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Friday, February 21, 2003 This morning a friend is flying in from out of country for the weekend (and boy, will his arms be... never mind). On Monday I leave for nine or ten days in Italy. Which means there will probably be far less of far too much writing for a while. (Woo-hoo! Think of all the free time that'll give you! Try to use it wisely. Party with moderation. You might even want to sit quietly down now and then for some navel contemplation.) By the way, remember the Swedish chef from Sesame Street (as in Bork, Bork, Bork!)? Should you ever get the desire to re-set your Google preferences in his argot, you'll probably want to go here. Later. rws 12:03 AM [+] |
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Wednesday, February 19, 2003 [continued from yesterday's entry] Lots of parents and kids -- 20- and 30-something parents with youngsters, middle-aged parents accompanied by teens and 20-somethings, older folks with kids of all ages. Lots of little ones around, hand in hand with bigger folk or in strollers. I can't imagine what the scene must have felt like to someone that young. Beyond absorption, maybe, apart from getting the sense of an ocean of people, lots of noise. Close by me, to the right of the doorway, standing against the building, stood a tall, unshaven, gray-haired 40-something. There on his own, maybe with nowhere else to go. Smoking, watching the scene, directing comments at nearby people. With time, it became apparent that he was either a bit drunk or off in some other way. Whatever, he was there when I showed up, he was there when I left. He may still be there. The building's front hall was open, a booth selling lottery tickets situated a few feet inside, open for business and getting it from some of the couples and family groups who ducked inside to catch their breath. As time passed, more and more people slowly collected in the space beside and behind me, an indication of the gathering intensity outside as thousands and thousands of Madrileños continued pouring into the plaza. The pace at which the stream of humans that had been flowing steadily by gradually slowed as the crowd's density skyrocketed until movement essentially came to a halt, the throng packed tightly together. And still the tide of people arriving from east of the plaza continued. Somewhere between 8 and 8:30, three speakers read a prepared piece from a platform in the center of the plaza -- Pedro Almodóvar (Spanish film director, now up for two Academy Awards) and two other people -- after which sirens began going off as if a bombardment had begun, followed by a brief burst of explosions and smoke, I suppose providing a graphic reminder of what this massive gathering was all about –- the threat of bombs raining down from the sky in a country on the other side of the Mediterranean. The crowd in our part of the plaza had come to a standstill, the only forward motion happening fitfully, at a snail's pace. Further people had pushed their way into the doorway next to me, including a drunk who settled in next to me and began playing with a baby seated on its mother's shoulders right in front of us. Neither the baby nor the mother wanted anything to do with the guy, who took no notice of their displeasure, continuing to trying to take the baby's hands, moving its arms around, chanting something inane the whole time. A group of 50 and 60-somethings in front of me decided right then to try and get to the north-south street, I stepped down from the doorway behind them, intending to ride their wake to the nearby street and around the corner in the direction of home. The atmosphere had become tense with so many people wanting to move and not being able to, everyone feeling the growing pressure of the sea of bodies behind being pushed into us by the continuous arrival of marchers. Ten or fifteen tense minutes later, we made it around the corner, where the pressure began to slowly let up as we moved away from the plaza. A stream of folks heading in the other direction, attempting the laughable task of entering the plaza, slowed things for a while until we reached a point where other streets branched off and the horde began to thin out. I was ready to be away from crowds by then, made my way as quickly as I could between chatting, walking groups toward this barrio. Gran Vía had little traffic apart from the river of pedestrians, moving across the avenue at will, the few cars making their way slowly, carefully along. I passed someone pushing a wheelchair through the crowd, a full-sized plastic human skeleton seated in it, its hands holding a sign that translated to something like, "Oh, I don't know -- Bush seems okay to me." Though the crowds thinned some after fleeing the area around Sol, there were still more people here in the neighborhood than I've ever seen apart from Gay Pride weekend, a monstrous weekend in these parts, considering Chueca is Madrid's version of Greenwich Village. When I finally reached my building and stepped inside, the relief at being alone after all that time in a mob scene felt indescribably sweet. That was Saturday. Sunday: quiet Madrid streets, abundant sunshine, blue, cloudless skies. I'd had an impulse to go to a show that evening, checked the listings, found something promising in an alternative theater. Almost immediately, the phone rang, a Spanish friend on the other end of the line began telling me she'd been thinking about going to a show. That night we found ourselves in the alternative theater watching three French knuckleheads -- Les Poubelle Boys -- careen their way through a display of organized musical chaos. They played with language (French, Spanish, English, a bit of German, liberally sprinkled with nonsense dialogue), they abused each other, they danced, they engaged in cheap sight gags, they sang, they played complex musical routines on household/industrial objects (especially janitorial supplies), until they arrived at a place of weaving wildly back and forth between insistent clowning and some accomplished renditions of jazz standards. Sunday shows are often lower energy affairs. Not this one. This audience was ready to party, and by the end of the gig's first half, the Boys began looking a bit surprised to find themselves in the middle of a scene that was practically shaking plaster dust from the ceiling. They spent the second half alternating between appearing a bit stunned at the whooping madhouse their Sunday evening crowd had become and milking it for all it was worth. It was one of those occasional performance events when everything falls into place, the event transforming itself into something way beyond the expectations of performers and audience. A collision of chemistry and timing, sprinkled lavishly with fairy dust. This is the Boys' last week in Madrid. I have an Irish friend coming for the weekend -- I may have to inflict these nutbags on him. It's now mid-week. I've been to Spanish class, I've been writing. The scope of the work across the street increases daily. Today generators and worksheds were trucked in, along with palettes of bricks and other supplies. Big noise has begun. I've had this piso for over a year and a half, a lovely, mostly tranquil time -- numerous people from the states/the U.K. have threatened to come visit, none have. Now that construction has begun right in front of the building and peace&quiet is fleeing toward the horizon with its ass on fire, one friend is showing up this weekend, others have made inquiries about March and April. Ah, well. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ On a completely unrelated note: What's it gonna be? Salvation? Or pursue a degree in evil? rws 12:21 PM [+] |
