All things must pass. (Sniffle.)
rws 12:13 PM [+]
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Wednesday, January 30, 2002 Something interesting's been happening in classes this week. There are now only three other students in the group: another American, the German 20-something, Jan, and Hiroko, the Japanese woman. Jan and Hiroko sit next to each other down at one end of our small classroom's table. Both bright, both interesting people, both apparently a bit shy -- both appearing to have a lot more going on inside than gets expressed in the classroom setting. During the past couple of days, Hiroko has cast discreet, lingering glances at Jan, studying his face for a moment or two when his attention was on his notes or as he looked up a word in his dictionary. With a small smile on her face, and a soft, sometimes amused expression. Before long, they began helping each other out with answers as we went through homework aloud, working on the dreaded, ubiquitous subjunctive verb form. If she found herself stumped or flailing a bit for an answer, he'd mutter it to her. At one point, he apparently lost his place in what we were doing, got called on, I heard a soft, repeated sound, it turned out to be Hiroko tapping her finger on the correct section of his homework. All this actually happened in a low-profile way, with a light comic air and a wry touch. Fun to watch. Doesn't feel like anything extracurricular is happening. Hiroko seems happily ensconced in a four-month-old marriage. And Jan, well, he has so far played his cards close to his chest when it comes to his life, at least in the classroom setting, so I know little about him. It's just a nice connection between two people who found themselves sitting next to each other in Spanish classes for a couple of weeks. And it's nice to be around. I was out with other folks from the school last night -- Philip, Richard, Richard’s sweetheart, Carmen, and Veronique, a bright, attractive young French woman. They came here to Chueca, a barrio known for nightlife, and we went joint-hopping, beginning with a tapas bar near here, then moving to Angel Sierra, another nearby joint with different atmosphere, far more drinking. (I'm not much of a drinker, and don't want to be. What's that old Woody Allen line? Something like, "I got very drunk last night and when I woke up I was trying to give the Statue of Liberty a hickey." That would be me. I'm what's referred to as a cheap date, and really don't enjoy sucking down gallons of liquor. But a beer and some tapas suits me fine, especially if the company is good, which it was last night.) We moved on to a third establishment, owned by the Spanish actor Javier Bardem (or by someone in his family) -- more upscale, like a large, happening living room with a bar planted in it. And somewhere along the way, Richard became very affectionate toward Carmen, very demonstrative, which she clearly enjoyed, and it was a pleasure to be around all that, to see them happy, pleased to be together. This love thing -- it really is the foundation. And simply being around it sometimes leaves me feeling mighty tender toward people and life. Doesn’t have to be grand, right-out-there love. Small, sweet, affectionate regard has its place. They both leave me feeling like a big softy. Being one of the parties in love is nice, too. But that's another story. rws 1:59 PM [+] |
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Thursday, January 24, 2002 There are times when I take a moment to step back, glance at my life, remind myself all over again that I am living some of my dreams, and I can only shake my head in wonder at my good fortune. This morning between classes, I found myself in a café hanging out with: a guy from Germany, a young woman from France, a woman from Hungary and another guy -- much more traveled than I -- from the States. All of us speaking less than perfect Spanish, but working at it, having a pretty good time, and undoubtedly providing some hair-raising moments for nearby Spaniards as we bent their language to our collective will. After class, Philip, Pedro and myself went to a small Cuban restaurant that Philip and I stumbled across on Tuesday. A nice little joint -- actually, a bit too nice to be a joint -- run by friendly folks, serving good chow. Throughout the meal they played a selection of what sounded like Cuban pop, running the gamut from highly tuneful to nearly hideous, with the added bonus of the CD player getting hung up now and then so that a bitchen morsel of hispanic pop -- horns, caffeinated percussion, highly enthusiastic vocals -- morphed into a drug-addled bit of gnawingly repetitious techno. We'd say something to the management, they'd smite the CD player, the music resumed. Pedro: one of the funniest, brightest people I've come across in a while, and can talk like no one's business. He doesn't simply blab, his conversation qualifies as performance, one that happily includes whomever is nearby and wants to take part. Philip: also enjoyable, exceedingly German in tone and manner. The two of them together provide fine, madcap entertainment. The waitress -– a young, heavyset 20ish woman -– kept trying to do her job (enumerate menu options, take order, etc.), finding the