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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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