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Monday, February 17, 2003 Something that's been happening frequently in recent weeks: three or so hours after I fall asleep at night, I wake up. Feeling warm. Way too warm -- hot, even. If I'm wearing anything -- socks, sometimes a lightweight pair of thermal bottoms -- I pull 'em off. Usually makes no difference. I generally have to turn on the light and read or get up and sit at the computer for a bit before heading back to bed/sleep. It's as if my body's got a cycle of some sort going in which the inner thermostat gets turned up during the wee hours. If I drag myself out from under the covers for a while, I can usually get a few hours of sleep afterwards. Strange, but there it is. Or maybe it's not so strange. Maybe plenty of people experience something similar. So, last night: fell asleep just before midnight -- bear with me, I swear I won't go on endlessly with this -- woke up around three. Got up, turned on the 'puter. Went back to bed sometime later, read a bit, drifted off. Hammering woke me up around 8:30 -- both in the building to the rear of this one (rehabbing, from old apartments to new condos) and in the soon-to-be ex-empty lot across the street. In fact, on opening my eyes yesterday morning I noted the tink-tinking of hammers at work across the street. After several weeks of nonactivity [see entry of January 10], two or three workmen had shown up and were (a) working the soil, digging out debris, burning any chunks of wood they came across and (b) working on the walls of the neighboring buildings, hammering away all plaster and concrete until they reached the underlying bricks. Readying those surfaces for the soon-to-be-abutting walls of the coming building. This morning when I left the building (one of my few vaguely Elvis-like moments), there were six or seven workmen out there working around the lot. If the builders have held off 'til now on the assumption that the Madrid weather would be doing its usual second-half-of-February-warming thing, they may have to re-think that. Winter has crept back in over the last few days under cover of skies blue enough and sunlight brilliant enough that the early to mid-afternoon hours supplied the illusion of vaguely spring-like weather. Weather with the teasing promise of something spring-like. The air today is genuinely cold, the sky a heavy, uniform gray, a kind of sky that often heralds snowfall in the northeast U.S. Went out, did some stuff, stopped in the plaza on the way back to pick up a newspaper. The friendly old coot dealing with me stopped suddenly mid-deal, looked worriedly up at the gray above. "¡Jo!" he said. "Creo que he sentido una gota de agua." ("Bugger! I think I felt a drop of water.") "Puede ser," I said, also looking up at the sky. Went out to lunch a bit later, when I emerged back out into the street afterwards, snow had started up. Light as could be, individual flakes drifting down here and there. It's intensified a bit since then, though still not enough to threaten any accumulation -- the first time I've seen snow fall here during the day. But enough about the *^$@#!! weather. It's time to talk about What I Did This Weekend What I did? Lots. Tons. Plenty. All sorts of stuff. Friday: went to see "About Schmidt" (here called "A Propósito De Schmidt"). Bwaaaahaha! What a hoot! A fairly dark hoot, to be sure, but a hoot nonetheless. Some seriously funny stuff, along with some seriously poignant stuff, along with some seriously uncomfortable stuff. All kinds of stuff tied up in one entertaining package. (End of review.) Saturday: spent a lot of time out in the cold, sunlit air enjoying the city, watching its people. Late afternoon, went to another movie, "Al Sur de Granada" ("South of Granada"). Like most of the Spanish films I've seen here, a high-quality production. Beautifully made, good acting. The problem was the story's protagonist, an English 20-something git, a young writer from a wealthy family, 'roughing it' for a year in a poor town in the south of Spain, to experience some real life. Has adventures of all sorts with the locals, gets involved with a beautiful, intelligent (though uneducated) young woman. Gets her pregnant, spews a lot of high-minded blather about love and nothing being more important than their relationship and the coming birth. Goes back to England to attend to things with family/friends, promising to return soon. Returns three years later, married. Married, but concerned, so concerned about his child and ex-life-partner, in a way that's supposed to seem sensitive and high-minded. Blah blah blah. Pillock. The theater was a few blocks from la Plaza de la Puerta del Sol, one of the three concentration points of the anti-war mobilization taking place that evening. The demonstrations here in Spain -- a country that is heavily against the war (anywhere from 80% to 90% of the population, depending on which poll you consult) despite the actions of its ruling party in support of the Bush Administration -- promised to be huge and high-energy, something I'd decided to experience and observe. So that when I left the theater, I walked the few blocks to Sol where I found myself in the middle of a quickly-swelling ocean of people. An ocean that, it turned out, stretched a mile eastward to the huge traffic circle in front of the main Post Office building, then a further mile to the south from there to Atocha, another major traffic circle. An immense showing of people -- nearly a million according to the Spanish media; closer to 600,000 according to the ruling party, the only political faction from the current Congress that did not take part in the turnout. Once in the middle of the crowd, it was nearly impossible to move. The main avenues were clogged with people streaming into the plaza, most of the rest of the space was fenced in. The only recourse was to attach oneself to the few lines of people snaking their way through the crowd in search of ways out. Which I did, people-watching the entire time. The crowd seemed to consist largely of families, cutting across the spectrum of age/economic standing/political orientation in a startlingly balanced representation of Spanish society. A kind of universal, all-inclusive gathering of people that I don't think I've ever seen at what might be called a political gathering, most sporting NO A LA GUERRA stickers or signs. Banners flew, along with Spanish flags. Waves of chanting broke out, moved across the plaza, then faded away. The energy seemed mostly positive, maybe rejoicing in the coming together of all parts of the political spectrum, though loudly, vociferously making the underlying point of the mobilization. Quite a scene. I finally found a line of people that successfully made its way to the edges of the scene. Once free to move around, I decided to grab the Metro down to Atocha. Down in the Metro station, I discovered I'd left my $$$ and my Metro pass at home, so that leaving Sol was not an option unless I wanted to walk north toward home. Not what I was looking to do just yet. I followed the periphery of the plaza east, until the volume of people arriving from that direction made it impossible to go any further, where a wide, nearly-empty doorway presented itself, looking to be a good vantage point. And once I'd parked myself there, I found that it was indeed a good vantage spot, with clear lines of sight, situated only 70 or 80 feet from a north-south street that could take me in the direction of home when I wanted to bolt. So there I remained for the next hour and a half, as darkness fell and the tide of people moving into the plaza steadily intensified. For the hour and a half, I watched Madrid take to the streets in a massive show of unanimity. [continued in next entry] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Just went over to myway.com to check mail. Following are two of the four featured Entertainment headlines in the portal's news rundown: Baywatch Women Say They're Back On Track Johnny Cash Covers Nine Inch Nails Song I'm at a loss for words. (Probably a good thing.) rws 10:52 PM [+] |
