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Thursday, February 28, 2002 This city: a fine combination of beautiful, quirky, hilarious. Went to a late lunch at a cafetería I tried once before. El Cañizo -- a joint on Fuencarral, one of the barrio's main drags. You glance in the front windows, you walk into the front room, you find a perfectly respectable-looking tapas bar/cafetería. But walk through the front room and down a hallway, you find yourself somewhere else altogether. We're talking a couple of dining rooms -- one small, one large -- filled with nicely set tables. Walls mostly marble except for one long expanse of floor to ceiling wood paneling which manages, in some intangible way, to toss a monkey wrench into the rarified atmosphere the marble tries to generate. Some vaguely kinda faux art deco wall-mounted lamps are scattered around, along with numerous examples of the tackiest paintings this side of a 1950's Holiday Inn, each painting with its very own illumination lamp mounted above the frame. An amazing combo of looks is at work in these rooms. As if whoever threw it all together aspired to some nebulous image of classic Viennese refinement but couldn't rid the place of some serious cinderblock VFW Hall ambience. From there I wandered up Fuencarral toward Tribunal, intending to check out el Museo Municipal (the municipal museum -- a nearly 300-year-old building, originally a hospice) -- a lovely old edifice whose entrance is framed by an gigantic, unbelievably ornate facade. Located in a part of town that is completely overrun by hordes of drinking, partying youths on weekend nights, and though I've passed the place many times, for some reason it never occurred to me to investigate. Something about the sprawling weekend crowds of shouting, shitfaced teens and 20-somethings. Until something I recently read about it piqued my curiosity. The museum concerns itself with Madrid, essentially from the 1600's on. Many large paintings by less than stellar artists, often anonymous, and a smaller number of paintings by genuinely accomplished artists. Lots of beautifully-preserved old furniture. But nothing too exciting until the timeline rolls into the 1800's. At which point many large paintings concern themselves with the uprising against the Napoleonic occupation, and things get a bit livelier. There's also a model of the city, created over the course of 22 or so months around 1830, which occupies an entire room. Worth a long, leisurely look. On the way out I happened to notice the door that led to the gift shop and stepped inside to find the greatest collection of Madrid-oriented consumables that I've come across in my time here -– books, postcards, gifts, spanning the spectrum from the tacky to the sublime. A bonanza, a genuine find. A month from tomorrow I'll be heading back to the States. Changes are in the works. rws 12:48 PM [+] |
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Tuesday, February 26, 2002 Walking through la Plaza de Chueca yesterday, the focal point for a lot of activity and energy in the barrio, I noticed the banners hanging from many balcones (since last spring) had changed. [See journal entry of September 16, 2001.] The old ones read VIVIMOS AQUI -- CONTROLA EL RUIDO (WE LIVE HERE –- CONTROL THE NOISE), their number dwindling since the original burst of anger re: nighttime noise that resulted from intense all-night partying in last year's Orgullo Gay (Gay Pride) weekend. The new banners say: PELIGRO: ZONA CONTAMINADO POR RUIDOS (DANGER: ZONE CONTAMINATED/POLLUTED BY NOISE), they hang from balcones all around the plaza, including an enormous one that spans three or four balcones. The slow settling in of spring has increased the nocturnal revelry during this last month, with a corresponding rise in noise, but I guess I hadn't realized the extent of it. I'm down the street from the plaza and up five flights. Must be a whole different experience for people in the buildings that ring the plaza. A number of "Se Vende" ("For Sale") banners have also appeared. Clearly, a bunch of someones recently decided they'd had enough. Life. So much drama. ************* I've been neglecting my Simpsons calendar, but happened to glance at it today and noticed that a horde of heavy-hitters were born this month, among them: Johnny "Guitar" Watson, b. 3 Feb., 1935 Rosa Lee Parks, b. 4 Feb., 1913 Betty Frieden, b. 4 Feb., 1921 Hank Aaron, b. 5 Feb., 1934 Rip Torn, b. 6 Feb., 1931 Francois Truffaut, b. 6 Feb. 1932 Bob Marley, b. 6 Feb., 1945 Charles Dickens, b. 7 Feb., 1812 James Dean, b. 8 Feb., 1931 Lon Chaney, b. 10 Feb., 1905 Abraham Lincoln, b. 12 Feb., 1809 Christina Ricci, b. 12 Feb., 1980 Art Spiegelman, b. 15 Feb., 1948 Matt Groening, b. 15 Feb., 1954 Michael Jordan, b. 17 Feb., 1963 Toni Morrison, b. 18 Feb., 1931 Amy Tan, b. 19 Feb., 1952 Nina Simone, b. 21 Feb., 1933 W.E.B. DuBois, b. 23 Feb., 1925 Johnny Winter, b. 23 Feb., 1944 Winslow Homer, b. 24 Feb., 1836 There are lots more listed, of course, but it's a funny thing about this calendar -– the featured birthday folks are overwhelmingly male. What's up with that? rws 1:51 PM [+] |