attempt to impose order on our chaos to be nearly impossible, working against ongoing commentary, nonsequitors, sudden side-conversations, snorting laughter. I could only feel for her. Not that we treated her disrespectfully -- we were just unstoppable in our ability to entertain ourselves. In past entries, I've mentioned the all-purpose Spanish swear word 'joder.' Pedro frequently peppers his talk with a variation of that: 'jolín' (hoe-leen -– the H being pronounced with a strong, rough sound at the back of the throat). The children's version of joder. (Picture Spanish children -- beautiful, happy, high-spirited kids -- calling out '¡Jolin!' or the shorter, simpler version, '¡Jo!' -- like American 6 or 7-year-olds constantly yelling, "Oh, shoot!") Other bits of profanity learned recently: Spaniards refer to the toilet as the throne (el trono), just as many Americans do (to sit on the throne = sentarse en el trono). That all by itself deserves a silly smile. But the company that manufactures most Spanish toilets is named Roca, resulting in a popular euphemism for going to the toilet: 'visitar a Señor Roca' -- to visit Mr. Roca. Let's see, what else? Peepee is pipi, poop is popo. Snot is moco, but you probably already knew that. Ah, here's one: the word 'puta' (meaning whore, a noun with a nasty edge to it) is used as a short, snappy, all-purpose word of emphasis, so that if you, for instance, want to describe a brain-busting verb form being inflicted on you far too frequently by language teachers, you can say, "El subjuntivo," or you can let the listener know what you really think by saying, "El puto subjuntivo" (changing 'puta' to 'puto' to conform with the masculine subject 'subjuntivo). The expression 'Es una mierda' means 'It sucks.' If you want to crank that up just a touch, you could say, '¡Es una puta mierda!' On the other hand, the word 'puta' is used in a very common phrase -– '¡De puta madre!' -– which essentially translates out to 'Fucking great!' So if someone asks you about that film you saw last night ('¿Qué tal la pelicula anoche?') and you loved it, you might answer, '¡De puta madre!' More about adding zip to your Spanish in future entries. Right now I must pretend I'm a student and do some homework. rws 1:26 PM [+] |
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Tuesday, January 22, 2002 Tuesday in Madrid, mid-January, looking and feeling like November in New England. Cool, crisp air. Clouds and a brilliant lowering sun combine to provide autumnal late-afternoon light. One of my favorite kind of days. A friend who lives near Norfolk, England, wrote me that two days ago they endured the kind of stormy weather that features wind-driven rain moving nearly parallel to the ground. According to the Weather Underground, recent temperatures in northern Vermont have ranged between the teens and the lower 30's Fahrenheit, snow falling and accumulating now and then. Here, well, the temperature is in the lower 50's, the conditions gentle, though local weather people keep claiming that rain may be moving in. We'll see. For those who might be considering a move to Madrid, I think I've come up with formula that will, if not guarantee long-term success in changing countries, at least guarantee entertainment along the way. To wit: 1) Fly to Madrid. Bring luggage and $$$$$. 2) Find a flop, short-term or long-term. 3) Enroll in a language school. Take classes. 4) Get to know some of your fellow students. Go out to dinner with them. 5) Prepare to spew laughter-propelled liquids from your nostrils once or twice during the course of the evening. I've arrived at this formula after months of painstaking research that culminated this last Saturday night in a dinner featuring myself and an international cast -- Pedro (from Portugal), his sweetie, Sarah (from Barcelona), Philip (from Germany), Richard (from the States) and his sweetie, Carmen (from the south of Spain). A long, sloppy evening of excellent food and several bottles of sparkling hard cider at Casa Mingo. I enjoy watching groups of people interact, any group of people. It's a whole other experience when they're all from different cultures, in this case all having experience of some length with cultures different from their own. Pedro held entertainingly forth on whatever came to mind, Sarah contributed as well, a bit more quietly. (They're both engineers, intelligent and simpático.) On the other side of Pedro sat multilingual Carmen, across from her sweetie, Richard, who, when he wasn't pouring sidra so that half of it wound up in Philip's lap, blabbered happily about whatever came to mind, getting a bit red in the face as he waxed more and more enthusiastic, punctuating a rant or description with the all-purpose Spanish swear word 'joder' (the J sounds like an H roughly and forcefully pronounced at the back of the throat), stretching it out a bit and inserting insistent pauses so it comes out like "¡JOOO..... DER!" Philip took everything with robust high spirits, deep voice and German accent audible no matter how intense the racket produced by everyone else. I shovelled down roast chicken and the best chorizo I've ever eaten (cooked in cider, I'm told, so that the fat leaches out), to the point that Pedro and Philip