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Saturday, February 15, 2003 In recent weeks, my nighttime hours have been packed with dream activity. All sorts of adventures and carryings-on, all night long. Not a whole lot of it comes back with me to my waking state, I remember enough to know a lot's been going on. Last night, I drifted in and out of sleep (the streets here in the barrio were alive with the sound of happy revelers all night long, literally until 8 a.m.), slipping back and forth between finding myself here in my bed and finding myself in other places, journeying. Buses, planes, cars, lots of people around. Just before I woke up a short time ago, as daylight was breaking here in Madrid, I was in the middle of traveling with a very nice woman, the two of us on a bus together. The kind of bus you ride at airports. We were both standing in the bus, both with a piece of wheeled luggage, talking to each other. The bus stops, we get out on a concrete path that heads up a gentle hill and down the other side. As we walk up the hill, a black cat darts out onto the path ahead of us, pausing there, its tail up in the air. I pause to say hello, stroking it, its rear elevating a bit in happy response, the cat looking at me, enjoying a quick encounter with a human. It then takes off and we continue on, over the hill to a road where we head toward a parked car, along with a third person, a male we apparently know. As we're nearing the car I start singing: Ain't superstitious, but a black cat crossed my trail. Well, I ain't superstitious, but a black cat crossed my trail. I wish I knew the last line to this verse. I remember the other two people looking at me, smiling, the male just reaching the car. And with that I woke up, the Jeff Beck version of "I Ain't Superstitious" floating through my thoughts, over and over, and has remained so through the day (alternating with "We Are The Champions" by Queen, which was on the telly when I went to lunch at la cafetería Vivares). Me still not remembering the last line of that verse (or of the second verse, for that matter) until I finally tracked it down on the net. Well, I ain't superstitious, but a black cat crossed my trail I ain't superstitious, but a black cat crossed my trail Don't dust me with no broom, babe, just might land in jail Well, the dogs be howling all round my neighbourhood Dogs be howling all round my the neighbourhood Sure is a bad sign, babe, don't mean no earthly good (Lyrics and music by Willie Dixon - © 1963) When I pulled myself out of bed, the sky was mostly overcast. It quickly burned off, except for high hazy clouds through which has filtered strong February sunlight. The kind of day that looks nice and mild until you get out there and find out it's actually *^%#@!!! chilly, with a cold breeze nosing around that makes everyone pull their coats more tightly around themselves. As I walked around in the middle of the late Saturday a.m. bustle, I realized that this is my favorite part of the week: Saturday between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. The one block of weekend daytime hours when people everything's open and the streets fill up with people getting errands done before the 2 o'clock closing time. People move freely through the streets, in and out of stores of all kinds, from neighborhood grocery jobs to hardware stores to pharmacies to clothing stores of all kinds, and everything in between. Cafes and corner joints are hopping with folks getting café and something to eat. Bakeries do big business. The sidewalks are aswirl with people striding along, carrying bags, often with baguettes sticking out the top. I picked up a couple of baguettes myself at a neighborhood bakery that makes delicious tender ones which actually last a couple of days instead of hardening up after a few hours. Then grabbed a newspaper and a cup of morning café. After which I walked for a while, winding up out on Gran Vía where I made the error of going into Madrid Rock, my venue of choice for music purchases. More and more CDs lately seem to be available at heavily discounted prices, and they're moving. Could be that the music industry here has finally absorbed the fact that the soaring, rapacious prices (17-21 euros per undiscounted CD) are a great deal of what's responsible for the vibrant health of the black market counterfeit CD sales in Madrid. The store swarmed with Saturday shoppers, many there in groups, chattering as they drifted through the aisles. Back in the bargain section, a 20-something Spanish guy riffled through rows and rows of titles, a stack of 12 or 14 discs in hand (heavy on the Jethro Tull), deliberating at great length, pausing every couple of minutes to go back through what he had. I recently heard something on the radio from a band called Sexy Sadie, and saw that all their CDs were heavily marked down, including their brand new release, and decided to take a chance on the new one. At the register, I found that the purchase included a free pass for two people to an upcoming Madrid concert by the band, which made me insufferably happy. It remains a beautiful day here. Most tiendas have closed for the weekend, the streets are quieter, more tranquil. A good time to head out and see what diversion there is to be had. Later. rws 9:37 AM [+] |
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Friday, February 14, 2003 For last minute shoppers, some Valentine's Day card ideas from Stacey Nightmare: Card 1 Card Front: Valentine, you're always on my mind! Card Back: Please drop that whole "restraining order" nonsense. Card 2 Card Front: Will you be my Valentine? Card Back: No?? Why the fuck not?! What are you, gay?! Card 3 Card Front: Happy Valentines Day! Card Back: I will make you love me!!!! Card 4 Card Front: Hey, Valentine, thanks for a great year and a half! Card Back: Does this mean we're dating? Can I hold your hand in public now? I'll try to stop crying whenever we have sex. More (far less polite) card ideas can be found here. rws 5:07 PM [+] |
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Man, I had a hard time concentrating today. On anything. I mean, seriously. Distracted, not a happy boy. The solution: go see "About Schmidt" (here called "A Propósito de Schmidt"). Which did the trick. God bless Jack Nicholson.