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Went to see a film yesterday in a theater over by la Plaza de España, an area that's actually a hotbed of theaters showing films from other countries in what's called voz original (original voice) –- undubbed, in the original language with Spanish subtitles. Great practice for someone learning Spanish -- the subtitles generally change fast enough that if your attention lapses you'll miss dialogue. Meaning you must be on your toes. It feels like a major achievement for me to take in films from France, China, Germany, Sweden in the original tongue with only Spanish subtitles to rely on. The Metro I use to get to la Plaza de España is line 10, the one that takes the most work to reach of the all the Metro lines here. Mainly because it's so far underground that it takes anywhere from four to six long, long escalators to get down there –- with the occasional hike from one escalator to the next. You're well below the planet's crust when you're riding la linea 10, almost as if when they started digging the bugger they had so much fun playing in the dirt that they didn't come to their senses until they were halfway to the Earth's core. By then it was too late to do anything but lay track and order a horde of escalators, hoping nobody would notice the faint acrid odor of magma. Black market vendors are extremely common in the subways here, dealing in CDs, sunglasses, scarves, wallets, handbags, watches, mobile phones, and in one passageway between escalators on the way down to Linea 10 at the station Tribunal there is someone who peddles Christian paraphernalia. In particular, they have framed illustrations of Very Holy Individuals which light up. There's a portrait of Jesus, Mary and Joseph in which the illustration is strategically perforated to provide a halo for each of them, and red lights mounted behind the illustration blink on and off, first providing a halo for Jesus, then for Mary, then for Joseph, one after the other, over and over and over. This, I suspect, may be the equivalent of Elvis on black velvet for the 21st century. According to news sources, the pirate CD trade here now accounts for somewhere in the neighborhood of 30% of all CDs sold in the country -- a huge enough dent in that market that great noise is now being made re: cracking down on it. In particular, the national police force (la Guardia Civil) announced this last week that they will be making a major effort to cut into the illegal CD trade and I heard something on the news this morning about a raid on a manufacturing site. Many of the vendors are Africans –- Spain has an immense problem with illegal immigrants (from Morocco, from sub-Sahara Africa, from eastern Europe) coming up across the straits at night to the beaches in Andalucia, similar to the situation in the southwest U.S. (minus the Mediterranean, of course). The vendors are poor folk trying to make a living -– that's not a justification, just the situation. The pirate CDs generally go for around three euros, a price that attracts buyers. ***** Madrid's recent springtime temperatures seem to be settling in. There's no telling if this will turn out to be the real item or a long, pleasant tease, but it is unbelievably beautiful, bringing people out of the woodwork into warm sunlight and reasonably fresh air. Throughout these last few days, as temperatures have crept upward, I've seen folks wandering around in shirtsleeves, either due to hardy constitutions or wishful thinking running wild. Today is the first day in which one truly could go about without a coat –- anyone, not just the mildly insane. The crowds around la Plaza de Chueca just down the street from my building have grown with the rising temperatures, the plaza ringed with bodies sprawled against the buildings or standing in groups talking, often holding a drink, soaking up the sun. Pedestrian traffic at la Plaza de España, a great people-watching site, has swelled in recent days. The plaza literally teemed with people yesterday, waves of bodies in motion moving in both directions along the promenade between the two gigantic fountains. Couples, families, groups of young folk, people with dogs. Lots of younger types from Central and South America on vacation, brandishing cameras, taking shots of each other. The occasional group of Japanese tourists. The City has planted long beds of petunias and pansies there, and trees are blooming, including one entirely covered with white blossoms. There's a feeling of liberation in the air, a sense of being released from winter clothing, winter temperatures. This is why people here put up with the heat of July and August, because the spring and autumn both last for 3-4 months and are intoxicating. In three or four short weeks, hordes of American tourists will materialize. By that time, I'll be getting ready to return to the States. Time just rolls on. rws 12:11 PM [+] |
