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Friday, November 16, 2001 A week ago, I had lunch with a friend in Boston, spent a couple of hours beforehand on my own. Picked up a new pair of pointy boots at Walker's Riding Apparel on Boylston Street -- they're kinda tight, but they'll stretch. A friend in England -- a lovely person who has so far only known me via email -- read an earlier entry in this journal in which I mused on my affection for pointy boots and promptly sent me a note saying she hadn't realized I was a dandy. A dandy??? Screw that -- we're talking about an essential of life, something fundamental to my current existence. But I digress. Once finished at Walker's, I took a walk down Boylston into what used to be called the Combat Zone: an area adjacent to Boston's Chinatown, formerly overflowing with sex shops, XXX-theaters, hookers. Seedy. Ugly. A bit dangerous even. Thoroughly urban-rehabbed now, though still home to Jack's Joke Shop -- an institution, around for nearly 80 years. A treasure trove of plastic vomit, rubber dog poop, vampire teeth, sneezing powder. I stepped into Jack's, found a slightly dingy, slightly tired, dimly-lit space crammed with trash. An amazing collection of trash, trash of a classic, indispensable kind. Your whoopie cushions, your plastic snot. Three middle-aged men slouched around, all thin, tired-looking, all a bit stoop-shouldered. Glum, lacking spark, low on zest for life. Three gentlemen who clearly had had their fill of squirting cigarette lighters and fake ice cubes containing fake house flies. The youngest of the trio stepped out from behind the counter, asked if I needed help. "I'm looking," I replied, "for a rubber chicken." (A Christmas gift for a friend. No, really.) "Ah," said he, moving toward the back of the shop. "This way." The space turned out to be surprisingly deep, lined with packed shelves, a forest of items hanging from the ceiling. Something along a shadowy length of the counter burst into bizarre noise as we passed -- like wild, derisive laughter. With the phenomenal overabundance of junk, I couldn't pinpoint the source of the sound. The sales guy turned halfway around as we continued on, asking, "How many would you like?" "Er," I said, startled by the question, "just one." We reach a section of shelves near the rear of the store, the designated dead fowl area. Many, many rubber chickens hanging from wall hooks. I take one, check it out: it's rubber, it's a chicken. My mission is complete. I notice it has a large capital D painted on its neck, then glance at the others -- they're all similarly marked. "What's this?" I ask, pointing at the letter. The salesman glances at it frowning, then scans the others. "Must be the brand," he says. "Oh, right," I say, "from the chicken ranch." We chortle briefly at that, he asks, "Will there be anything else?" "No," I answer, "this'll do." He nods, the nanosecond of hilarity over, he drags ass back to the counter. On the way, the screeching noise starts up again. I see something called The Screaming Skull -- in the right area of the counter, looking low-fi enough, tacky enough to match the sound. The salesman stuffs the chicken into a bag, I pay up and leave. Throughout the entire transaction, the other two men remained perched silently on stools, appearing dispirited, almost bitter. Once out in the brisk November air, I took a moment to check the hour, get my bearings. Seeing that I had time to spare, I moved off at a leisurely pace. Turned left off Boylston onto a cross-street, noticed a large, old brick building across the way, vaguely industrial-looking. Saw the name 'Dainty Dot's Hosiery' on the near wall. A factory? A store? Don't know, didn't take the time to check it out. Up ahead, across the street: two lunch shops. To the left: Real Taco. To the right: Daddy's Roast Beef. The clientele in Real Taco appeared to be office folk. Daddy's customers looked working class, all male. The thought of a plate of tacos twinkled briefly in my teeny brain, until I remembered I was actually on the way to meet someone for lunch, reminded myself it wouldn't do to hoover down an entire meal beforehand. For the hell of it, I checked out the prices in the taco joint -- way too expensive. There are fine tacos to be had in Cambridge -- at Boca Grande, for instance -- for much friendlier figures. Continued along, turned a corner, passing the Boston Rescue Mission, then the Psychic Eye (a place to get, er, psychic readings, far as I could tell). [more to come] rws 6:54 PM [+] |