counseled me to pause and breathe, Richard chiming in more emphatically. ("¡RESPIRA! ¡¡¡RES-PI-RA!!!") The two women observed the four males with patience and forbearance. Casa Mingo: a restaurant I believe was originally (and may still be) run by a family from Asturias, one of Spain's northwest provinces, a region known for natural beauty, apples and cider, the kind that's about 4.5% alcohol. (For some reason, the alcohol in sidra doesn't make a dent in me so I'm able to guzzle it with impunity.) It's a sizeable, rustic-looking joint, walls lined with bottles of sidra on one end, large kegs on the others. The seating consists of brown tables and chairs that are moved about to adapt to the number of diners, encouraging big communal feeding frenzies. Chickens cook in banks of roasting ovens and if you arrive for dinner after 9:30 p.m., expect to wait for a table -- they don't take reservations. It's enormously popular and often fills to noisy overflowing capacity with natives and tourists. One interesting thing -- many write-ups I've seen about Casa Mingo in on-line Madrid travel/dining guides seems to contain at least one notable inaccuracy. The example I used as a link earlier in this entry mentions on one hand that the food is inexpensive, yet manages to calculate that the average diner should expect to pay in the neighborhood of $2000. (Those freakin', slippery decimal points!) At the end of a night of fairly professional gorging, including at least three bottles of sidra, our tab came to 60 euros –- 10 euros apiece, around $9.00. Post-dinner, we made our way back to the Metro station at Principe Pio, Pedro and Philip bellowing national anthems, where we grabbed a train. The plan, I thought, was to return to Chueca and go somewhere for a bit of liquid refreshment before calling it a night. Clearly, I'd missed out on some critical part of the decision-making process because at la Plaza de España, the other five suddenly got off the train. They're leaving, I start to follow Philip out then backtrack, not sure what's going on, the doors of the train suddenly close and the train pulls out, my last sight of them is Philip doubled over with laughter. I'm laughing pretty hard myself until I turn around and find everyone in the coach watching me, silent, expressionless. That gets me laughing even harder, though I manage to stifle it in time to disembark at the next station. You can't plan that kind of entertainment. rws 1:07 PM [+] |
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Saturday, January 19, 2002 After two weeks of this latest bout of intensive Spanish classes, it's become clear that my Spanish has come some distance during the last 18 months, far enough now that when I hang out with other furriners, I sound like I have some idea of what I'm doing. I sound like I'm actually beginning to speak Spanish. There frequently seems to be an inverse relationship between how loudly a furriner speaks Castellano and their ability with the language -- the higher the volume, the more numerous the errors. Kind of counter-intuitive, but there it is. This has all gotten to the point where I'm finding myself wanting to spend less time with folks who speak middling, error-riddled Spanish and more time with folks who are fluent. (Until I'm with fluent folks and find myself feeling like a total clod, producing middling, error-riddled Spanish.) It's a strange position to be in, as a year ago I often found myself on the downside of that equation, mangling the language on a regular basis. Before coming to Madrid, I spent a month or two working my way through two on-tape Spanish courses, a three-tape beginner's set by Berlitz (not so great), then a 12-tape beginner's set by Barron's (better). Coupled with the hilarious vestigial ability from two years of Spanish in 7th and 8th grades, where I paid little attention and learned just this side of zip, I was somehow able to put across an image of someone whose Spanish was rusty but not pathetic. Whereas it actually was pathetic. Once here, I showed up at the school where I spent much of the next eight or nine months, stumbled my way through a brief assessment conversation/test -- managing somehow to convince the person who assessed me that I could handle classes at the low-advanced level. And of course turning out to be immediate roadkill in that class, completely out of my depth. After several days of suffering, I pleaded for lower-level instruction, got placed in a middle-intermediate group, where I generally filled the role of He With The Weakest Spanish. Working my adorable butt off, my Castellano gradually improved until I seemed to settle in at low-advanced -- still above than my actual level. And there I slaved and toiled, generally remaining in the position of scrambling to keep up. There were reasons for this. I kept returning to the States periodically, torpedoing continuity. I spend an inordinate amount of time in front of the computer writing in English and snooping around cyberspace, a mostly English-speaking universe. So while I took classes and read Spanish-language newspapers and books (always armed with a dictionary), I got plenty of input in Spanish but precious little opportunity to speak the language outside of class. And it