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Saturday, February 23, 2002 This morning: managed to drag myself out the door by 10:30 -- early for a Saturday a.m. in these parts. Had errands to do over in Madrid's west side, in a neighborhood down on the flat below el Palacio Real. Got out early enough that few folks were about, making for an easy Metro ride, easy walking. Headed north along el Paseo de la Florida, a wide avenue in a high-population neighborhood, the street lined with large old trees, one of which already sported some green up top. By 11:30, the streets were full with people out shopping and doing errands before the two o'clock closing of the tiendas, they've remained full with people soaking up sunlight and mild temperatures. Got some lunch at a joint a couple of blocks from here on la Calle de Hortaleza -- the street still largely a pedestrian mall because of the continuing work. A tall transvestite sat perched at the table next to mine, along with a slender, equally tall gay man, conversing as they ate. Afterward, back outside, I found a band playing at the plaza down the street, loud and spirited. Guitars, trumpets, accordion. A crowd had collected in front of Angel Sierra, in the moments between band numbers, the murmur of voices came and went, a bit like the distant sound of surf. I love all this. I'll miss it. And until I'm out of here several weeks from now, I'm going to enjoy it. Back home, I found a text message on my mobile phone from a friend in East Anglia, England, informing me that they were experiencing snow and gales. She asked if I was glad I wasn't there. Bwaaaahahaha!!! Silly question. [Author's note, 11/15/05 -- Sorry to intrude. Don't have much choice, though, given that last entry. The me of nearly 3+ years ago: kind of a dork. A fairly private dork, real freakin' picky about the info. he shared, preferring not to devote much time to complaints, melodrama, personal problems, etc. A preference the me of here/now still shares. Except when it leads to things like the dumping of important factoids (in this case, me getting the hell out of Madrid, apparently for good) on the reader in passing without even the vaguest explanation of what the hell is going on, without even the sketchiest bit of background. Blah blah blah. What happened: me getting ill. Really ill. And finding myself essentially alone with it. Or maybe more accurately, finding myself feeling that I had no one in my Madrid life I could impose on when my situation became dire. Not a great place to be. And not the first time I found myself in that particular place. Happened once before, during one of my last summers in Binghamton, New York, near the winding down of my university time. In August. Woke up one morning feeling sick enough that I couldn't eat, drink, drive myself anywhere for help. Could barely get to the bathroom and back to bed, could barely get down teeny amounts of water. Burning up, and in my disoriented state I couldn't differentiate my physical fever from the summer heat. I know I called the woman I'd involved with, but she had two kids to take care of and I don't think she got just how bad off I was. Woke up on the third morning, could feel the fever had broken during the night. Could get to my feet, eat, drink, wash myself up. Began the return to life, and began to realize how ill I'd been, did not like the fact that I'd been alone during it all. The fact that I found myself going through a version of it once again shook me, seemed like a clear sign that changes needed to be made. And as much as I adored being in Madrid, I think I felt the need to retreat, spend some time taking stock. I'd been in close contact with a woman from the States during the previous weeks, the possibility of that turning into something substantial added force to the idea of shifting life back to the far side of the Atlantic. And somewhere during the week or so it took to recover from whatever it was that had knocked me flat, the decision got made to head back to Vermont, me thinking the time had come to wind up my time in Madrid. This did not invalidate the ongoing I-love-Madrid attitude that following entries flog -- if anything, all of that became more poignant for me, more deeply-felt. How much of that comes through I can't say, but there it is. It also fueled the traveling frenzy of the following few weeks, me cramming as much into my remaining time in this part of the world as I could manage. Further annotations will be added as necessary. Onward.] rws 9:14 AM [+] |