Something I noticed in the film's closing credits: of the seven Drivers listed, three had nicknames. They were: Sparky Sluggo Johnboy Afterwards, when I walked into the men's room, the gent who entered ahead of me walked into one of the three little toilet closets -- they don't seem to have stalls here very often; mostly little rooms with a door to close and (in theory) lock -- and shut the door. There were five urinals lined up along one wall with a guy standing at the middle one. I parked myself at the far left one and as I dumped the ballast I noticed why the fella who entered ahead of me opted for one of the toilet rooms: the guy at the middle urinal seemed to be in the middle of a crisis. He stood right up against the porcelain, his body actually leaning into the bugger, his head bent forward so that the top of his skull rested against the wall. When I first took note of him, he seemed to be shaking, almost quaking. That settled down, but his general air remained tense, one of something approximating existential angst (perhaps in keeping with the film we'd just seen). At one point, as he stood there tinkling away, he raised a closed fist and began slowly punching the little FLUSH button, causing repeated spritzing by the urinal. When he finished, he zipped up and rushed immediately out the door. I noticed the floor in front of that urinal had been left generously puddled with liquid, no humongo surprise. Then I noticed that the floor in front of the one next to me looked about the same. The floor in front of mine, on the other hand, was clean and dry. I am such a grown-up. And with that, I swaggered proudly, smugly back out into the world. Later, at a bookstore I wandered into, I happened to glance at a shelf of self-help books. The following five titles were leaning up against each other: ¡Sí, tú puedes! (Yes, you can!) El Dragón Ya No Vive Aquí! (The Dragon Does Not Live Here!) ¿Por Qué Nunca Tengo Suficiente? (How Come I Never Have Enough?) ¿Quieres Cambiar Tu Vida? (Do You Want To Change Your Life?) Como Hacerte Rico Usando Tu Imaginación (How To Make Yourself Rich Using Your Imagination) ¡Madre Mia! Meanwhile, it's Valentine's Day (love notes or correspondence of a flirty nature can be sent to runswithscissors@myway.com). I've translated three more love letters from this last Sunday's El País weekly magazine. (See journal entries for 11 Feb. and 13 Feb. for more.) Don't let the title of the first one confuse you: Nine love letters In none do I write my name. Neither do I write yours. Between lines: "passion that burns me," as between the curtains I see you, luminous, in the mornings. When I recognize the soft sound of your steps on the landing and then open the door and bump into you, as if by chance, in the elevator you rob me of my breath. All the songs that I hear on the radio talk of you. At the banquet, the feast of your kisses, I am never invited because your husband is always there. I pass the hours in my studio, and between lines: "passion that burns me." And like my literature, which no one will ever read, I keep these nine letters in a drawer in the hope that the tenth will say I love you. -- J.G. Mindundi 72 years 72 years. One says it quickly. 72 years getting up and going to bed early. Day by day. Week by week. Month by month. Year by year. 72 years of affection, of chats, of quarrels, of company, of tenderness, of work. You in the house. Me in the mine. The two of us in the country. And a war. And a post-war. And hunger. And cold and misery. And six children (one already buried). 72 years of joys and pains, of shared dreams, of walking the same road, step by step, hand in hand, skin against skin. 72 years and now you've gone. And I... I don't know who I am. -- Aquilino Oveja Alvarez Weakened Dear Sandra: Last night I learned to love you. I never imagined that it would make me so tired. But it's worth it. Many kisses -- -- Pablo González-Posada ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ That's right, it's Saint Valentine's Day. Let the people in your life know how much they mean to you. Later. rws 2:41 PM [+] |
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Thursday, February 13, 2003 Pucker up. rws 6:53 PM [+] |
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Another love letter from this last weekend's El País Sunday magazine (copyright 2003 El País) [see journal entry of two days ago for others]:
My dear love, I always saw you, but one day I saw you. What dignity! What you hid behind that elegant, provocative hat! And that radiant smile.... I finally saw you, dear neighbor: finally you pierced me. (Metaphorically, of course.) My heart -- not a beginner -- recognized immediately the furor, the uncontrollable madness of a love being born. That event -- one has to be precise here -- took place in the sixth decade of a life, one that I considered to be full, complete. My god, dear neighbor, the ache. We stole glances at each other through your windows, my windows. Then came the conversation at the mailboxes, the small, indiscreet grafittis, the exchange of e-mail, of intense letters. We did foolish things to meet, to find each other, and only God knows how foolish they were. And now you're there, my dear love, a man among my books, my poems, my plates, my clothes, my writing pads, and you've settled in the landscapes of my heart (landscapes not very calm, but sincere). Your napkin holder is in my kitchen, your pajamas are tucked away beneath my pillows. It's what happens when two people are neighbors, very close neighbors. Happy Valentine's Day, neighbor. -- Silvana Croze rws 12:24 PM [+] |
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Wednesday, February 12, 2003 Lately – meaning the last couple of weeks – I've been experiencing the song-on-an-endless-loop phenomenon. To the max, at times. I'll be out walking somewhere, I'll be here sitting writing or in the kitchen making something to eat, suddenly I'll become aware that part of a song is repeating itself over and over in my head. Could be a bit of a melody I heard a musician playing in the Metro. Could be something I was listening to at home earlier in the day. Could be something that found its way into my head all by itself, out of the blue -- a tune I haven't heard or thought of in months, years. Generally, I don't fret too much about this sort of thing. These song fragments tend to go away on their own. If one hangs around well beyond the time its welcome has worn away, I'll switch on the radio or turn my attention to something else. We're not talking about major disruption of life. However. Early this morning, pre-daybreak: Me: Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... My Teeny Brain: (The intro to "Journey To The Center of The Mind" by The Amboy Dukes begins quietly, followed by the first verse:) Leave your cares behind, come with us and find... Me: ...zzzzzzz... *snort*... huh? My Teeny Brain: ...the pleasures of a journey to the center of the mind.... Me: Wha'? Oh, no. Oooooh, no.... My Teeny Brain: (Getting louder:) Come along if you care, come along if you dare.... Me: ...oh, god, please. Please, not that one.... My Teeny Brain: ...take a ride to the land inside of your mind.... Me: Not the fucking Amboy Dukes... My Teeny Brain: Beyond the seas of thought, beyond the realm of what... Me: ... not stoner rock at... what time is it, anyway? (Squints at clock, moans.) Early, that's what time it is. Way too *&$%#^*!!! early. My Teeny Brain: (Paying me no mind:) ...across the stream of hopes and dreams where things are really not.... Me: Must ignore. Must breathe. (Tries a moment of calm, relaxed breathing.) My Teeny Brain: (Fading:) Come along if you care, come along if you dare... Me: (The breathing has some effect.) That's it. Breathe: in, out.... Relax those muscles.... My Teeny Brain: (Fading further:) ...take a ride to the land inside of your mind.... Me: (Breathing more slowly, more deeply.) Better. That's right, relax. My Teeny Brain: (Fading even further:) But please realize you'll probably be surprised, for it's the land unknown to man where fantasy is fact.... Me: (Mumbling to self:) Much better. Muuuuch better. Mmm... sleeeeep.... My Teeny Brain: (Beginning to fade away:) So if you can, please understand, you might not come baaa-aaa-aaa-aaack! Me: (Just beginning to fall back asleep:) Mmmm... zzzzzzz.... My Teeny Brain: (TED NUGENT GUITAR BREAK AT FULL VOLUME) Me: (Wide awake:) Oh, bugger. The song cleared out at some point, I fell back asleep for real. When I woke up, no further tunes inflicted themselves on me. Until this afternoon at the gym, when a popular Europop number playing on the sound system, "Soy Yo," worked its way into my head and came home with me. Not a bad number, really, as pop trifles go. And what tunes have been whirling around in your head? rws 12:53 PM [+] |