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Sunday, November 04, 2001 I've been addicted to music since the age of four. I've played instruments, sung (admitting that some might wish to quibble with that), had musicians as friends and sweethearts. I've heard scads of jokes about musicians and musical instruments, but have never seen a collection of those jokes as extensive and far-reaching as the one an individual at MIT has put together. (An individual with way too much time on their hands.) Some examples: Q: What's the difference between a soprano and a terrorist? A: You can negotiate with a terrorist. Q: What's the difference between an alto and a tenor? A: Tenors don't have hair on their backs. Q: What's the definiton of "perfect pitch?" A: Throwing a viola into a dumpster without hitting the rim. Q: Why was the piano invented? A: So the musician would have a place to put his beer. Q: How many drummers does it take to change a lightbulb? a. Why? Oh, wow! Is it, like, dark, man? b. Only one, but he'll break ten bulbs before figuring out that they can't just be pushed in. c. Two: one to hold the bulb, and one to turn his throne (but only after they figure out that you have to turn the bulb). d. Twenty. One to hold the bulb, and nineteen to drink until the room spins. e. None. They have a machine to do that. ********* Sunday night in Madrid, a cool, damp November evening. Early tomorrow -- way, way, way too early tomorrow -- I catch a flight back to the States. Will be gone for a month, spending it in New England. I have deeply mixed feelings about this trip -- in part 'cause this is my first time back since June, in part 'cause this will be my first time in the States in its current atmosphere of, well, whatever it turns out to be. And other things. I'm letting go of an apartment I've had for 5-1/2 years, and a city -- Cambridge -- I've lived in (not counting the coming and going of the last 2, 2-1/2 years) since Feb. of '82. A long time, passing through several lifetimes in that nearly 20 years. People ask me whether I'll be staying on in Spain permanently, people ask what exactly it is I'm doing. Good questions, both of them. Wish I had good answers. I'm winging it. I'll find out what happens pretty much when you do. (Maybe a few hours earlier.) Right. Off to finish packing, then cop a few hours sleep. Entries here may be sporadic and shorter than normal during the next month. Count your blessings. rws 3:27 PM [+] |
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Friday, November 02, 2001 So I was right about yesterday's crop of posters. Most of them were covered over by this afternoon. The current generation features a slew of notices about Melon Diesel in concert. (Melon Diesel????) ******** You know, when it comes to the longer entries that I inflict on y'all via this journal, you might want to wait until they're a day or two old before wading through 'em. They tend to go through rewrites, clean-up (something they often desperately need), cuts, additions. Just so you know. rws 1:56 PM [+] |
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Thursday, November 01, 2001 Called one of my intercambios to see if he wanted to get together this weekend. He did, which I appreciate. Nicer than that, though, was me getting through the conversation in error-free Spanish. Not that we're talking about a lengthy conversation, but still. In recent months -- me reaching a point in learning Castellano where I began realizing exactly how much I don't know (far, far more than I do know) -- I began feeling intimidated by the depth and complexity of the language thing. If I'm talking with someone and I start screwing up the genders or missing the right words to get across what I want to say, nerves sometimes take over. Not a great time. So that the occasions when it goes well produce a feeling of achievement, of real satisfaction. Simple pleasures. Went out to meet a friend for lunch, riding the Metro down to Lavapiés ("washes-feet," maybe referring to the old story about Jesus washing someone's feet), a barrio south of Sol and la Plaza Mayor. An interesting place, busy, with narrow streets that wind up and down hills, a district of high-density population, includes many arty types, many immigrants. The plaza right around the metro stop is usually an active spot, today was no exception. I met my friend Paco, we scurried around the corner to an Arabian restaurant called La Alhambra (named after, er, La Alhambra). A medium-sized joint, just one large room and a bunch of tables with a bar off to one side, usually busy, usually filled with Arabs. My first time eating at La Alhambra, I was with G. & S., two women friends visiting from the States. Two Jewish women friends. We stumbled across the place, went inside to check it out, encountering a room filled with men and cigarette smoke. Conversation around us came to a standstill as we found our way to a table, gradually resumed once we were seated. No women present, apart from G. & S. Just Arabic males. The waiter looked to be in his early 20s, and it might