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Friday, February 22, 2002 Today: beautiful, like one of those early April days you sometimes get in New England -- bright sunlight, blue skies, air still a bit chilly. The kind of day that makes you get out and walk, that brings a smile to one's face. After dragging my adorable culo out of bed and off to the gym, I took advantage of the waning days of the January sales (las rebajas!), picking up a pair of heavy, thick-soled black boots. Man, footwear is inexpensive here. These buggers were priced at about one-third of what they'd go for in the States. On the way back in this direction, I passed la Fundación Telefónica, a good example of an interesting phenomenon here -- divisions of corporations which pour money into the arts and sponsor free exhibitions (often in their own spaces) of all kinds of art, which lots of people attend. The current exhibit: Otras Meninas, consisting of work by more than 30 artists, all centered around images from Las Meninas, possibly the most widely-known canvas by Velazquez. This link right here includes a detailed explanation of the painting and why it's so intriguing. The exhibit: a hoot, featuring great work, some of it hilarious, some genuinely beautiful, some of it way out there. Fun. Or at least I thought so. Had a satisfying lunch, went to a movie. Picked up a sandwich, came home to bother you. It's okay, this life. rws 1:48 PM [+] |
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Monday, February 11, 2002 Strange weekend. Spent huge amounts of time on the phone with friends stateside and in the U.K. Hung up the phone one time, it rang the nanosecond I put it down, I was immediately into another call. Did almost nothing yesterday, at least as far as activities I could enumerate. Stayed in bed until... when? Don't even remember. When I dragged myself out from under the covers, a beautiful day waited, brilliant with sunshine. By the time I stumbled down to the street and through the plaza to the paper kiosk for the Sunday paper, a large crowd had already accumulated in front of Angel Sierra and spread across the street into the plaza itself, basking in the sun, glasses of soda, beer, vermouth in hand, the hum of conversation floating in the air. Went back home with the paper, didn't come out again for the rest of the day. Weird. Not what I'd intended. I'd thought about heading over to la Reina Sofia, one of the city's three big-time art museums. It occurred to me to check the hours in the paper, discovered it's only open from 10 to 2:30 on Sundays. Found that out at 2 p.m. Poop. Instead, I ate, read some, went online, went offline, went online, went offline. Read a bit more, watched some TV. Went online, went offline. Brooded some during all this –- not my usual, more sprightly mode of being. Luckily, the evening brought two extended calls from loved ones in other places, bringing me up out of wherever I'd been. I'm restless. Will be heading back to the States in May, back to Vermont -- for how long I don't know, where I'll finally end up I don't know. There's a lot to be done there, and whatever unfolds could wind up taking me in any number of directions. These coming months may be the end of my stretch in Madrid, and with that thought floating around my teeny little brain, every step I take out in this city's streets feels poignant, every view of a narrow calle stretching away in shadows and Iberian sunlight seems to reach inside me and prod something deep. In the meantime, I get to write, I'll take more classes, I'll have visitors at times, I'll take a couple of trips. Life rolls on. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Just went out to the nearby centro comercial [see journal entry of February 9], stopped at the small bakery stall there for a couple of loaves of bread: a baguette integral (whole wheat), a Gallego loaf, along with a croissant and a caña de chocolate (mmmmmmm... chocolate -- the caña being a variation on a chocolate croissant, only longer, lighter in color, a bit cylindrical, the crust different though still flaky). The cost of all that: 2.66€, or just under $2.40 American. An aspect of life here that just knocks me over. Walking across the plaza, I could hear a bird up on a rooftop letting go with a springtime kind of song. For the past week there's been a growing sense of change approaching, of seasons turning once again. The sun's up later in the evenings, well past 7, and is now beginning to rise earlier than the 8 a.m. hour it's kept for the past three or so months. Last year at this time, the City planted flowers all over the place during February, so I expect I'll begin seeing daffodils, jonquils, pansies, petunias soon. On the way out of my building, someone nearly fell into the foyer as I pulled the door open, a young woman with a bundle of pamphlets, reminding me of yet another difference between life here and in the States: junk mail here doesn't actually arrive in the mail. People -- lots of them -- deliver junk mail to each building, personally shoving the pamphlet or circular into your mailbox. If they can't access your box, they leave a pile of material on the floor nearby. If they can't get into the building, they leave a pile of stuff by the door. They don't like that last option, and since they don't have keys to the buildings, they stand outside and ring buzzers until they successfully nag someone into letting them in. When I first moved in here the buzzer would start going off mid- to late morning. If I was dumb enough to answer the intercom, I'd find some over-caffeinated junk-mail pusher jabbering impatiently in my ear, fast enough that my Spanish couldn't keep up. If I didn't immediately buzz the door open, they'd