showed. A phenomenon with language students here is something called intercambio: interchange. Someone like me gets together with a Spaniard studying English, we talk about whatever we feel like, half the time in English, half the time in Spanish. A pretty swell idea, really -– whoever came up with it given an award. Or a friendly pat on the butt. Something. I've gone through a bunch of intercambios in my time here, most of them brief, often just one-time deals. Except for one with a guy named Jaime who spent a year of high school as an exchange student near Columbus, Ohio. On arrival stateside, he spoke little English and has told me that keeping the television on for the language input was a major learning aide -- Who's The Boss in particular. Kind of scary, that. But he suggested I use the TV more than I'd been using it. And damned if it didn't help. It not only helped, it became an easy way of gauging the state of my language comprehension. So my Spanish has improved, and I'm trying to capitalize on that. I've got two intercambios today, one with Jaime and a first-time one with a woman named Pilar, a Spanish teacher. Hope I don't shame myself. After that I'll be heading out to dinner with a motley assortment of fellow students (a American, a German, and the Portuguese guy from my current class, Pedro) and two of their S.O.'s, both Spanish women. Could be a free-for-all, languagewise. Good clean fun. Later. rws 7:29 AM [+] |
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Thursday, January 17, 2002 A nice thing about having to get up for 9 a.m. classes: Madrid mornings are beautiful at this time of the year, this gets me out into them. As I mentioned in an earlier entry, because of the bizarre job some bureaucrats did while drawing up the European time zones -- a job perhaps undertaken while working their way through someone's liquor cabinet -- Madrid is an hour ahead of London, despite being further west. Meaning the sun comes up an hour later here than it otherwise would, producing mornings that get up to speed slowly -- great for me since I tend to sleep better when it gets light later. I leave the house around 8:35, stumble down into the Metro. When I re-emerge near the school -– at the station named Opera, on Madrid's green line, in the barrio clustered around the Royal Palace (el Palacio Real), an area with winding narrow streets lined with lovely old buildings, including El Teatro Real, the royal opera house –- the light is growing, it's clearly not pre-dawn any more, but the sun is still not visible. The air is soft, often feels a bit damp. And as the sun lifts itself slowly up into the morning sky, the air takes on a misty look. There are people out on the way to wherever they're going, but the sidewalks are far from mobbed. Cafés, cafeterías, restaurantes are open, peddling coffee, sweet rolls, croissants. The atmosphere is relatively sedate. Of course, I don't have to drive in to the city. That may be absolute torture. Lucky me. rws 1:13 PM [+] |
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Thursday, January 10, 2002 This afternoon: went to the gym -– not so unusual, me being the specimen of, er, manliness that I am. Afterward, as I followed Elvis' example and left the building, I stopped to zip up my jacket then sauntered down the block to the Metro. Rush hour was getting underway, lots of folks were about. And just ahead a woman with a stroller began backing into the entryway of a building to open the door before pulling the stroller in behind her. I think what caught my attention was the size of the stroller, larger than your garden-variety model, and as I approached I saw that the body in it was likewise larger than your garden-variety toddler. Turned out it wasn't a toddler at all -- it was a little guy of indeterminate age, the kind of person who might be called retarded by those who don't know what other label to slap on him. Could have been anywhere between 8 and 18 years of age, affected by any number of maladies or 'limitations,' his body curled up, maybe not capable of a great deal of movement, and interestingly, he bore a distinct resemblance to Stephen Hawking. I gave him a smile as I went by, he in turn gave me a smile of such magnitude that I couldn't help but smile even more in return. He smiled at me like it came from every part of his body, as if every cell in that little being were smiling at me. And for a wonderful moment we regarded each other like that, and then I was past, continuing toward the Metro entrance, still smiling. A simple encounter, sending me down the street feeling all kinds of things. Happiness, mostly. But also the occasional sensation of rising tears. I am, of course, far too, er, something to allow that to come out into the open on a crowded rush-hour Metro trip. But it was interesting to suddenly, unexpectedly find myself feeling it all. This life of ours -- one never really knows what's waiting up around the next corner. rws 1:26 PM [+] |