be that our simple presence spooked him. He made like he couldn't deal with my Spanish, quickly backing away and consulting an older, thirtyish guy at a nearby table, who got up and came over to us with a menu. I started ordering, he realized there was no problem, turned and yelled at the young guy, "Hablan español, tonto!" ("They speak Spanish, dummy!") before finishing with our order. A genuine scene. In one corner played a large TV, a major focus of attention. The room reverberated with loud conversation -- reminding me all over again that the word 'dinner' begins with 'din' -- men sitting down, standing up, moving between tables, gathered in groups over by the bar. After we'd started eating, another group of non-Arabic types came in, bringing another couple of women to thin out the mix of cigarette smoke and testosterone just a bit. The food: just fine. Good salads, I had an outstanding plate of lamb and vegetables over couscous, and the after-dinner tea with mint leaves went down nicely. I think G. & S. may have been a bit less taken with the chow than me, but I could be wrong. An older waiter took over serving us, when I gave the thumbs up re: the lamb/couscous, he seemed pleased. I've been back there a couple of times, but not since the happenings of this last September. For some reason, I got a strong urge to go today, and when we entered I wasn't sure what the reception would be like. In fact, no one paid us any mind at all. We walked in the door, the place was at least as loud as the last time I was there (meaning: loud). We found a table, the younger waiter came over, seemed to remember my face, we got on just fine. After ordering, I checked out the scene. Once again, not a woman in the joint, almost all tables occupied. Loud conversation. The TV played a local news show going on about tensions between Morocco and Spain. Almost everyone watched, discussing it the entire time. Morocco is just across the Straits of Gibraltar from the Iberian peninsula, it may be that most, if not all, of the men in the room were Moroccans. None had an Afghani kind of look. A story about the sitch in Afghanistan started, attracting, sure enough, way less interest. Attention turned from the TV to food, conversation, whatever. And no one seemed to notice Paco and me. Shortly after that a family group entered, bringing two women into the mix. Within minutes, three more coed groups entered, including a threesome with what appeared to be a young Arabic woman in a sweater and jeans. I wish I had photos of the faces in this place to flog you with -- amazing faces. Casual dress, for the most part, with a few younger characters dressed in ways that would have fit right in some neighborhood pizza dives in the States. At one point a table near me finished up and left. An older guy got up to assist the waiter clear it off -- face deeply lined, teeth missing, stubble, graying moustache, receding hair. Moving slowly, deliberately, clothes slightly soiled, though not in a way suggesting homelessness. He brought dishes over to the bar, returned to the table at that same deliberate pace, hands held out in front, as if already focused on more dishes. At another table, an extremely thin 50ish guy glanced at me curiously a couple of times, then resumed reading a newspaper, lips moving as he read. Again, an excellent meal, I let the waiter know it. He seemed enjoy having me there this time. And when Paco and I stepped out into the street, I felt satisfied. Paco took off to meet some other folks, I caught the Metro to go see a movie. The train passed through Sol, where a large group of people got on, many with the look of South American Indians -- round faces, dark eyes and skin, thicker features, hair black in a way that's almost shiny. I was standing in a corner, a 30-something mother with a stroller got on, took the corner opposite me, positioning the stroller so that her baby, a little girl, faced me. Sound asleep, staying that way through all the motion of her mother getting them onto the train and settled in. The mother leaned down and fussed over her, her fingers -- thick and rough, maybe from hard work -- handled the little girl lovingly. The child remained dead to the world through it all. She wore a spotlessly clean pink dress, with an outer layer of lace reminiscent of large, immaculate doilies, sheer and in perfect condition. A beautiful little girl, with the broad face of a dusky-skinned, South American angel, her hair abundant and fine. After the mother finished fussing, I watched the little one for a bit. Her fingers moved slightly in her sleep, her head rocked with the movement of the train. Today's a holiday -- All Saints Day (El Día de Todos los Santos) -- the city nicely busy, with an entirely different feel from workday busyness. Happier, more