start talking faster, more impatiently. If I didn't respond immediately to that, they'd start punching at the buzzer for my piso again. I learned pretty quick to ignore the call of the buzzer during daytime hours. The young woman I ran into this morning left a pamphlet for ocular surgery (cirugía ocular) in every mailbox. Junk mail advertising here is called publicidad or propaganda. Indeed. ********** You're probably aware that St. Valentine's Day is slouching our way. In yesterday's El País Sunday magazine (El País Semanal), they ran a mess of love letters sent in by readers. Some were pretty striking, so -- and I don't know what's come over me here -- for the next few days I'm going to risk breaking every copyright law in existence and translate two or three of them a day here. (All copyrights belong to El País.) Please feel free to ignore 'em. Today's: Caught by the hand From the time you took my hand, everything has been different. -– Elena Del Rio ¡Ay, chico mío! A year of excuses (a whole one!) waiting for this day. Today I will not let you talk: when you go to speak –- zap! -– you will have my lips over yours cutting off your words, because they say that if there's love, words are superfluous, and I love you more than anything in the world. -– Carmen Castro Manzanares Mysterious love Twenty years have passed and I still continue searching for love. To be in your arms at dusk, to see your smile, to feel your look, to hear your breathing, to kiss your mouth... they're things that I lack, that I need. Something is wrong in people when no matter how much one loves they don't continue to be loved. Mysterious love that's put in the blood like a drug. -– Juan Lanzarán rws 1:16 PM [+] |
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Saturday, February 09, 2002 So I got myself out at a fairly early hour this morning -- 9:30 a.m qualifies for early here -- to do some errands. It's been a while since I've stumbled out before 11 or so on a Madrid Saturday. I forgot what the streets can look like, post Friday night revels. The cleaning crews that go around methodically cleaning up the city do good enough work that by late morning most of the debris from the previous night's partying is gone, and the narrow old-world streets begin to fill up with regular folk out for Saturday shopping before the stores close down at 2 p.m. Must have been a particularly happy night, 'cause as soon as I stepped out the door of the building I had to pick my way through post-fiesta litter. Made my way around the corner and down la calle de Pelayo. Two or three blocks along the gentle downhill grade of that street, I came across the first lonely cleaning person in their green-'n'-phosphorescent-lime colored outfit, slowly sweeping up trash. A couple of blocks over, the streets were wet from having being hosed down and cleaned. And a block from there I entered the main objective of this trip, the market (el mercado). The markets here are a phenomenon, permanent versions of what would be farmers markets in the States, only with booths and teeny stores of all kinds, essentially providing anything a household might need. Loads of produce stands, big and small -- the one I usually go to at this market is run by a middle-aged couple, her a bit tall and portly, very friendly, him a bit shorter than her with the hands of a working person, glasses and close to no hair -- fish stands, booths and small tiendas dealing in frozen goods, butcher's shops, shops dealing only in chicken/eggs (I don't know which came first) or larger cuts and innards from pigs, sheep, cattle. There are hardware stores that carry most of what one might need to equip an apartment, there are booths that carry nuts of all kinds along with olives, tinned goods, snack foods. There are counters that push coffee, beer/liquor, chocolate, tapas, baked goods and greasy-spoon-type breakfasts. Flower shops, shops dealing in notions and knick-knacks, tailor shops, shops dealing in electrical goods. There are drugstores (droguerías), which deal in personal hygiene products, cleansers, shampoos and the like -- everything but drugs, actually. For them you go to a farmacia where you'll also find vitamins, funny Dr. Scholls kind of shoe/foot stuff, health aids of all kinds, and whatever else the proprietors feel like stocking. (Las farmacias are all over the place, by the way, and maps of the city generally include the many 24-hour farmacias.) From outside, the buildings that house these markets -- called 'centro commerciales' here -- look nondescript, uninteresting. The only thing that gives away the activity inside is the number of vans and small trucks coming and going. To walk in the door of one of these markets, though, is a whole other thing -- colors, smells, sounds. An amazing brew. At least to me. For instance, the colors – the produce stands, especially the big ones, provide banks of bright, vivid hues which stretch around corners or down aisles. Right now strawberries are in, meaning mounds of large, plump berries in shades ranging from a bright, almost orange-red to deep, deep