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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 [+] |