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Tuesday, February 11, 2003 This last Sunday, El País ran a bunch of love letters written by some of its readers, and also some by French folks, readers of Le Monde. During the next few days I'll be translating some of them here. (Copyright 2003 El País) My dear one, I would love you with all my soul if we didn't both run a serious danger: that you would reciprocate! – Albert Arnedo Martínez, Zaragoza Because I can't bear the mess of your clothing. Because you never sweep the kitchen. Because you don't know if the bathroom is dirty or clean. Because I am inundated with your magazines. Because you continue being the messy one that I knew. Because you have never deceived or mislead me in anything. Because you always make dinner. Because you always take Javi to the bus stop. Because you always take me to the supermarket. Because you never forget which cologne I like. Because you continue calling me pretty. Because you've proposed losing weight a hundred times. Because you like the sea every summer. Because every day you take out the garbage. Because you like my smile so much. For all that, I continue to love you. – Maribel Pamplona I have to ask your forgiveness. I've begun to forget. Once again. How can I forget calling you, hearing you. How can I forget responding to you, holding you, kissing you? How can I forget watching you while you sleep or you watching me while I sleep? And then I remember and I want to remember always. I remembered this morning, I remembered that I love you. – Manuel Molano Mazón And yes, St. V's day is both an occasion to celebrate love and an opportunity to shovel immense quantities of cash in the general direction of the greeting card and floral industries. It's also something more -- it's an opportunity to ponder the roots of this happy, tender occasion and reflect on how far we've come: from bondage and a year's worth of action by way of a general lottery to hearts/flowers and far more proper behavior. rws 12:31 PM [+] |
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Monday, February 10, 2003 Seen on a Simpsons episode: The legend on the arch over the entrance to the local cemetery: "Springfield Cemetery -- Come For The Funeral, Stay For The Pie" Copy used in an what appeared to be a genuine trailer for The Incredible Hulk, seen tonight on Spanish TV: "He turns into a green monster when he becomes angry. No, it's not Bush. It's the Hulk." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Something that has surprised me over and over here in Madrid is the quantity of American and British music I hear on the radio and elsewhere. It's logical, I know, considering the volume of product that gets pumped out by the American/British industries and its dominance in western culture, but it surprises me nevertheless. I avoid it, to the extent that I can, preferring Spanish fare -- flamenco, rock and roll, other latin stylings ("stylings"!! the pretentious word of the day -- yee-ha!!) -- but now and then I hear something from back in the States that feels just right. I've had the radio on for the last hour or two, listening to different stuff. A short time ago I switched to a college station that lurks all the way down at the bottom of the dial -- the only college station I'm aware of here, a major deficiency in local radio -- and found myself listening to bluegrass, then further southern fare, more down and dirty. And then they played someone I've never heard before (and who remains unidentified), doing a fairly hard, countrified version of the Beatles tune "I'm Looking Through You," followed by a surprisingly nasty version of "In The Jailhouse." After which they started up Steve Earle's "Copperhead Road," a tune I haven't heard in years, and I found myself turning the volume up, stopping all over activity. Man, that hit the spot. Same kind of thing happened several days back. One of the Spanish national stations, Radio 3, plays adventurous, unpredictable music, stuff from all over the map. I turned it on one afternoon, found myself listening to "Continental Kind of Girl" by Elliot Murphy, a tune I hadn't heard in years ‘n' years ‘n' years. (And I swear as I wrote that I had the urge to call it "a jumping little number" instead of a tune -- do I need psychological help? Or a beating? Or maybe I'm spending too much time alone. Or maybe I'm just a pretentious twit and we're all just now seeing it clearly.) Last Thursday night I went out with two people from my evening language class -- a Dutch woman and a Japanese guy, Sandra and Takeshi, both smart, interesting, enjoyable folks -- along with Patricia, the woman who had been our instructor up until a week and a half ago. Patricia ferried us through many lovely narrow, winding streets in a couple of Madrid's older neighborhoods, taking us first to a great little bar for a caña or two and some food. We walk in, they've got something playing on the sound system that sounded like some of the cleaner, more countrified of the Grateful Dead's material. Only in Spanish. Good stuff. Real good. I ask the barkeep who we were listening to, he tells me it's Jorge Drexler. A name I've heard before, someone I'm going to have to check out. So we're sitting there talking, eating, etc., there's artwork arrayed around the place, collages of ads/clippings/images having to do with films from the 30s and 40s. Then something off in a rear corner of the joint catches my eye, something I haven't seen since I was embarrassingly young: a poster of Frank Zappa, preserved under plastic, in close to perfect condition. But not just any Zappa poster -- one that was genuinely notorious in its day: a shot of him on the toilet, staring at the camera, in all his grubby, insolent late-60s splendor. Bless his skanky ass -- just thinking about that gets me smiling. I've had a serious music addiction since I was about four years old, a habit that led me to accumulate far, far too many records, tapes, CDS. Here in Madrid, life has been much more austere -- less than 20 CDs made the trip over with me, all in a compact nylon pouch. I've picked up a few CDs, but not too many. I've received various tapes from sources back in the States, different stuff. And that's it. An absurdly modest pile of music, which has worked just fine. I find here that most of the time I tend to stay away from stuff in English. If I put on some music, it's mostly in Spanish, or it's the radio. Or it's not music, it's the TV. Lately, I've been watching loads of movies, dubbed and otherwise, ‘cause I'm finding that my comprehension has taken a leap forward and I'm understanding most of what I hear, an experience I get a serious charge out of. Something I've discovered here is how nice it is to have minimal possessions -- a realization that comes as near-heresy when considered against the way I was brought up. But there it is. There's a lightness to it that feels just fine. But I blabber. So I'll stop. rws 12:47 PM [+] |
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Sunday, February 09, 2003 For those aficionados of Peter Jackson's Lord of The Rings extravaganza, as opposed to those who might be bored of the rings (and they are out there), Ian McKellen's production diary is accessible online and easily worth the time it takes to check out an entry or two. He writes as he speaks, with intelligence and clarity, and it's easy to imagine that amazing voice of his speaking the entries. Thanks to Kristen for picking up on this one. rws 6:21 AM [+] |
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Saturday, February 08, 2003 Now is that a headline or what? Advertising's next frontier: body parts. Repent! Way more than you ever wanted to know about the birds & the bees. (And for the truly disturbed, a bit more, this time poorly written.) rws 6:42 AM [+] |