crimson. Oranges are in -- navals, mandarins and juice oranges -- and lemons. Avocados, beans of all types, peppers of all kinds. Pears, kiwis and bananas up the wazoo. Three or four different types of tomatoes, generally needing time to ripen at home. Once they're ready, they're tender and full of flavor, not at all like factory tomatoes. The mix of people at the markets is another part of the show. Folks of all kinds, of all ages, many with carts, all going about their shopping with the whole spectrum of possible attitudes and concentration. Lots of conversation, venders talking back and forth, calling out things to shoppers or booth help. Noise, motion. Lots of older folks, people who may have followed this routine all of their lives. The buildings which house these markets generally have two floors – the street level entryways are actually between floors and you're met with stairs heading both up and down. The stairways generally have a ramp along one side so that shoppers can slide their carts up or down. A side thought, while it occurs to me -- something I've found odd here: the way potato chips are sold. Vendors -– booths at los mercados or small shops out in the street that sell candies, nuts, snacks and basic groceries (alimentos) -– have them in bulk, big sprawling piles of chips that they scoop into small bags for the individual buyer. I've also noticed that I rarely see popcorn outside of movie theaters here, though they're as popular with Spanish moviegoers as they are in the states -– they call them "palomitas": little doves. The market vendors I've bought from are generally fairly formal to start out, almost always using the formal mode of address, 'usted' instead of the informal 'tú.' Mostly very courteous, almost courtly, occasionally gruff. After two or three visits, they start to loosen up and engage in a bit of chat. They smile when they see me, they ask how I'm doing. They're lovely, most of them. Though I notice almost all of them stick with the formal mode of address, rarely switching to tú. Today I picked up two large bags of produce -– lettuce (lechuga), a bag of tomatos (tomates), pears (peras), a half kilo of strawberries (fresas), avocados (aguacates), cucumbers (pepinos), mandarins (mandarinas), bananas (platanos). I stopped at two different baked good stands, picked up a couple of whole wheat baguettes –- the whole grain baguettes here are excellent -– along with a quarter of a quiche and a quarter of an empanada de bonito, basically a pie containing a layer of a kind of fish that's akin to tuna. The empanadas de bonito have become a favorite of mine, and if I go to any of the many wonderful local bakeries (pastelerías), I can pick up some truly fine empanadas, with beautiful, flaky crusts -- genuinely delicious and elegant, surprisingly inexpensive. When I stepped back out into the street, the sky had clouded over, the air felt close and damp, unusual for here. One of the things I like about this time of year are the unexpected arrivals of dampness, sometimes as rain, sometimes as mist, quieting everything down a bit, muffling the sounds of the street just a little. The air felt damply cool against my skin, my breath was visible. That was about two hours back. Since then the mist has lifted, leaving the day sunny, the sky almost milky with thin, high clouds. A good day to get out for a walk, pick up a nice lunch somewhere, maybe a good cup of espresso. Later. Be well. rws 5:08 AM [+] |
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I really am going to sit my extremely appealing butt down and write something new, something interesting. Honest. Soon. Today, maybe. In the meantime, here's another page to check out. One reason the entries here have been a bit spotty in the last week or two (not that they have spots -- they just haven't had the impressive regularity they sometimes have) (er, not that they aren't regular 'cause they are -- they eat lots of fresh fruits and vegetables and hardly ever dig into bags of cheetos and certainly no pretzels 'cause they don't want to pass out and hit their little heads on the furniture) is because I've begun going through some of the older entries, starting back in September, and doing re-writes and clean-up and adding links and like that. I'm always thinking of you. Really. Right, I'll stop now. rws 2:34 AM [+] |
