joan stared for a minute, and then started to laugh through his dark beard. When he could contain himself, he said, "Allan, that doesn't say 'Once'; that's ohn-thay (he gave it the characteristic Catalan lisp)." At my look of perplexity he added, "Spanish for eleven."

"Ah," I replied, "like onze in French." He nodded. We walked along a bit further. "Joan," I inquired, "why does it say 'eleven' on every kiosk in Madrid?"

He chuckled. "It's not really ohn-thay. It's an acronym: O.N.C.E. Organizacion Nacional de Ciegos Español. National Organization of Blind Spaniards," he translated helpfully.

"I see," I said. As I recall, we were heading toward a bar known for a particular form of tapas of which Joan was quite fond. He had explained to me, before we set out, that the ritual would involve going to numerous bars, each of them known for one or at most two of its tapas, or appetizers, and slowly eating and drinking our way towards a late supper. We moved on in silence.

"Joan," I asked a few blocks further along, "why does it say 'National Organization of Blind Spaniards' on the top of every kiosk in Madrid?"

He smiled. "First, you must realize that this is not only on every kiosk is Madrid, but on every newspaper kiosk throughout Spain. This is because the blind run all the newsstands in my country."

"You mean it's a monopoly?" I asked. "Not precisely," he replied. "By government decree, and with popular consent, the kiosk franchise, which is administered through O.N.C.E., has been given to the blind, as a way for them to support themselves financially."

"That's an intriguing idea," I said. "When was this initiated?" "Oh, years and years ago," Joan said; "it goes back so far I cannot even remember when it started."

I pursued the matter. "Is it successful as a social program?" Joan smiled again. "More than successful. They've done so well with it that the blind not only control the kiosks but own most of the newspapers. In fact, now they own most of the radio and television stations as well."

I stopped in my tracks. "Are you telling me that the blind control much of the mass media in Spain?"

Joan grinned and nodded.

"So that's why it says 'ONCE' on all the kiosks in Madrid," I said.

Joan, still grinning, corrected me: "All the kiosks in Spain." We continued on our way.

After we'd walked a ways further, in silence, enjoying the crepuscular glow of the city, I asked, "Joan, why does it say 'Red' on all those little yellow signs that stick out from the walls along the street?"

"'Red'?" he replied. "I don't know what you're talking about. You'll have to show me."