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Friday, February 07, 2003 I've been thinking about life this morning. It's a kind of day here that can easily provoke that kind of turning inward for me -- gray, mild, the air soft, a gentle, constant hum of life rising from the street. I tend not to work well when I'm in that kind of state, though, and at a certain point I needed to clear my head. I grabbed a bag of accumulated recyclables, headed out to dump them in the neighborhood recycling bins then take a walk. The street with the bins, a block from here, is a major concentration point of shops dealing in footwear/shoulder bags/expensive clothing -- with las rebajas continuing, it's an area with lots of shopper traffic during business hours. Which I like, actually. Couples walking together, talking; groups of women going into shops or walking slowly by tienda windows, conferring about the goods on display. Mixed in with all that are shops of a more pedestrian type -- dry cleaners, a drug store, grocery shops, a churrería, a couple of bar/cafes, a few restaurants, a shoe repair joint -- producing an enjoyable overall assortment of people. Folk from the barrio, business types, shoppers of all stripes. Once free of the recyclables, I headed over to la cafetería Vivares for café and churros. They had a Davis Cup match on the telly and the several people sitting at the counter were either watching or reading a morning paper, all contributing to a running discussion of the players' progress. As I sat and slowly inhaled my morning espresso/churros, one of the neighborhood transvestites came in, making her way to the stool to my left. There are a handful of local transvestites, faces that have gradually become familiar, some of whom present themselves impressively, impeccably -- nearly impossible to discern from a biological female. This one is a bit less successful -- heavily made-up, thick-featured, her manner of speaking and comportment less like a woman than a male acting out some mannered idea of a woman. She had a nervous demeanor, and the nanosecond I got to my feet to dig money out of a pocket, she began moving stuff to the bit of counter I'd been occupying -- her bag, a napkin dispenser, an ashtray. Micro-hegemony. Back out on the street, I decided to head over la Calle de Fuencarral, another intense concentration of clothing/footwear shops. I think I'm thinking about picking up a pair of, er, something. Footwear of some kind. My hair is also reaching the length where it develops seriously anarchistic tendencies, so I'm edging my way toward a cut. My experience with hair joints here hasn't inspired much confidence to this point, so I'm taking my time in selecting a place to try, trusting to impulse. I wandered along the sidewalk, checking out goods and passersby, finding the usual spicy blend of both, until the clamor of a small dog encounter got my attention, one strident wire-haired bugger sounding off at a curious, more timid dachsund type, both on leashes, the owner of the loud one appearing a bit embarrassed by the bellicose spectacle his critter was making of itself. The dachsund's owner had stopped in front of a haircutter's salon, the dachsund clearly torn between curiosity about the high-strung four-legged blabbermouth and the desire to stay well away from that same high-strung, four-legged blabbermouth, taking a few inquisitive steps toward the noisy passerby before retreating back to its owner's legs. Three or four feet past the dachsund, the wire-hair veered immediately over to the wall to raise its leg in a brief, contemptuous show of turf-marking. The instant it finished and moved on, the dachsund trotted over and peed on the wire-hair's fresh damp spot. (Why does all that remind of me of all the posturing going on right now at the international level?) A few minutes later, I approached a length of sidewalk that fronts a lingerie shop -- lingerie and sexy, revealing eveningwear. At the curb directly in front of the shop stood a street person, his hair a matted collection of dreadlocks, his skin and clothes darkened with street grit. He faced the tienda, his back to the street, standing mutely, staring at the crowded display of sensual clothing and scantily-clad mannequins. Passersby glanced at him from the corners of startled eyes as they walked past, the ragged individual paying them no mind, his attention fixed on the store windows. Later, back here in this corner of the neighborhood, I headed over to the plaza to get a newspaper. Turning the corner, I was met with the sight of another street person, this one wandering erratically around the center of the plaza, wearing floppy black and white sneakers of the Converse high-top kind along with dirty, tired jeans. And nothing else. Unclothed from the waist up, hair pointing in all directions. His attention moved all over the place, restless, not placid. He let out a sudden AAAWWWRRRRGH! Then another: RAAAAAAWWWWGH! Then fell quiet again, still wandering. An old black motorcycle jacket lay sprawled on the asphalt in front of the stairs leading down to the Metro. His, clearly. At the edge of the plaza, by the street, a municipal cop stood watching, his expression a bit sad. He had the air of someone waiting for back-up. Probably a smart thing to do. Back in front of my building, I paused to look over at the building whose residents had hung the anti-war banner two days ago [see yesterday's entry]. The banner was gone, laundry hung drying. They've apparently decided to alternate the two -- as I write this, the laundry's gone, the banner has reappeared. The day remains gray, life in the neighborhood carries on, its energy and color undiminished. rws 1:17 PM [+] |
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As you might imagine, the Iraq thing is a major deal here in Madrid – in part because it's of regional import, Spain being a Mediterranean country; in part because the head of the current center-right government has been pushing ahead in sync with the White House, in spite of the fact that the overwhelming majority of the Spanish population appears to be squarely against any such stance. (I base that statement on what I've seen of polls reported by the major local TV and radio outlets, along with the two major daily newspapers -- El País on the left side of the political spectrum, El Mundo to the center-right. According to them, anywhere from 70-75% of the population opposes an invasion of Iraq under any circumstances.) The last several days have seen a growing outcry against the threatened war, and yesterday morning the third-floor residents of a nearby building -- one that faces this building across the soon-to-be-ex-vacant lot out front, just across the narrow street -- hung a large white bedsheet from one of their clotheslines which bore the legend
NO a la GUERRA -- a slogan that's become more and more visible here over the last week. As the morning progressed, the wind began wrapping the bedsheet sloppily around the clotheslines, slowly distorting the message. By midday, the sheet had blown around the lines enough times that nothing remained of the sign but the word GUERRA It remained like throughout the afternoon. Sometime during the evening hours, the residents cottoned to what had become of their message and freed up the sheet so that NO a la GUERRA waved once again, clearly visible to everyone passing through this part of the neighborhood. This morning the residents hung laundry to dry on the other clotheslines, giving the anti-war message a folksy, down-home feel. And that's how it's remained all day – colorful clothes and anti-war statement, all waving gently in the mild Madrid air. ******************** On a different theme altogether, the following is from an e-mail sent by a loved one back in the States about a seriously atypical drive to a movie theater that took place yesterday: I like to get to a film a few minutes before it starts because I like to see the previews. But H. does not. We were taking two cars over to the theater... as he had driven over [earlier] and the theater is not far from his house. And so, I'm ready to go and H. is not. So we're kind of hanging around the backyard... literally killing time. Then we go. I'm in front of him and we pull up to the intersection down there by the car lots behind the school. We're waiting for the light to change and I'm fiddling with the radio dial. I look up and see this pick-up truck with a trailer attached doing sort of a mini-jack- knife, sliding sideways toward my car (I'm the first one in line at the intersection). A major collision had just happened, but all I see is this truck all over the place right in front of me and I'm kinda wondering at how close it is to my car (about 2 feet)... and will it keep going in the direction it needs to without hitting me. It was one of those slo-mo nothing to be done but wait situations. It comes to a halt on the sidewalk without hitting me. I look back and motion for H. to back up a bit. He hadn't seen what actually happened either. Turns out the truck had been t-boned by a car, the front end of which was demolished. H. got out and went up to the wreck. I sat in my car. A guy from one of the car lots is out there with a cell phone. After a couple minutes, H. gets back in his car and we drive around the wreck and on to the movie. When we got to the theater, Henry says the guy in the car admitted it was his fault, though I still am not sure what he did... ran the light I suppose. Turns out he was on his way to the airport where he was to catch a plane to Mexico in an hour. I doubt he made that plane. Interesting event, though. It didn't upset me at all. But I keep thinking about this timing thing... how we were just doing nothing so as not to get to the theater too early... and then voila... boom! Front row boom. rofl. rws 12:59 PM [+] |
