Went to a lunch today at a small restaurant around the corner from here. This barrio, Chueca, has a substantial gay presence, it's clearly evident on that stretch of street. On turning the corner, the first storefront on the left is a tienda devoted to the gay universe, A Different Life (the name is actually in English). One or two doorways down is a club I've never ventured into. The name Eagle (again, in English) is emblazoned on a panel to one side of the doorway, on the wall inside the entryway are written (in chalk) the following words, one above the other, all inside large chalked arrows pointing toward the door: LEATHER, UNIFORM, S&M, FETISH, KINKY.
Once you get into S&M and fetish, what the hell else would be considered kinky?
The restaurant I stopped in at: La Rincón de Pelayo (the Corner of Pelayo, so named because it's a little teeny corner on la Calle de Pelayo). Nice lunch spot -– a bit more elegant than other neighborhood joints, with more care taken in the cooking and presentation, though no more expensive. A heaping bowl of olives and a couple of small loaves of excellent bread go with the meal's two courses. Afternoon sunlight streams past the front door's floor-to-ceiling windows, pop music plays softly, a TV above the door plays with the sound off -– today a rerun of The Nanny followed by the 2 o'clock news. A slightly goofy mix of lunchtime sensory input.
A toddler met me when I entered, maybe a year and a half old. Standing directly in my path, head thrown back, eyes meeting mine, a large, sloppy, infectious, unself-conscious smile on his puss. His parents sat at the window to the left of the doorway, watching us, also smiling. "Hola!" I said to him. He backed off a bit, laughing, letting me pass. After I took my seat, I watched the wait staff deal with him, especially a 30-something gay man who handled the little guy with kindness and gentle humor. Fun, until the teeny customer got restless, began wanting to go outside every time the door opened. His parents finally finished up their meal, followed him out into the open air.
I had rabbit (conejo) for lunch. Please don't hate me. Left to my own devices it would never occur to me to kill a rabbit. It's the Spaniards' fault -- like the Cantonese, they pretty much eat anything that moves, and the menus are filled with strange, interesting possibilities. I've eaten more meat in the year and a half here than I did for many years in the States. I have yet to see cat or dog listed, but I wouldn't put that past certain establishments. Wasn't crazy about the rabbit, by the way. After all the work of getting it off those little bones, there wasn't much to show for it. (The bunny's revenge.)
On the way home, after turning the corner onto my street, I noticed a man approaching, a slim, compact 60ish man, dressed in nicely casual style, with short, wavy gray hair. Normal looking. Except that his eyes were fixed on me as if he knew me. I'd never seen him before, but met his gaze, and for a second or so he stared at me, something going on behind that look, until as we passed he suddenly burst out with, "¿Qué pasa, bebé?" ("What's happening, baby?") Startled, not sure I heard him right, I immediately said, "¿Cómo?" He waved an embarrassed arm, looking away, saying, "Nada, lo siento." ("Nothing, sorry.") I have no idea what happened there, if he mistook me for someone else then realized his mistake or what. No idea. Looked like he felt genuinely silly, though.
Chueca, my barrio. A thrill a minute.
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Love letters from this last Sunday's El País Sunday magazine, translated into English (by me):
Farewell "I've lost so many things that I can't count them." (Borges) One is never prepared for that precise moment in which your life changes. For me it happened in that afternoon of trees, where the springtime said farewell to the orange blossoms. Your farewell filled me with vertigo and nights without you. I still search for you in forgotten poems, in other songs that we never heard. Only in the dusk do I look with the hope of seeing you from afar, of contemplating your return. But it's already too late for almost everything. My farewell is this letter. I know you're reading it. At least tell me that, yes, you've gotten it. -– Virgilio Sánchez García
You make the sun rise This is my love letter for you. I love you because you've procured for me the happiest moments of my life, because you've made me know fantastic people. I love you because you have shown me the magic of autumn beneath our little evergreen oak, because you made me pay attention to the inside of a conch shell until I could sense the sea, because you showed me how to draw on the sky and to write on the waters. Because you make the sun rise every morning and die each night, because you've made me feel happy with myself. For that, and only for that, I love you, Earth. -– Victor Casanova Abón
Dear H. When you enter my thoughts, I know that you're going to bring a good moment so that I let you enter my mind the same way I let you enter my body: receiving you with open arms. You've become my friend, my companion, my lover, my forbidden love, my breath. Who said it wasn't possible to fall in love after your forties? It's true that there are too many things that join us, but there are also too many factors that separate us: you will leave me, or I will leave you for fear of the pain when you leave me..., but I am sure that within many, many years we will walk together on the beach, maybe hand in hand. I will tell you of my rheumatism and you will complain about your prostate, I'll make an easy joke we will smile with nostalgia.... We'll continue walking, searching for shells for our grandchildren and remembering the times (that are these times, don't forget) in which you descended to the bottom of the sea and searched for shells and conches only for me. -– Alicia de la Calle
My gift for Steven Take it, it's for you. Hey, handle it carefully! No, no, please don't shake it. What weighs so much? Sure, love, it's full with tenderness and understanding. Have you already sensed what it could be? Of course, it's my heart. –- María Belén Polo