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Thursday, February 07, 2002 The following is an unfinished entry from last week -- Written on Tuesday, 27 Jan.: The weather here yesterday and today has been spectacular -– mild, sunny, benign. Still with a coolness to the air, but the kind of weather in which one can feel the distant spring advancing. The mornings start off chilly and slow, the air a bit misty. By early afternoon, the temperature's risen to the mid- to upper-50s. Easy conditions to live with. I sat at an outdoor café for a while today after classes, the first time I've seen chairs and tables set up outside since last October. In a beautiful location, actually –- over to the west side of the city center, between the royal opera house (el Teatro Real) and el Palacio Real, in a large sprawling, semi-circular plaza called La Plaza de Oriente. One side of the plaza is lined with beautiful old buildings that face the palace across a warren of gardens, at the center of which stands a large, impressive fountain/statue of King Philip IV. The gardens extend to a north-south pedestrian road which runs alongside the east wall of the palace. The palace (actually called el Palacio de Oriente): a monstrous, eye-catching structure, built on a bluff overlooking a spread of parkland called El Campo del Moro (the Country of the Moor) which contains the palacial gardens, then the river (el Rio Manzanares), and more parkland, la Casa del Campo, (the Country House? the House of the Country? -- with a zoo, an amusement park and more). Impressive stuff, and it's nice to have it all so close by and accessible. By the way, the Time Out Guide to Madrid states that the palace contains 3,000 rooms, which differs from the substantially lower figure of 1,000+ rooms I've heard around Madrid, still a gargantuan, grandiose collection of living spaces. I have no idea which of those figures reflects the actual number. It may be that the higher one is on the money, but I have to confess I have trouble wrapping my feeble wits around the idea of that many rooms in one structure. We sat in front of the Café de Oriente. Inside, the café is a lovely space -- old, genteel, beautifully taken care of, having the kind of look and feel I'd expect to find in a comparable establishment in Vienna. With good food and good coffee at reasonable prices. Outside, the attraction is the location and the view -– beware: the prices go up steeply for service at the tables in the plaza. That may or may not matter to a visitor, but unless one knows beforehand the bill can be a bit of a shock, as it was today to Philip (a German mensch I know from Spanish school, a gregarious, hilarious person with a seriously resonant, inescapable voice) and Veronique (a young, attractive French woman also taking classes at the school). I warned them but they made the German and French vocal equivalents of pish. Until the bill arrived, at which time they were outraged. C'est la guerre. ********* Post-script, 7 Feb. – The spectacular weather of those two or three days last week passed, leaving the usual late Jan.-Feb. conditions: mostly sunny, temperature 50ish. Not a brutal change. In fact, not a huge change, just less sense of spring on the way, which meant the tables and chairs that suddenly materialized outside some cafes vanished once again. I met two people from school for lunch today -– mmmmmmm, Korean food -– and on my walk home through Chueca, I realized all over again how much I love Madrid. A beautiful city, packed with history and culture, with interesting natives and lots to do. You're out of your mind if you don't spend some time here. (In my humble, ignorant opinion.) rws 4:48 PM [+] |
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Wednesday, February 06, 2002 Update, post-hair-frenzy: No screaming. Most of today's moment-to-moment responses have wavered between a reassuring, half-pleased, "Oh, that's not so bad," and a heartfelt, "Oh, bugger!" Depends on the moment, on the light, on the angle, on whether I catch my hair behaving in ways it really shouldn't. For instance: dragged my sorry ass to the gym this morning like the good boy I am. Afterward, I'm stretching, etc. in a big studio whose walls are entirely floor-to-ceiling windows (the Narcissus room), and I'm thinking Hey, fella, all things considered, you're doing all right. Really, no kidding, considering the accumulated mileage, you're looking pretty buf– DOH!!!. The D'OH moment: me noticing the hair over on the right side of my head, which seemed to be waving excitedly to someone I couldn't see. "If you don't settle down," I warned it, "when we get home I'm getting out the shears." No effect. I think my hair is laying odds that I may have shot my wad yesterday, and it's walking a dangerous line -- I can only be pushed so far. On the way home: made a trip to El Corte Inglés -- the monstrous local department store chain that sells everything but nuclear weapons -- for groceries. After loading up with goods (discovering my inner pack animal in the process), I trudged a long several blocks to the Metro line that would spit me out down the street in la Plaza de Chueca so that at least the trudge on this end would be mercifully brief. The local weather people and news programs had been issuing strident warnings about cold weather moving back in last night, which turned out to mean 48°F instead of 54°F today, so by the time I make the Metro station the extra layer of clothing I'd put on for winter's return had sponged up my rivers of perspiration very efficiently. I get in the train. Three stops later I get off the train. I climb the two flights of stairs and one escalator that bring me up into the plaza. I make the 60-second walk home. As I near my building I see a guy standing at the front door, with a large