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Wednesday, February 05, 2003 Yesterday morning, a quarter to six. I woke to the sound of pounding. The kind of event that penetrates sleep in a way that one is actually unconscious when they first hear it. Like I was. Deeply, happily unconscious. As the pounding continued -- four repetitions, that first set, loud and insistent (the perfect way to wake up, know what I'm saying?) -- I began coming to, paddling my way up up from wherever I was to a muddled version of consciousness. In my initial stupor, the hubbub was so loud, so distinct that I assumed it must be someone pounding on my door. With a few seconds more to put things together I figured out it couldn't be, that the sound was wrong –- something heavy was striking something made of metal, not the thick wood of the old door to this piso. A few seconds later, more pounding. I'm listening, trying to figure out what the hell it is, not wanting to get out of bed to find out. So I don't. I roll over, pull the covers up, try to pretend it's not happening. Which of course has no effect on anything. The racket continues, apparently happening down on the street level, somewhere close by. A couple of voices call back and forth, the pounding gets faster, more intense. Eventually, I get up and shuffle to the bathroom to dump the ballast. On my way back I open a window, take a gander outside to see what the *@#%^!! is going on. What I observe is a line of cars parked in the street, bumper to bumper, four police patrol vehicles and one large unmarked small panel truck. At the head of that line, two more vehicles are pulled up into the small driveway that's situated at the near side of the plaza (la Plaza de Chueca) -– a spot used normally by delivery trucks bringing goods to the businesses that ring the plaza, the street being one lane wide with no available parking along this block. A police vehicle is parked there, behind it an older, beat-up looking civilian vehicle. A couple of local cops stand together at the head of the line of cars in the street, talking. One bystander, an old codger, stands nearby watching the scene, his expression a bit bewildered. The pounding has abated, a hefty male in a firefighter-style outfit walks back to the small truck parked in the street, carrying a maul. I have no idea what was up. The plaza is a gathering place for all kinds of folks and all kinds of activity, legal and, I'm sure, illegal. I'm not generally one of those who likes to hang about scenes like that staring, especially not in the pre-dawn a.m. I closed the window, went back to bed. Later that morning, when I left the house to take the ten-minute walk to the main post office, I passed through the plaza, spotting no visible evidence of the early morning hoo-ha. Just the normal scattering of people, with the addition of a group standing square in the middle of the space, a small film crew. I saw no equipment trucks, I suspect it was an either an indie project or a student film. A collection of seven film-crew types stood around a lone actor – one woman holding a boom mike, another working the sound, one person with a clapboard, one with a camera, the rest watching. A take got underway, the actor opened an envelope, pulled out a letter, went into a state of near shock as he read it, one hand going up to his head. He paused to look around, lost, absorbing whatever he'd read, then gathered himself and walked off toward the street. Cut. Two more crew members sat at one of the concrete benches that run in a line along the plaza's east side, bags for equipment and film canisters at their feet. One smoking, one holding a can of soda. Both watching the action, like the onlookers scattered around the plaza. It was one of those days where Madrid did its imitation of London. No rain, but plenty of dramatic-looking clouds streaming across the sky, allowing sunlight through now and then. Providing lots of variation in light and color as the day courses on, a cold wind pushing its way through the narrow streets whenever it felt like it, making windows rattle. A kind of weather I like, reminding me of times in London I've enjoyed. The sky is mostly clear today, with abundant sunlight, the wind calmer, milder. The film crew was out in the plaza again this morning, working with the same actor plus one or two more. I walked by at the end of a take, either the last one for a specific actor or a wrap for the day, the crew applauding when the actors finished up with the scene. The day's look is so different from yesterday's that it got me wondering how that might impact the filming. Maybe it won't. Maybe they're filming in black & white. The day not only looks different, it feels different and thank god for that. Yesterday pretty much went to hell in a battered, unupholstered handbasket after I got home around midday, becoming a kind of day I don't experience very often, with things out of whack everywhere, including my little laptop -- the center of my existence here, in some ways -- and in particular its mouse, which has behaved in progressively antisocial ways from the day I pulled the bugger kicking and screaming from its box several weeks back. Yesterday it simply didn't want to work, and finally stopped functioning, unmistakably going belly up. At which point, after several torturous, frustrating hours of slow mouse death, I put it out of its misery by unplugging it and whanging it against a nearby radiator a couple of times before literally ripping it apart, dumping the remains in the nearest trash container. Very satisfying. A well-timed primal can be both therapeutic and entertaining, though I to being glad there were no intruders with videocams on hand to record the affair. This morning I went out to do some errands, winding up at FNAC, where I discovered a combo package of a small Lexmark printer and a wireless mouse on sale (I've assumed that las rebajas would be winding up at the end of January -– wrong!! though I've been told that they're a phenomenon of the month of January, they now appear to be a phenomenon that's been considerably expanded). Both items I need, both items that have so far behaved impeccably, leaving me feeling obnoxiously, smugly happy with myself. Ah, this life of ours. It rolls right along, with no shortage of entertainment. rws 12:53 PM [+] |
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Sunday, February 02, 2003 From Geese Aplenty, a fine place to go for well-written, occasionally biting, fun: Notes on an idea for a reality TV show. Premise: Orphaned children engage in brutal competition for the love of a rich, caring foster father. Title: "Who's Your Daddy?" Emotional notes hit: Cutthroat and tense during the episodes. At end, triumphant and voyeuristic as audience watches winner orphan go off to a life of comfort and security. Also tragic and bittersweet as other orphans loaded into vans to be sent into the foster care system, never to be heard from again. Addendum to above: Loser orphans get consolation prizes. Wool socks, Pokemon pez dispensers, and assorted kitchen appliances. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And now, if you know what's good for you, you'll stop hanging around here and head immediately over to Mimi Smartypants' neighborhood where you can wade through a heap of entertaining digressions on the way to learning about her weekend in D.C. As the formerly svelte, now unnervingly paunchy Xander Harris once said (and I admit this is a quote I've been overusing a bit lately), "Smart chicks are so hot." rws 11:54 PM [+] |
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My last two or three nights of sleep have been filled with amazing dreams -- dreams brimming over with close friends, sweet romances, adventures, fun, joyful events. The kind of stuff that stays with me during my waking hours, gets me smiling whenever I think about it.
