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Tuesday, April 30, 2002 4 a.m. Still in Madrid, but not for long. (Sniffle.) Will be flying back to the States today via Heathrow. Will have to make the same adjustment, weatherwise, that I made back on April 1, going from perfect weather to forecasts of rain/snow for northern Vermont. Snow. April 30th. Ah, well -- it'll pass. Local existence has settled into the warm-weather version of life: summer clothing, gazpacho appearing on restaurant menus, people sitting at tables outside in the warm air. Couples out together, kids running around in groups, some in school uniforms, others chasing soccer balls. Laughter, voices calling out, occasional bursts of song or music. And through it all, warm sunshine, soft breezes. Went hunting for somewhere new to eat lunch yesterday. Looked at a bunch of menus in a bunch of restaurant windows, finally settling on a place I'd been to maybe a year ago with a few people, el Restaurante Bogotá, three or so blocks from here in a direction I tend not to go when in search of a meal. The offerings for the day featured cocido madrileño, an indigenous concoction I haven't had in months. I went for it. El cocido appears on menus when cooler weather arrives in the autumn -- a hearty, even heavy meal in two courses, the kind that, er, sticks to the ribs. Surprisingly good when done well. Less good when not. This one suited me fine. Cocido means 'stew' (also, 'cooked'); it's prepared overnight, a heap of food (garbanzos, cabbage, potatoes, several kinds of meat) simmering in broth. Before serving, the broth is separated out and served as the first course, like a slightly darker, richer chicken soup. All the rest comes as the second course. I hoovered it up, left satisfied. My last restaurant meal here for now. Time to go. Must finish packing, eat something and bolt. rws 10:33 PM [+] |
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Saturday, April 27, 2002 This being back here has turned out to be deeply emotional for me. Didn't expect that. Got to bed late last night, slept more fitfully than the night before last. Went to sleep without covers, didn't rouse myself enough to grab a blanket as the temperature dropped in the early hours. When I dragged myself blearily out of bed around 9:30, my body seemed less than pleased, overall. Had to get up to go to my bank to take care of some administrative biz -– the bastards weren't open, but I siphoned enough €€€ out of an ATM that I could give my landlords what I owe them when they show up in an hour or so. And it's another beautiful morning. Streets quiet after an active Friday night, cleaning crews rounding up the abundant debris, a cool breeze blowing through it all. Sunlight, skies slightly hazy. Shops of all kinds open for Saturday business. Went to pick up something at the butcher's, found myself with a strong impulse to continue shopping at the usual tiendas (fruit, produce, etc.) and investigate some others (clothing, books, household doodads). Resisted that urge (being here only until Tuesday), aimed myself instead at the neighborhood cafetería/café next door to my building. Where the owner smiled on seeing me, shook my hand, brought me a café cortado and a plateful of churros. I read the papers, let the sounds of the place wash over me. People drank coffee, ate morning toast, one or two worked their way through a beer. Customers came and went, those leaving calling out, "Hasta luego!" Someone stood putting money into the local version of a one-armed bandit found in many cafés, a machine that produces overabundant music and sound samples. When I stepped back out into the street, my head had cleared a bit. I noticed yesterday that someone –- the city or a private owner -– has finally taken steps to break the cycle of posters/poster removal associated with the wall across the street. On Thursday, it stood in its normal state, covered with posters. Sometime yesterday, they were removed, the words "Prohibido Fijar Carteles" ("Post No Bills") were left stencilled in their place, along with a warning noting that the businesses advertising would be charged with the cost of poster removal. Down at one end, some rebellious poster paster slapped up four new ones, including an ad for the current issue of Rolling Stone's Spanish edition. The rest of the wall had been cleaned off, though not as thoroughly as in the past -- as if now that the game has changed so decisively, the city crew lost interest. Used to be they'd clean off every single scrap of paper, no matter how minute, scrubbing the wall clean, often finishing the process with a new coat of gray paint. Currently, there are remnants of old posters everywhere, the gray paint looking faded and patchy. Disspirited, ragged. Many of the neighborhood's little dogs still pause to lift a leg against it, though, as their owners have them out for walkies and a breath of air. Last night, on my way back to the piso, I passed through the plaza, crowded with people out enjoying the night. In the flow of revelers moving past me I saw a group of seven nuns in full black and white regalia -- all seven suspiciously young, three of them male. Chueca –- a sacrilegious barrio. Yesterday: went to the movies ("Monster's Ball" -– in English with Spanish subtitles). When I entered the theater, the Beatles' White Album blared from the in-house P.A. "Helter Skelter" started up as the ticket-taker handed me back my ticket stub. They had it playing everywhere –- in the lobby, in the hallways, in the men's room, in the theater before the film. Talk about setting a mood. rws 6:51 AM [+] |
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Saturday, April 13, 2002 Spent most of Thursday traveling, nearly a full eight-hour shift from the time I left home in the morning to the time of arrival here. In this case, both legs of the trip (from Burlington, VT to Greensboro, N.C.) were short, 1-1/2 hours and an hour respectively, most of the day spent hanging around airports. You know the drill: you read, you watch people, you wait for flight announcements. Once boarding starts, you jockey for position. Mostly I people-watch -- in this case, having returned from Spain a week and a half ago, that mostly means observing the differences between Americans and Europeans in manner, attitude, mode of dress. And there are differences, as you might expect. Every culture, every country has its way of dress, of presenting oneself, at least in my limited experience. Every culture certainly has its quirks. Over the course of the last 40 years, Americans have gone from dressing stiffly, formally, without much style sense, to dressing casually, often extremely, outrageously so -- frequently in variations of sneakers, jeans/khakis, sport shirt/t-shirt, windbreaker/fleece. That's a generalization, of course, but a striking percentage of the travelers I saw during the course of the day wore some variation of the basic casual formula. Go to DeGaulle airport in Paris or Barajas in Madrid, Americans are easy to spot: sneakers (often white Reeboks or some equivalent), jeans/khakis, etc. Almost like a uniform. The French and Spanish are more fashion-conscious, seeming to devote more time and care to how they look when they walk out of the house. Sneakers are becoming more common in Spain, though, with younger folks straying more and more from the standard look of the 30+ bracket. Piercing, tattoos, wilder modes of dress -- common, at least in Madrid. So they dress differently in Europe -- who cares? Maybe no one. It's just a noticeable difference, and interesting, at least to me. I'm in Greensboro as I write this. When I arrived, the temperature had coasted up into the 70s, the sun shone, birds were everywhere, singing their hearts out. Yesterday dawned cool, gray, drizzly, staying that way most of the day. Today's skies have been filled with clouds, dramatic ones, their movement overhead providing continual coming and going of blue sky and sunlight. Dogwood trees in full bloom are everywhere, with a dense concentration of blossoms like I've never seen anywhere else. I like it. Had some fine barbecued pork for lunch at Stamey’s, a local joint -- a kind of barbecue that doesn't use tomato sauce. Lip-smackin' good, as stupid as that may sound. Flowering bushes and trees provide vivid color as one drives through the streets of the city. Greensboro is green and getting greener, the air moist and soft. A comfortable place to be at this time of the year. Right, I'll stop -- I'm rambling with little real focus. More tomorrow. rws 6:48 PM [+] |