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Saturday, January 25, 2003 At times during the last few days, I've found myself feeling restless. Not my favorite sensation, but one that must be dealt with when it comes along. And fortunately, the solution is simple: get outside, take a walk. I found myself feeling restless two nights ago. Without hesitation, I threw my jacket on and headed out for a curative stroll. It's nice to step out the door of this building into the middle of the ongoing evening activity -- people walking, stepping in or out of nearby cafés/tabernas, the sound of conversation and laughter in the air. The simple feel of life happening all around has a restorative effect, at least for me. This night I headed up la Calle de Pelayo, and as I approached the neighborhood tapas joint -- a great little place called Santander -- I felt the urge for a fast hit of finger food and slipped inside. Ordered a caña and one or two tapas, took a few leisurely minutes to hoover them up as I watched my fellow-hooverers, not to mention the counter help, three regulars who seem to be there every single time I stop in, making me wonder if they have mattresses under the counter (a la George Costanza and his under-desk hidey-hole) that they pull out after the nightly after-hours clean-up to sack out until it's time to open the doors again when 11:30 a.m. rolls around Good food at this place, a huge assortment of tapas and tapas-like chow, and they do brisk business, although if you time your appearance right you can find a space at the counter where you can then settle in for as long as you want. After that, I wandered out to la Calle de Hortaleza in the direction of Gran Vía, passing the Hudson Cafetería ("Pizza and American's Food" reads their sign -- my question: which American?), passing Viva El Musculo ("Long Live The Muscle,"a tienda catering to those into bodybuilding and/or simple fitness), past the tienda that is a combination drogería/perfumería/bellas artes shop (drug store/perfumes&colognes/art supplies – why art supplies? who the hell knows), past the endless stream of restaurants, cafes, grocery shops, book stores, bakeries, pharmacies. Out to Gran Vía, taking a short jog to the right where la Calle de Fuencarrel begins and heading up that street. Lots of people out walking. Couples, groups, wandering along conversing, stopping to stare in shop windows – clothing and footwear tiendas predominate on Fuencarrel, with plenty of edgy, hip, sexy and/or outrageous gear on display. A young woman passed heading in the other direction, staring fixedly ahead, talking to herself in a loud whisper. A bald, hook-nosed, cadaverous 70-something gentleman passed shortly thereafter, also staring straight ahead, dressed in a sporty outfit (the kind of pseudo-workout gear that's become suspiciously stylish), stooped over, wearing a large knapsack. Someone handing out promo material gave me a small, dark, psychedelically-colored card for Disco Club MIT Internacional ("abierto todas las noches de 23.00 horas a cierre" – open all nights from 11 p.m. to closing, an all-night joint). I made my way back into my section of the barrio, ducking into a sandwich shop just around the block from la Plaza de Chueca, a place which used to peddle the best bocadillos I've eaten hereabouts. The shop changed hands at some point last year, and although it continues to do decent business, the quality has taken a steady downhill slide. I gave an order for a chicken bocadillo, noting the ambience – the small TV that's hung over the in-house slot machine forever was on, playing a Spanish sitcom with the sound off, techno-flavored Europop playing loudly on the sound system. I noticed a small stack of CDs behind the glass enclosure on the counter, The Best of Vangelis lurking in the middle of the pile. That was two nights ago. Today I found myself wrestling with restlessness all over again. Luckily I was set to meet with a friend passing through town for the weekend. She was out most of the night, which meant she was in bed until after 1 p.m. We arranged to meet here in the plaza at 2:30. She seemed to be stressing a bit about meeting me on time, I let her know punctuality was not an issue as I had nowhere to be and hanging out in the plaza would be no hardship. Why? Because today turned out to be a spectacular example of Madrid's tendency to crank out mid-winter days of brilliant sunshine and moderate temperatures. When I wandered out, the sidewalk in front of Angel Sierra, the taberna/tapas joint across from the plaza, was packed with people eating and drinking, the overflow spilling across the street into the plaza where more people milled about. A loose, surprised brand of near-euphoria predominated, the atmosphere buzzing with energy. The air literally glowed with the Iberian version of Vermeer-type sunlight. One of the concrete benches over on the east side of the plaza had some free space, I went over and asked the single resident if he would mind if I parked my butt there for a bit. He wouldn't, I did. A musician had just set up in the center of the plaza, facing the crowd in front of Angel Sierra – one musician with a keyboard and an amp rigged up on a handcart. He got going with a mix of Spanish and Mexican tunes, his keyboard synthing up an entire band, complete with virtual trumpet player, his amp filling the plaza with sound. Impressive, actually. A weathered 60ish street guy who'd been hanging with the musician wandered around with a paper plate soliciting change. A continuous stream of people passed through the plaza. Several people were parked at the bench to my right, including two or three kids. One of them, a sprightly blonde girl, maybe four years old, skipped through the crowd, singing happily. Three dogs had a cautiously happy genital-sniffing encounter, tails wagging stiffly, followed by a group pee break around a trash can. One of them, a large, black female mixed breed, then pranced around the square checking out the scene, her nails clicking on the pavement. One of the others, a brindle-colored male, discovered a large pool of dried who-knows-what not too far from the trash can and spent several disturbing minutes sniffing and licking it. The musician eventually packed up and carted his gear off to a neighboring street, where the music started up all over again. The sun drifted far enough to the west that the shadows cast by the buildings around the plaza edged themselves over to bring shade to my bench. The guy who had been sitting next to me had gotten up and taken off, two younger gay guys parking themselves where he had been. When the shade slid over the bench, they rose and took over a neighboring bench, still in full light, once its numerous inhabitants had moved on. My friend Marta showed up at 3. We went and got a meal at a neighborhood joint, then wandered to a local café for some, er, café. And dessert. A popular, chic, heavily gay gathering place, this establishment – noisy, air thick with cigarette smoke, pop music playing above it all. Fun. When we stepped outside around 6, the air felt fresh and clean, the barrio tranquil and benign. It's Saturday, late January, 2003. May you find things to enjoy and savor in the day's passing hours. rws 3:42 PM [+]
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