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Written yesterday, 9 Jan., but unposted until today due to Blogger publishing problems: I've been busy these last few hours cracking myself up. It's true -- some days I am easily the most hilarious person I come into contact with. (And I will not explain or justify that assessment. You'll either just have to take my word for it or piss off.) So it felt like the perfect day to see a film like Ghost World, a product the publicity calls 'una comedia ácida' -- a marketing phrase a touch too glib for my taste. (Isn't that a great word? Glib. GLIB. Glibglibglibglibglib. How did those four letters get fastened together in that order? And aren't they a dynamite example of a word that somehow sounds like what it's supposed to mean?) It's about a lot of things, really, Ghost World, alienation and, well, glibness being two of them. Or maybe the glibness is simply a caustic outgrowth of the alienation. Regardless, the film goes after a number of things. Painful at times. At times funny. I found myself laughing loudly quite a bit, then realized I was the only person in the theater doing so (not that there were more than five or six misguided souls there for the 3:55 Wednesday afternoon showing), which for some perverse reason made it all funnier. Not sure whether the story's end worked or not, but it was interesting and -- I grovel with apologies here for the use of this word -- honorable. Everyone else in the theater left during the credits, which meant they missed an outtake tacked on at the very end in which Steve Buscemi (still the reigning king of indie cinema) rewrites a bit of his nerdy character's history. That's the risk in bolting before a movie's actually finished -- you never know what you'll miss. For instance, a relative of Bob Balaban -- one of the supporting players in Ghost World and a face you've seen if you've done any serious moviegoing during the last 20 or 30 years -- is listed in the credits as something like the Second Assistant Assistant Director. Really. Also, the film features a bunch of interesting artwork by the daughter of R. Crumb, Sophie Crumb. Great soundtrack, by the way. The theater complex posted a lackey in our little viewing space at the film's end to try and ensure that everyone exited the door to the street instead of back into the theater (where some miscreants might attempt to sneak into other movies). I had to use the bog, so the guy had no choice but to let me back into the theater or I would have relieved myself on his shoes. After I'd accomplished my mission I passed through the lobby, where I picked up the handout re: the film. And here's the thing: the combination of everything -- the day, the film, the outtake, relieving my bladder, the people waiting in the lobby, the woman there who returned my smile, the gentle light of the softly falling Madrid evening -- left me in a great mood, and I emerged into the post-movie world smiling, where I took a leisurely walk back to my humble Chueca dive, smiling most of the time. It's interesting to note people's reactions when they pass someone who appears happy. Some seem curious, many take no notice, others begin to smile. Most folks walking on their own here do not seem to smile. In fact, back in the States, a Spaniard I know who spent one of his high school years as an exchange student near Columbus, Ohio heard a story -- maybe on NPR, but don't hold me to that -- re: Spaniards who had lived in the States. He told me that one of the Spaniards interviewed in the story mentioned that they felt under great pressure to appear happy, to smile, when in fact they didn't feel like smiling a lot of the time. Not that they were unhappy, they simply didn't want to have to smile. So there's a cultural difference at work there, and it may be that a putz like myself flouncing smilingly down a Madrid street stands out in that way. The other thing: I love watching people, and coming out of a film like that -- which spent a great deal of time observing how the inner workings of its characters showed themselves -- people-watching was the perfect thing to do. There were some low-hanging clouds in the western sky, brilliant with the last light of the day, and the people passing by seemed similarly radiant with the complexity of their inner worlds. It's good, this life. Really. Right. Enough of this. I must go be a student and study. Later. rws 1:07 AM [+] |
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A genuine item from the current edition of Mike's List (from the Proof You Can Buy Anything On The Web section): "Need help lying to your loved ones? Now you can buy an alibi on the Web! The Ace Alibi company will send you a fake invitation, answer a special phone number, lie to callers for you and generally cover your tracks when you're not where you should be." Is this a great country or what? rws 1:02 PM [+] |
