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Monday, August 27, 2001 From an email sent to friends last May: The Old World Pays a Visit A couple of hours ago, me sitting here at my laptop on a lovely Madrid May morning. I heard something out in the street, a few floors down -- a sound not often heard here these days, like pan pipes. Meaning the person who sharpens knives, scissors, blades of all kinds was passing through the barrio. I called down, got him to hold up. Pulled on some clothes, grabbed my Swiss army knife, hurried outside. Los Afiladores (the Sharpeners) were a regular feature of local life at one time, in Madrid's pre-world-class days, when it was the capital of an isolated provincial country. They'd ride through the streets on bicycles (some still do), grinding wheels mounted on the back, blowing their pipes as they pedalled slowly along so that anyone needing work done could stop them. I'd heard these pipes one other time, on a Saturday afternoon back in February, during the course of a play rehearsal. In a theatre located in an old barrio, one with long, narrow cobblestone streets that wandered up and down hills. The pipes' tones reverberated off the buildings as the sharpener approached, a foreign enough sound that it felt a touch unearthly. A woman in the theater recognized it and ran to the entranceway. I followed, we stood together as she explained a bit about los Afiladores and how rare they now were. I didn't have my pocket knife along at that time so could only watch the rider go slowly past, casting a searching glance our way to see if we might provide some business. We didn't, he continued on, disappearing down the block. The fellow I saw today wore old clothing (black pants, a tired white shirt, a vest, a hat) and rode an old moped fitted out with two grinding wheels mounted on the back -- one large, one small for finishing work -- along with an umbrella for rain or excessive sun. The grinders ran off the moped's motor, and this guy put an edge on my little Swiss army blade like you wouldn't believe, charging me 300 pesetas (around $1.60). People watched from surrounding buildings, curious. But no one else gave him any business. When he'd finished with me he blew his pipes a bit more in another attempt to round up some work. Nothing doing, no response from anyone. Expressionless, he fired up his moped and took off, the sound of its engine fading with distance. Madrid -- it's my kind of town. rws 1:35 PM [+]
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