toolcase, all bundled up, holding a motorcycle helmet, intently dialing a number on a mobile phone. "Perdón," I say, he shuffles aside. Then he pauses mid-dial and says my piso number, question-like, asking me if I live there. "Sí," I respond. "Estoy aquí para su caldera," he says. ("I'm here for your water heater.") A blank half-second on my part, followed by another major D'OH! moment. The water heater [see journal entry for Nov. 1, 2001]: a unit maybe 3' high by 1-1/2' wide by 1' deep that hangs on the far wall of the kitchen, near the sink. It's dripped since I moved in, a problem that's worsened with time, reaching a point during the last few weeks of leaking with joyous, effusive abandon. Two days ago my landlords gave me the okay to get it fixed, yesterday I called the repair dudes and made an appointment. "A partir de dose," they told me –- "After twelve." Meaning sometime between 12 o'clock and the end of the year someone would show up to take a look at the unit. What I did with that information in my little teeny tired brain, though, was to hear 'dose' as 'dos,' me thinking they'd told me to be home from 2 o'clock on. It was pure luck (or not, depending on your belief system) that I got home before the guy had successfully called in to his office and gone off to another job. After ten or fifteen seconds of groveling apologies on my part for making the guy wait, we climbed the five flights of stairs to my flat (this is an old building, there is NO ELEVATOR), he got to work. An hour later, he'd finished up and disappeared, leaving the kitchen strewn with debris but with a working, more or less watertight caldera. It's beyond me how the Spaniards have garnered a reputation for laziness. They are industrious, intelligent, hardworking, efficient folks who have transformed their country in the twenty-five or so years since the death of Franco from a backwater into a modern, technologically-advanced state that now holds the European presidency for the next two years and is making the most of it. It may be that Americans interpret the daily work schedule -– 9 or 10 to 2, long lunch, 4 or 5 to 8 -– as a sign of a slack, indolent lifestyle. The fact is that they work long days, many starting early and working late. From what I can see, they easily work as many hours a week as Americans. I've heard some Spaniards claim they work more hours than the English and the Germans, but who knows? What I can say is that the stereotype of the lazy Spaniard has nothing to do with the reality I've encountered. Ah, the whole cultural stereotype thing. But that's a can of worms for another entry. Later. rws 2:50 PM [+] |
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Sunday, February 03, 2002 Today I take a moment to address a few spelling mistakes often seen around the web: LIGHTNING -- that electrical discharge from the sky that parties with thunder? It's lightning. Lightning. NOT lightening. Lightening is when something gets or is made less heavy. Thunder hangs out with lightning. YOUR/YOU'RE -- YOUR means it belongs to you, as in "I didn't buy that -- that's your turbo-molecular pump." YOU'RE means "you are," as in "Hey, watch it, you're spilling yak urine all over my brand new Beatle boots!" THEIR/THEY'RE -- same drill as with your/you're. Except with this one there's the added complication of THERE. "There" means "not here." It doesn't mean "they're" or "their." To sum up: their = it belongs to them; they're = they are; there = not here. So there. LOSE -- when you lose something -- as in fail to win or fail to keep track of or suffer loss or deprivation (of something or someone) -- you LOSE it. You do not loose it. Lose. Not loose. Got it? Loose means something doesn't fit right, as in "Hey, hand me that staple gun, would you? My boxer shorts are loose." And one common punctuation goof-up: APOSTROPHES -- in general, you don't use 'em to make words plural. For example, here's a genuine sentence from another website: "Here are some of the one's I've seen around." Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. That would be "some of the ones I've seen around." If you stick an apostrophe in there, you're making it a possessive (as in "That's Bob's particle accelerator.") or you're making it a contraction (as in "That copy of the Fetish Times? That one's Bob's"). Am I being clear enough here? Rule of thumb: you almost never need to use an apostrophe to turn a singular noun into a plural noun. Examples: more than one rant = rants (NOT rant's) more than one rant-writing crackpot = rant-writing crackpots (NOT crackpot's) more than one life-changing multiple orgasm = life-changing multiple orgasms (NOT orgasm's) more than one disastrous blind date = disastrous blind dates (NOT date's) more than one crank ranting about more than one writing error = cranks ranting about writing errors (NOT crank's, NOT error's) Right. So. Next time you come across a webpage or an e-mail with some excruciatingly basic writing errors, remember: lighten up, it's there problem, not your's -- try not to loose your cool over it. rws 9:52 AM [+] |