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The year so far (continued from entry of Jan. 3): A fine fireworks display, 15-20 minutes long, with a properly energetic climax. Light, color, whistling sounds, explosions. After which the town quieted right down. Groups of people moved off down dark streets. Others straggled into City Hall where indoors activities were underway. The light machine on the City Hall tower continued projecting streams of light bubbles on nearby concrete and brick surfaces. And apart from the line filing patiently into Ben & Jerry's, Montpelier lay nearly still. At nine o'clock, New Year's Eve. They're a weird bunch, those Vermonters. I shuffled my way back up the hill to the B&B for further communing with Rod Serling, drifting nicely off to sleep until 3 a.m. or so, which was about it for the night, snoozingwise. My body never seemed to adjust to the change in time zones during these last couple of Stateside visits, rousing me between 3 and 4 a.m., rarely letting me sink back into unconsciousness. Soon as I return to Madrid, I sleep later. Much later. As if I settle right into the local rhythm, naturally, without effort. Hmmmm. Next morning: January 1st. Sunshine. A bit of fresh snow on the ground. Crisp winter air. Breakfast, a few people already eating when I materialized in the dining room, all Canadians. A nice couple from Stratford, Ontario, and a grandmother/mother/daughter team from Québec, also nice, their conversation moving easily from French to English to French. The woman I know at the B&B produced plates of food. She and the proprietor, Betsy, asked what I've been doing in Spain for the last year and a half, I gave the brief answer: writing. Not being evasive, just not wanting to dig too deeply into personal history before I'd fully woken up. Most mornings I need time to become fully functional, though I try to put up a good front. Went back to my room, packed. Found the proprietor, paid up. Took off for the bus station. At 11:30 on the nose, the Montréal-Boston bus pulled in, nearly at capacity with mostly younger folk who appeared to have done serious partying the night before, leaving them silent, nearly comatose. A young German woman sprawled across two seats got up to sit next to her traveling companion, leaving me a perfect window perch with no one next to me. An hour later, the bus pulled into the Station in White River Junction for a half hour lunch break. Lots of passengers retrieved luggage and disembarked, making for points unknown. I committed the error of going to a nearby McDonald's for a chicken sandwich, something I hadn't done in a long, long time. Bleah. Got back on the bus, once again in a nearly full vehicle with a perfect window seat, no one next to me. Found myself at Logan Airport in Boston shortly after 4 p.m. where I discovered I'd left the B&B with my room keys. (^%#$*!!) Couldn't do anything about it until I got back to Madrid; I prayed Betsy had back-up keys for the room. While waiting to check in, met a nice woman who works for the Food Service at Harvard University, bound for French wine country with four work companions. A work-related jaunt. A Boston-area native with an accent so thick it could easily be used as mortar to lay bricks. We entertained each other until our turns came, me telling her we might have to take our shoes off when we went through the security checkpoint in the wake of the nitwit with the plastic-explosive in his sneakers a few weeks back. I'd seen shots on televison news of travelers at Logan doing just that. No one even glanced in the general direction of my boots when I went through. Probably because I radiate trustworthiness. Waiting. Hours of waiting. The plane lifted off 60 minutes behind schedule, its incoming flight arriving late because of delays related to a luggage-handlers strike in Paris. Onboard, I found myself next to an interesting, attractive, late-30's French woman. A bit reticent, a bit sad-seeming, but also intelligent, a bit flirtatious. Reading a copy of Foreign Affairs, the journal of international matters read and written by very smart people, many of whom work in government/diplomatic service. She didn't work in government or diplomacy. She wrote software, a skill she cobbled together while living out in Silicon Valley working as a private teacher for wealthy folks' offspring. Finding herself there during the boom, she picked up a couple of books, taught herself a lucrative skill, found work. When the valley began cooling off, she relocated to the Boston area, working there until it too cooled off. After which she lined up work in Paris, commuting back to the States once a month to see friends. A quirky woman, with a nice way of pursing her lips when putting together replies to questions of mine. When she decided to take a nap, she got out an inflatable neck pillow, put it on and wrapped her scarf around her head, mummy-like, to cut out the light. Made quite a picture. She seemed unhappily preoccupied with something, her energy directed toward me at times, at other times most definitely directed somewhere inward and private, so that I didn't push conversation too deeply. There's nothing quite like arriving in a European city in the early morning after a foreshortened night of minimal rest. The world on that side of the Atlantic is fresh-faced, showered, crisply-dressed, ready to meet the day, while the traveler feels spindled, folded, wrinkled, creased, oddly out of sync with just about everything, deprived of anything more than fitful sleep -- certainly of REM sleep -- and expected to carry on like a fully-functioning human. A question: why have the French stopped stamping passports? I've gone through Paris several times now in the last year and a half -- each time they give my name/photo a cursory glance, hand it back, wave me on. