Five o'clock, Madrid time. Tuesday afternoon, the second week of October in the year 2001 A.D. (unless you're using the Jewish, Chinese or Mayan calendars; I use a Simpsons calendar, myself, and am, for a change, superficially in step with the rest of what passes for Western Civilization).
I'm ensconced comfortably in my living room, in the barrio of Chueca, in the center of the Spanish capital, trying to figure out what exactly it is I want to write here. Not that there's nothing going on, nothing to say. On the freakin' contrary. On the macro level, the events taking shape on our planetary asylum have the potential to send us and our multitude of neighbors -- our extended family, whether we see them that way or not -- skidding off in various existence-altering directions, trying wildly to regain control of the assorted handbaskets we've crammed ourselves into.
Maybe I'll start on the micro level, relatively speaking. Another beautiful autumn day -- the air nicely gilded with sunlight, clouds passing by now and then to provide dramatic flair. Temperature comfortably cool and moderate, with a genuinely nippy night on deck, or so the Spanish weatherpeople say. Life in the center of the Iberian peninsula goes its way, the daylight hours streaming by, no different from most other days, at least on the surface.
I stumbled to class this morning, a bit foggier than normal. Over the course of the different periods during these last 13 months that I've inflicted language classes on myself -- five days a week, 9:30 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. with a half-hour break (all stated times approximate, the Spanish sense of time being what it is) -- I've learned that I really need to pump a cup of coffee into my system on the way to class if I want to bear a vague resemblance to your normal higher-functioning human being.
The streets between my building and the school are narrow, streets of old Madrid, winding nicely up and down hills. Lovely streets, at least to this transplanted yanqui. I recently began walking a route to and from school that (going from here toward school) begins small, narrow, very local (la Calle de Pelayo), makes its way down an incline where it crosses a busy street -- la Calle de Fernando VI -- at which point it widens a bit and continues on, now up an incline for two or three blocks, terminating at la Calle de Génova, the traffic-heavy four-lane that delineates the northern end of Chueca. From there I walk east a block or two, then traverse Génova at a crosswalk that sends me past the offices of el Partido Popular, the political party currently in power here, and directly up la Calle Zurbano to the school. On the way back, when I turn from Génova onto Pelayo, I see a vista across a shallow valley to where Pelayo narrows and winds out of view, the sky stretched out above a low skyline (with the exception of one white structure thrusting itself up into the air -- the Telefónica building). A terrific view, still fresh to me, one I enjoy seeing as I walk home.
There's a startling abundance of spots to grab a coffee on the trip to or from school, places of all kinds, from down and dirty local joints to more presentable, more comfortable watering holes, to places that aspire to near-elegance. I've been told that Madrid has, per capita, more bars and restaurants than any city in the world. I have no way of testing the truth of that, but it's possible. There are an ungodly number of places to eat and drink here. Apart from New York City, I've never seen anything like it.
This morning, in an attempt to dissipate my personal fog, I stopped in at a coffee joint near the school for a quick café cortado. Give myself a few minutes to wake up, with liquid assistance, in a place where I get to the watch the locals stream in and out, doing the same.
I was never a coffee drinker in the States. At most, I would do the occasional decaf since I have a tendency to get disgracefully wired in no time flat. Plus, I'm sorry, for me the coffee in the States just doesn't qualify as the real item after sampling the product here. The taste of the brew they squeeze out of the local espresso machines -- generally doesn't matter whether it's high-test, decaf or cappucino -- is light years ahead of what passes in the lower 48, even taking into account the 'premium' coffees of recent years.
But again, that's just me. I have a friend from the Boston area who went to Italy this last spring and complained afterward that he couldn't find a large cup of coffee anywhere. At first I found that supremely weird, but after some reflection this finally occurred to me: What do I know? He has his likes and dislikes, like every other member of the human race. If a tall cup of coffee that feels warm in the hand and lasts a good, long time brings him pleasure, what the hell.
But I blabber.
From the café, I found my way to school, up four flights of narrow stairs and into the teeny classroom in which we've been planted for this week.
The current group of students is a spicy brew, mostly females -- a tall, elegant woman from Ukraine, whose features appear very Russian to my ignorant eyes; a nice woman from Britain; an interesting woman from Morocco -- married to an American, speaks Arabic, French, English and pretty fair Spanish, dresses and sounds like a woman from France. Smart, pretty, with a body that verges on voluptuous, and with a strange, almost arrogant air -- her face bears a strong resemblance to an old friend of mine from University who lives in northern Vermont, especially when she smiles; the Moroccan's face is fuller, more sensual, expressing a very different person from my friend, but the resemblance is distinct and at some moments disorienting
There's a 40ish woman from Cape Cod in the group -- tall, friendly, slim, a bit gangly, newly arrived in Madrid and teaching English. There's a bright, outgoing Canadian woman, 28 years old, who's lived in Mexico for two years and has a Mexican sweetheart. And today an Italian guy named Martin appeared, a goofy, slightly disheveled type who speaks four languages, seems slightly absent-minded, has lived in London for the last seven years, is vacationing in Spain for a couple of months.
A motley group, with interesting dynamics, especially considering the backdrop of events unfurling themselves in the world around us.
The profesora for the morning class this week: a teeny Spanish woman in her late 20s named Elena. Five feet tall, if that. Extremely slender -- not anorexic, just a small person -- with a major head of nearly-out-of-control, dark-brown hair. A person with a distinct personality, a nice smile, a great laugh, and a tendency to dress hyper-casually. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)
Yesterday's class was punctuated now and then by the usual chorus of car horns native to that end of la Calle de Zurbano. The building across the street from the school is lovely and old -- all the windows floor-to-ceiling jobs, often open during the midday hours of these autumn days, with full-length white curtains inside, that give out onto balcones. At one point, a white and brown Springer Spaniel appeared on a balcón directly across from our classroom, apparently out to investigate the obnoxious traffic noise. It slipped restlessly in and out fo view for a while, all of us in class making full use of the distraction. Then an attractive woman in a bathrobe briefly appeared on the same balcón, looking down at the street for a moment before disappearing back inside.
Shortly thereafter came the sound of a military plane flying overhead, low and fast, the sound of its passing harsh, insistent, difficult to ignore. And for a moment, we all looked toward the window, visibly scared, suddenly reminded of events happening on a more macro level in the world right now.
Earlier today, I spoke with a Polish woman named Catalina. A bright, good-natured person, married, in her late 20's, makes her living housecleaning. She worked a job in the barrio of Salamanca yesterday -- the ritzy district to the northeast of Chueca -- where for a stretch of about two hours military planes flew over, low and loud, at high velocity. A kind of sound not normally featured in the city's daytime soundtrack. The people here don't normally refer to the unfolding war-related events, despite the news media's saturation with stories relating to them. When it does get brought up, it's mentioned briefly and the U.S. is not generally cast in a good light. Despite Spain's center-right president José María Aznar's expression of unconditional support for the U.S. government and the path it has undertaken, the sentiment of the 40 or so million inhabitants of this country is, at least in my limited experience, deeply mixed. Not unlike mine.
I sincerely pray that we, as a race, find our way through this passage in a manner that leaves us all better off, treating each other with respect and consideration, remembering that life is precious, and that we take it for granted at our peril.
And to anyone who may read this, please take a moment during your day to let someone you care about know that they matter to you. Treat the people around you kindly, and treat yourself the same way.