This morning they propelled me up from sleep and out the door to the gym, a place I hadn't been to in, er, let's see, how many days? (Mumble, mumble... carry the 3... er, hmm, never mind.) The gyms are one place where the rhythm of life in Madrid is clearly visible. There's no getting up at ungodly hours to engage in rigorous exercise. During the week they open at 8 a.m., Saturdays and Sundays mornings they open at 10. On the weekends, morning attendance is sparse until after 11 a.m., and even then people tend not to show up in any real numbers until noon or thereabouts. Similar to what you'll find out in the streets at that hour: few people, little traffic. Everyone's home recovering from Saturday night or beginning their day in slow, gentle fashion. Got back home around noon, picked up a copy of a Sunday paper and walked through still-tranquil streets to el restaurante Vivares, my preferred local dispenser of a.m. café. And as is usually the case, walking in the front door there meant stepping from quiet Sunday morning Madrid into the major contrast of concentrated sounds, smells, movement. An empty stool – the only empty stool at the crowded counter -- waited for me a few steps inside the door, I planted myself on it. The camarero wandered down to the near end of the counter, searching for something in the various cabinets and storage space back there. He said hello, I said hello. I asked for a café cortado, he wandered off, I began nosing my through the paper's Sunday magazine. After a few minutes, a saucer and spoon appeared in front of me, followed shortly after by a cup of espresso. Took a moment to inhale the first mouthful (Mmmmmmmmm!), then began absorbing the scene around me. The counter in this place runs from one end to the other of the front room, on top of it sit two long, refrigerated glass display units, each containing several trays of tapas-style food. On top of the near one sat two trays heaped with fresh croissants. On the far one sat one huge tray piled high with fruit: clementines, bananas, pears. Bright orange, bright yellow, a subdued pale green. All along the counter people stood and sat, drinking coffee or a morning aperitif, reading the paper, talking, maybe smoking a cigarette, while the camarero moved back and forth behind the counter. At tables around the space, groups of people sat ingesting high-test, talking. The television broadcast a soccer game, the voices of the commentators floated above all the rest of the hubbub. The restaurant has two machines that are the local version of a one-armed bandit, both about six feet high, the flashing lights from both of them twinkled away. People wandered in and out in a near-steady stream, those leaving calling out "¡Hasta luego! (Not pronounced the way it's spelled, BTW. More like "¡‘Sta logo!" I've discovered that I love sitting in the middle of this kind of thing while I eat lunch or sip at a cup of brew. I ate lunch at this joint yesterday – when I arrived, there were no tables in the front room, which meant I had to walk down a long hall to the back room, which has a bunch of tables and little sensory input. No windows, minimal traffic coming and going, nowhere near as much to look at and soak up. Although at one point yesterday a 60ish couple entered, walking slowly – by necessity, I think – saying hello to each and every one of the three or four diners already there, and wishing us all "¡Qué aproveche!" (Essentially, "May you use it well!") That was fun. I'm finding more and more that if I get seated in a back room, without windows, without motion, activity, energy, it feels like I'm in a sensory-deprivation chamber, and I really don't care for it. I went out to lunch today at a different local joint, a restaurant/bar on la Calle de Fuencarral called El Valle, located in a busy area, where the street narrows down to one lane's width, flanked by two wide sidewalks, both sides of the street lined with stores, restaurants, all sorts of funky shops. The sole table by the front window was unoccupied, I immediately claimed it (after making a show of gentility by asking the wait staff first) instead of letting myself get herded into the back room where most of the diners get corralled. Much more fun. Loads of pedestrian traffic out on the sidewalk to watch, buses occasionally swinging past on their way out to Gran Vía, autumn-style sunlight, the shadows slowly sliding across the street toward the restaurant as the minutes slipped by. If I hadn't been positioned there, I wouldn't have witnessed the moment when one of the wait staff accompanied an elderly blind woman from the back room, through the restaurant and out the door, disappearing with her off to the right, their arms linked, him entertaining her the entire way. As they passed through the room, it was clear that a number of the people there all knew each other, and one of the men standing at the bar – a tall, husky, good-natured type – called out as the camarero strode slowly past with the woman, "¡Hombre, no puedes dejar salir aquella mujer guapa! ¡No puedes!" On and on he went with this good-natured blarney as the pair walked by, the waiter talking to the woman at the same time, a smile on her face as she put up with it all. Now that's entertainment. Later, walking along Fuencarral, I saw a 30-something woman conducting a transaction at an ATM machine, a three or four-year-old boy at her side, both of them standing in a wedge of late afternoon light. She finished at the keypad, took the boy up in her arms and held him close, telling him how wonderful he was, him enjoying it shyly. As I walked past, I saw that he sported a Spiderman mask, the plastic face tipped up on the top of his head, the elastic that ran around the back of his head bunching up his dark hair just the tiniest bit. It's now evening. February has just begun, it already stays light here until after 7 p.m., the illumination in the western sky lingering later and later. The days have been slipping by at what sometimes feels, perhaps appropriately, like light speed. Despite the larger, human-generated dramas taking place in the world, the days here have felt golden, packed with vibrant life. Like my dreams of late. Don't know what it all means, but I'm enjoying it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Got something to say? Rent his chest! rws 1:46 PM [+] |
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Saturday, February 01, 2003 Phrase for the day: useful and decorative. Flo Control. Our galaxy: packed with photo ops. rws 6:07 AM [+] |