leisurely. Lots of families about. I had time to kill, when I emerged into the daylight at la Plaza de España, I grabbed a bench by the side of the promenade that runs between the two immense fountains and enjoyed the scene. Sunshine, people from all over passing through. Families, couples, kids. Someone went by with two dogs, a smaller one on a leash, and a golden retriever mix, young and so happy to be alive it could barely contain itself. Lithe, full of energy, its feet hardly touching the ground. The movie: a Spanish film called Visionarios (Visionaries), about an event that took place in the north of Spain, in el País Vasco, just before the Spanish Civil War -- a sighting of the Virgin Mary by a group of people that was, depending on whose side you hear, a fraud or a cover-up by the government. Pretty good story. And here's a quirky feature of some Spanish multiplexes: they don't allow moviegoers to exit through the theater, post-film. Everyone has to go out the emergency exit into dark, unadorned corridors that feature restrooms and generally spit the customers out behind the building or onto a side street. Theater employees tend to lurk at the rear of the theater when the movie finishes up, turning away those who try to get out in that direction. Don't think I've ever experienced that before. I stumbled out of the theater to find darkness coming on, a few brightly lit clouds hovering over the western horizon. The number of people in the plaza had doubled, a crowd had gathered on a plot of grass around a group of people drumming and dancing. When I arrived back here, a poster party was just winding up across the street, a mess of large, ugly concert announcements pasted over the last generation of ads. Bet they'll be covered over by tomorrow afternoon, their brief lifetime lasting less than 24 hours. We'll see. rws 2:20 PM [+] |
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Autumn returned to Madrid overnight, edging aside yesterday's return to summer. Bright November sunshine, high swirls of cirrus clouds drifting across a blue, blue sky. In fact, weird as it sounds, something about the look of the day reminds me of the light in Vermont during the month of February. Same angle of the sun (equinox seven weeks away); the walls of this flat are white stucco, the way the sunlight strikes them creates something like the intense light of sun on snow. Last night's cool air brought down sumac leaves in the vacant lot across the way, the trees beginning to appear appropriately skeletal after a chilly Halloween evening. A short time ago a crew of three street cleaners went slowly by, sweeping up fallen leaves, dumping them into wheeled barrels. I'm in the living room of my piso. No music on, no TV going -- just the ambient sounds of the flat and the world outside. From time to time the windows produce a creaking sound as the sun heats up the building. An occasional murmur of voices from down in the street comes and goes, mingled with the occasional sound of a car's passing. From the kitchen, down the hallway, I can hear the humming of the refrigerator and the water heater. And there's an item made differently from its counterpart in the States: the water heater. Here they don't use storage tanks, or at least the heater in this piso doesn't. My landlord mentioned that the Spaniards as a whole tend not to use units that hold water and heat it periodically to maintain temperature. Instead, they use units like the one in my kitchen -- when the tap is turned on, water passes through the unit, gas burners heat the liquid as it passes. When the tap gets turned off, the burners shut down. During warm weather, one flips a switch so that the machine will only produce hot running water. During the cold weather, flipping that switch in the opposite direction initiates heat. A primitive thermostat on the unit gets fiddled with until you find the level of comfort you want in the living space. From that point on, it pumps hot water into the radiators when needed. For some reason, when the switch is turned to cold weather function, the unit produces a humming sound, whether actively heating or not. As if humming to itself while it waits for the piso to cool down. I can hear that sound drifting down the hallway. Once in a while I hear the sound of water flowing or a toilet flushing from another flat in the building. Now and then my laptop makes a short, soft chattering sound to itself. My fingers tap on its keys as I write. And that's it. The sounds come and go, solo or in combination. Writing them down like this, it sounds like a fair amount of noise. In reality, it's quiet, tranquil. ***************** Has anyone else noticed the uncanny resemblance between Penelope Cruz and Joe Perry of Aerosmith? Should something about that make us nervous? rws 1:17 PM [+] |