Another beautiful day in Madrid. Blue skies with thin high clouds gradually moving in, the sunlight strong though diffuse. Temperature in the low 50's, misty air clearing up mid-afternoon. An autumn day, basically, only in late January, with no leaves blowing around the gutters. This must be why they don't have really have autumn in the fall here -– someone got the bright idea of pushing it ahead three or four months. So if you play your cards right, you can spend September through November enjoying autumn in New England, go wherever you feel like going for the holidays, come here immediately after New Year's for autumn #2, then head south of the equator in March or so -- to Chile, say, or New Zealand -- and soak up the autumn there. With the right budget, one could easily line up a three-autumn year. Once the southern hemisphere version is past peak and slouching toward winter, head up to Vermont (you may want to hold off until after Memorial Day to up your odds of missing black fly season, and trust me, you want to miss black fly season) where you can relax and enjoy the most beautiful summer on earth, and then begin the entire hoo-ha again in September.
I'm stopping.
As I said, a spectacular day. Went to classes, had several hours of Spanish-language fun, though today's lessons didn't delve into the choicer, more colorful, more foulmouthed parts of the language. Went out to lunch with Philip, had a pretty decent paella first course, a godawful roast lamb second course. Whooo-eee! As wretched and sullen a plate of food as I've ever seen, that second course. These things happen. But the company was good, and when we stepped back outside, the afternoon remained beautiful.
Went to the gym. When I got back above-ground at the Metro station at Alonso Martinez, the clear air and late-afternoon sunlight were so bracing that I decided to check out La Plaza de Chueca before coming home.
It's a great little plaza -– a fair-sized space surrounded by beautiful old buildings, with tiendas/restaurants/clubs/tapas joints/bars/sandwich joints ranged around the ground level. Above all that: floors of apartments, all windows of the floor-to-ceiling variety, some with shutters, all fronted by small balcones set off by iron grillwork. A long apron of alternating swaths of brick and something –- not concrete, something kinder to the eye -– stretches from the Metro entrance across to La Calle de Gravina, the east-west cross-street that provides the plaza's northern border. Six concrete benches are set at intervals along the east side of the apron, along with young trees, which also line the west side of the apron. It's a place through which a lot of neighborhood life swirls, where people stop to buy a paper or chat or have a drink, maybe pick up a bag of produce. Kids kick a soccer ball around now and then, deliveries are made to the tiendas and restaurants. On a day like today, a beautiful Friday, a lunchtime crowd collects across la Calle de Gravina in front of Angel Sierra, an old-style bar/tapas joint, drinks in hand, the murmur of conversation pleasant and soft-edged.
The time was approaching 5:30 when I parked myself on a vacant bench. People passed through, heading in various directions, lots of interesting types -- younger folk of various hipster stripes, more normal looking family-type folk with bags or groceries. Lots of women. And of course, this being Chueca, lots of guys. One male walked by, moving at a brisk pace, wearing a fairly pedestrian cool weather coat and black, thick-soled, buckle shoes. The left one squeaked loudly with every step. I'm not sure I've ever heard a shoe squeak like that on brick and concrete -– constant, insistent, like it had something to say and nothing was going to shut it up. I could hear that bugger long after the guy had disappeared down the pedestrian walkway off the southeast corner of the Plaza.
When I sat down, I noticed some previous occupant had slung a loogie immediately in front of my spot, placed so that I had to watch where I put my gym bag, not wanting to pick up loogie cooties to take home with me. And at some point as I sat there enjoying the scene, I realized that several previous occupants had had a spitting fest, leaving several still-moist loogies spread about on the ground around the bench. Guys, probably. 'Cause it must be said that some guys spit like it's a vocation, like it's in their job description and nothing is going to keep them from their carrying out their appointed task. (I have to believe they don't do it at home 'cause the idea of that would challenge my generally positive view of humankind too joltingly.) Some baseball players spit like their lives depend on it, like it's vital to their very existence. I remember checking out a televised Red Sox game once, watching in astonishment at the display one pitcher provided. I am not exaggerating when I say he literally expelled a loogie every three or four seconds, like clockwork. It got to where it was difficult to believe the guy could do that and maintain his fluid level. It's entirely possible he had an auxiliary saliva reservoir hidden under his uniform somewhere, with a hose running up to one side of his mouth powered by a teeny pump set at four second intervals. The camera people would have had to conspire with him to pull off the illusion, shooting only from the side that would not reveal the loogie pump, and I've become so jaundiced re: the television industry that I'm prepared to believe they might put together that kind of diabolical spectacle.
I sat for a while enjoying the late-afternoon/early-evening plaza, until I noticed a guy coming toward me from the general direction of Angel Sierra, walking rapidly, a cigarette in one hand, looking a bit off in some way: drink, drugs, something deeper –- don't know. He stopped directly in front of me, bent partway over to hold his cigarette a few inches in front of my face, a strange, nontrustworthy smile on his face, offering me a hit and saying something I couldn't make out. "No," I said. Whereupon he promptly sat down next to me -– immediately to my left, pressing right up against me. Just as immediately, with no thought whatsoever, I hoisted my gym bag, got up and walked away, across the plaza toward la Calle de Gravina and home. As I rose, he said something, "Espera...." maybe ("Wait...."), but I'd set my course and was off. Clearly, it was time to come back to my own space and do some writing, to unlock the thick, heavy old door to this piso and step into the sunlight that floods the kitchen and that end of the hallway in the late afternoon. Home. (For now.)
That's life. Sometimes you have to know when to move on, trusting that better things await.