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Sunday, January 19, 2003 After six weeks of intensive Spanish classes -- an extended resuscitation of my gradually-growing language skills after eight months in the States -- I decided to take a break. Long, short, don't know. But time off. And as soon as I made that decision, after finishing up classes this last Friday, I realized how tired I'd become. (Friday night was spent in a local joint on a sidestreet in the barrio of Salamanca, with a Spanish friend and his cousin -- a smart, interesting woman -- eating raciones, drinking coffee, conversation and their cigarette smoke flowing fast and thick. But that's another entry.) Yesterday: gray/rainy, the first such day since the start of the week. Got up, looked outside, went back to bed. Managed to rouse myself sometime before midday. Shuffled sluggishly around the piso for a while, finally did the shower/shave thing, pulled some clothes on, went out for a cup of espresso. Made my way through the neighborhood's damp, narrow streets, bustling with people out shopping. Stopped in at the Cafetería Vivares, ordered a cup of high-test, found the scene so agreeably bright and noisy that I took possession of a vacant table and ordered an extremely satisfying lunch. Two people were waiting table, a 20ish South American woman and a fit 30ish gay guy, him wearing clothing just tight enough to show off his various bulges. The lunchtime rush hadn't yet gotten underway, so in between forays around the customers, they hung out at the counter, watching the TV that hangs over the entranceway (then playing a pop-music program, mostly of the Britney Spears/TLC clone variety), talking together, laughing. Relaxed. Finished eating, went back home, returned to bed. Read, snoozed. Read some more, snoozed some more. This morning: initially cold and overcast, until the clouds gave way mid-a.m. to a classic Madrid January day. By early afternoon, the mercury had slid quietly well up into the 50s. I'd thought about herding myself out the door and over to the gym, got up, found myself feeling that I wanted nothing to do with plans that ambitious. I recently discovered a churrería in the neighborhood, a strange little tienda tucked into a motley row of shops. Their sign says churrería/patatas fritas, an accurate rundown of what they deal in -- churros and potato chips, the chips loose, in bulk, piled high in the shop window. I stopped in yesterday after lunch, salivating at the thought of fresh churros or porras to chase down the midday chow – no dice. It was just before 2 p.m., the customary Saturday closing time for most shops around here – they were out of what I sought. This morning, I made a fast foray to pick up the Sunday El País, going by way of the churrería in hopes of Sunday morning tastebud bliss. Again, no dice. Closed, shuttered, quiet. Bugger. Came home, dropped my tired body into my Ikea bentwood lounge thingie, found myself zoning out. Thinking, watching the morning light that poured in the windows as passing clouds made it fade then surge brilliantly back, languidly over and over. Occasionally reading. Realized at some point in a startled way that the time had washed by, that it was 1 o'clock plus. Thought about making a stab at some culture, remembered that the museum I was thinking of closed at 2 p.m. on Sundays. Settled for going out to yet another satisfying lunch. Post-lunch, headed to a movie, going by way of la Plaza de la Puerta del Sol, the day feeling like the best of October/November in New England. There is a heavily traveled two-block length of a street that stretches from north to south between Sol and Gran Vía which is a haunt for young prostitutes, generally arrayed along the buildings on the east side of the street. (Across the street, banners arrayed along the buildings' numerous balcones read "¡Prostitución En La Calle No!" (Prostitution In The Street, No!) and "¡Estamos Hartos!" (We're Fed Up!). The few hookers on duty when I went by were standingout by the street, soaking up the sunlight, talking quietly to each other, paying no attention to the banners' ongoing protest. At the theater, a 9-screen house just up the hill to the south of Sol, I asked for a ticket to an Italian film. Went into the sala, took my seat, survived the 5-10 minutes of pre-film ads. The feature started up, I realized that for the second time in the last six weeks the gnomes in this theater's box office gave me a ticket for the wrong film. The first time I found myself watching, "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." This time? "White Oleander." Debated leaving, decided to stay. Turned out to be the most well-written, beautifully acted/directed, extremely depressing movie I've seen in a long time time. Whoooeee! Not a comedy. More like an hour and 45 minute long parent-child car wreck, with a sudden story-line turn in the direction of hope at the very end. Afterwards, back out in the street. The sun down out of view behind the city's buildings, the upper floors awash in soft orange light. I headed back toward Sol, found myself stopping mid-Plaza, inundated with sensory input, the sky (hell, the very air) aglow with evening light, the upper floors of the buildings ringing the plaza – all in various shades of tan or off-white, with white trim, each floor studded with neat rows of French windows behind balcones, the even lines of the roofs against the sky punctured by occasional clusters of television antennas, some vertical, others less so – shining with sunset radiance, the sky above a contrast of blue and dramatic, curving expanses of orange clouds. Below all that, an ongoing swirl of people flowed through, moving in all directions. In the middle of it, in front of the statue of the bear and the tree (the city's symbol), three strange, olive-skinned males were engaged in some kind of public display, one banging a tambourine in a not-quite steady rhythm, the other two holding whatever the hell those things are called, electric megaphones, raising them to their mouths every few beats, one to mutter something, the other to call something out. Impossible to understand until I passed right by them, when I got that they were Jesus folks doing their thing, the louder of the two giving it away with his periodic exclamations of "¡Oh, Christo!" I'm not sure I can explain exactly why, but this flood of sensory input affects me like few things I've experienced in this life. There is something about this city that magnifies the fascination and pleasure that the passage of life's normal moments brings me. I probably shouldn't try to analyze it or describe it in too much depth as that might result in toxic quantities of purple prose, but it's a genuine phenomenon. Madrid has a grip on me. A cafetería 40 or 50 feet from the statue had chairs and tables out, all vacant. I got a cup of excellent decaf espresso and sat myself down to soak up the scene as the evening light began to dim. The constant motion of passing people, the murmuring wash of passing conversation. Five older women -- all short and squat, four out of the five wearing dark, thick fur coats – walked slowly by, arm in arm, conversing happily, animatedly. Many couples, arms around each other. The Jesus chant continued off beyond the statue, sounding like more like a strange, under-rehearsed pep rally (Go, Christo!) than a religious exhortation. As the light faded, the temperature fell perceptibly, a cold breeze began making its way between the many walking figures, rustling the thin, potted hedges that ran along one side of the tables/chairs. A short time later, back here in the neighborhood, as I walked through narrow streets still filled with lingering light, I passed a balcón on which someone had put out four bird cages. All canaries, it sounded like, calling back and forth to each other with sweet, question-like notes, punctuated every now and then by a outburst of rising and falling notes, the sound startling and glorious in the evening air. A way of taking flight, perhaps, through song instead of cage-bound wings. rws 5:01 PM [+]
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