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate that they don't, say, drag me off to a security dungeon and perform a full-body search, cavities and all, but they literally do nothing beyond the bare minimum. How am I supposed to accumulate passport stamps? Their absence can have consequences [see journal entry for 7 Nov. 2001]. (And now that I think about it, the U.S. customs agents also seem to have stopped stamping passports -– my last two times returning to the States, they did more or less the same as their French counterparts, saying, "Welcome home," then ignoring me. Strange. Of the several countries whose borders I've crossed in the past seven months, England's the only one that's actually applied stamp to paper.) Possibly due to the strike, it took an hour for luggage to get from the plane to the pick-up carousel. Once suitcases and such began appearing, my monster wheeled duffel materialized almost immediately, I grabbed it and took off. The French woman made a point of giving me a nice good-bye, I responded in kind. Found my way to a shuttle, then to a different terminal, where I checked into a flight to Madrid. Made my way up to the waiting area, fell asleep for a while. That flight also took off an hour late, maybe just for the symmetry of it. By 2 p.m., local time, I was back in Madrid. By 2:45, the bus from the airport spat me out at La Plaza de Colón. Into a rainy, gray Madrid afternoon. It rained on and off for the next 48 hours, me adjusting to existence in this time zone. By the time the clouds parted late Friday afternoon, I'd begun to catch up on sleep, rest and life as a high-functioning homo sapien. The holidays remained underway here, the transition to the euro the major news story. Think I'll stay put for a while. It's nice to wake up in the same bed after a night of genuine sleep. rws 1:38 PM [+] |
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Sunday, January 06, 2002 An expression of warm sentiment from The Surrealist Compliment Generator which pretty much says all that can be said: "Though I may never see you again, I wish you the warmest clam chowder, the finest of embalmings, and the best in stainless steel cadaver pans that money can buy." rws 3:38 PM [+] |
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My first couple of days back this last week, Madrid remained mostly gray, often rainy, temperature hovering around 50. Yesterday and today, the skies have been clearer, the air colder. Almost like winter. People are celebrating Little Christmas here, a holiday oriented around children. Los Reyes Magos (the three kings!) show up bearing gifts, or at least that's what they're up to in ads seen around town. There they are, three cheerful dudes, in outfits straight outta central casting, arms full of presents. It's nice -- everyone's happy. Yesterday brought a parade -- lots of floats, people on 'em tossing trinkets and candies into the crowds along either side of the street. Today plenty of people were about, enjoying the wind-up of the holiday season. Folks away for the holidays trickle back, the pace of life visibly picking up. Tomorrow is the officially-observed holiday. Then back to regular life, version 2002. Tomorrow begins another round of intensive Spanish classes, four weeks' worth. At a different school this time. I put in a lot of time at the last one, it had some great instructors. But it's time for a change. For some reason, this school does not take tomorrow off. And as it's January, not many tourists around, I may not have many fellow-students. We'll see. rws 3:33 PM [+] |
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Friday, January 04, 2002 Noted today: many prices seem to be shooting up as a result of the currency switch. Some restaurants seem to be using the change as a reason to boost prices -- likewise some movie theaters. All things considered, however, the changeover looks to be going amazingly smoothly, and while local television news stories about this air out negative aspects, they also make an effort to point out the massive, complex, unprecedented nature of the process, and that in light of that it's so far been easy, comfortable, benign. Pretty interesting. Went to see a Danish film today, "Italian for Beginners". Liked it a lot. Other films recently seen and enjoyed: The Lord of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring The Royal Tenenbaums Amélie Waking Life Bread and Tulips Mulholland Drive (if for nothing else, this one should be seen for the spectacular vocal performance of Rebekah del Rio) rws 5:14 PM [+] |
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Thursday, January 03, 2002 Madrid is well into the change of currency, from the peseta to the euro. The first 13 pages -- count 'em, 13 -- of yesterday's El País, Spain's lefty newspaper, were devoted to the changeover to the euro. Likewise, though the front page of today's El Mundo contains two other headline stories in addition to one re: the euro ("Strong revaluation of the euro in its debut before the dollar and the pound"), the following seven pages contain nothing but articles on the new currency. No chaos so far, no panic that I've seen. The reaction to this point seems to be good-natured interest and curiosity. rws 1:47 PM [+] |
