Something I've noticed since last week's return to Madrid: leaves remain on many trees of the city's trees. Not all, maybe not even half. But enough that some barrios still have substantial urban foliage. Much of which has been slowly turning brown or faded green, suggesting sparse precipitation during my time away. Back in October, rain arrived with the change of season -- short-lived, apparently, and the city looks it.
The last two nights have been cold ones, whitening the curved roof tiles on the building across this narrow street with frost. I got myself up and out to the gym, over in the barrio of Salamanca, an area with plentiful trees, many still with greenery -– the hard frost took its toll, a good number of them were now letting go, leaves of yellow, brown and washed-out green falling gracefully to the sidewalk.
Reminded me of an October morning in Half Moon, north of Albany, N.Y., maybe twenty years back -- somewhere between the 5th and the 10th of the month, deep enough into autumn that a hard frost had settled in overnight. Our land was heavily wooded, most of it old growth, trees of impressive height, thrusting themselves up toward the sky. Not far from the house -- maybe a hundred feet off, halfway between the road and the garage -- stood an especially tall tree, an ash or elm. It had held on to most of its leaves to that point, they'd turned a luminescent yellow, a brilliant, almost unearthly color. When I walked outside that one morning, the frost had done its work, the leaves were coming down in a steady stream of color, like a slow, funereal cascade. By midday, they'd all come down, bare branches extended upward. I've never forgotten that, don't ask me why.
The Spaniards seem to be agog re: the cold weather. Not sure how come -– it's not like they never get winter-style cold here. Far as I know, from the second half of December to the first half of February, the local climate gets plenty frigid. Went to eat at a neighborhood joint a short time ago, the TV played a lunchtime news program going on and on about last night's temperatures, repeatedly returning to an image of a large street clock/thermometer somewhere in the area that bottomed out at -8 Celsius -- somewhere in the neighborhood of 18° Fahrenheit. Footage of commentary from one or two grizzled old Spaniards also got heavy play, talking about how intense the winters used to get, pre-global-warming.
I suppose local media goes wild over weather like this in the States, as well. But this is a major, world-class city -- something about Madrid's amazement at winter putting in an appearance strikes me as being so darned cute.
It's a golden December day –- misty air, afternoon sunlight slanting down into narrow streets. Spectacularly beautiful. Many people here keep songbirds, probably canaries. If the temperatures aren't too cold, they leave the cages out on their balcones or just inside the balcón doors where the bird sing their hearts out. There's something about walking down winding old-world type city streets and hearing music like that in the autumn and winter that is unlike anything I've ever experienced.
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Went to see Hedwig and the Angry Inch today. Liked it. The first half, anyway. Four or five great songs/performances in the best rock 'n' roll tradition of sexual confusion/ambiguity/frustration/defiance, and some good larfs ("Our apartment was so small my mother made me play in the oven").