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The year so far (beginning with the end to the old year): Woke up in Cambridge, Mass. early on the morning of the 31st -- way early, far too early -- the last day of my tenancy in an apartment I've had for nearly six years. (Sniffle.) Got up, packed the remainder of my things, stuffed them in my car. Cleaned the apartment, dragged the sofa out to the sidewalk along with the garbage/recycling. Hit the road. Reached northern Vermont around noon, the ride featuring snow, wild turkeys, amazing winter views. Dropped my travelling bags in a Montpelier B&B, then headed out to where I'd be garaging my Subaru for the coming months. Dropped off the car, began the short hike downhill to Route 12, the two-lane that heads south to Montpelier, intending to thumb my way back into town, stopping along the way for a brief visit with an elderly couple I know, Mo and Kay Pearsons (pronounced 'Persons'). A hugely entertaining pair who have lived in their small home on a hill in East Calais for more than 50 years. Mo's family has lived in the town for generations, he's the real item. Grew up there, went to a one-room schoolhouse on the other side of the hill, worked as a stone-cutter in Barre (Montpelier's evil twin city) for many years. About a month ago, creosote build-up in the chimney pipe from their wood stove led to a chimney fire. They've since been enduring extensive repair work, labor long overdue in a house that old and so good for all concerned. An added benefit: it gives them an ongoing source for complaints and exposition. That, hunting matters (Mo being hardcore), and the ongoing drought that's left them without running water for several months composed most of Mo's conversation. Kay, on the other hand, vented about the various physical trials they've both endured over the past year (Mo's age: around 80; Kay's: 70-something), along with 9/11 and whatever else came to mind, giving thanks over and over that 2001 was on the way out. When they learned I intended to hitch back into Montpelier, they refused to allow it, getting a touch offended when I insisted there was no need for them to put themselves out. Mo and I climbed into his Chevy truck -- one of the joys of his existence -- and drove back roads to Montpelier. Got back to town before darkness fell. Montpelier: a town of 8,000 people -- just a little outpost nestled in a basin among green, looming hills, at the conjunction of two rivers. A place that would be described as sleepy if it weren't the state capital. The small downtown area is active during the Monday through Friday daytime hours, shutting down fairly decisively after the workday, though that softens some during the summer and leaf-peeper months when hours of sunlight are longer and tourists are about. The B&B, situated up the hill from downtown, is part of a small empire run by a married couple, including at least three nice old buildings. On arriving, I ran into a woman I hadn't seen in more than a year and a half, a lovely woman who works there cooking and cleaning. It was good to see her, so good that it made me wonder why the hell I was leaving. In my room, I found myself turning on the tube, watching parts of various program orgies (Twilight Zone, Buffy The Vampire Slayer). By the time I'd torn myself away from all that and slipped/slid my way downtown, the town hall clock had struck 8 p.m., the Montpelier First Night parade had gotten underway. Drums and sounds of partying, a stream of bodies and torches passing at the intersection of State and Main at the foot of the hill. A couple of searchlights pointed up into the sky, light snow falling through their beams. A huge light mounted up on the tower of the City Hall projected moving bubbles of light along sidewalks, street, nearby buildings. Kind of a surreal Lawrence Welkey thing. The parade moved off down State Street toward the State House, a stretch of road lined with an interesting combination of old and more recent buildings, the Capitol Building itself -- stately, elegant, gold-domed, compact -- occupying a sweeping stretch of lawns and walkways. Few businesses were open, the ones that were (especially the Ben & Jerry's shop) seemed to be doing brisk business. There are two good bookstores right at the main downtown intersection, Bear Pond Books and Rivendell Books, they might have roped in a bunch of customers that night. Then again, maybe they preferred partying to working. As the crowd swarmed away toward the State House, I searched for food, winding up at a window table in a Chinese restaurant shoveling down a generous pile of chicken lo mein. Outside, a short, heavy-set, dentally-challenged young woman wandered into view. She held something that looked like it might have been a street newspaper along the lines of Spare Change, the paper sold on the streets of Boston and Cambridge, Mass. And as she hovered out there, the sound of fireworks erupted. Montpelier's First Night finale. At 8:30 in the evening. Aren't New Year's Eves fiestas supposed to climax around midnight? (After spending most of the last year and a half in Madrid, I'm constantly startled at the American tendency to start and finish evening activities early.) [cont'd in entry of Jan. 7] rws 1:32 PM [+] |