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Monday, March 10, 2003 Just found out about the city of Rome that lies below the city of Rome. Bugger. Now I have to go back to do some exploring. (Damn, that means I'll have to eat more excellent Italian food!) (Thanks to Kristen for the link.) Monday. After a weekend of blessed quiet, the construction noise started up again across the street at 8 a.m. One thing I'll say about this change in local existence: it gets me appreciating how nice it is to hear nothing but the normal sounds of barrio life, without the added layers of industrial white noise -– compressors, power tools, the occasional jackhammer. Which leads me to something larger: how much I've come to appreciate the simple experience of being alive with all its normal details. But that's another entry. The weather here in Madrid these last few days has been spectacular. Chilly mornings, the mercury gliding up into the 70s (20+ C) by midday. Blue skies and brilliant, warm sunlight in abundance. With the sky staying light until after 7:30, it's feeling like the warm season may be rolling into town for real. We'll see -– a call like that could be a teensy bit premature, this being early March and all. I'm still doing the going-inward bit I wrote about a few days back. Something about that trip to Italy has triggered serious ongoing reflection –- ill-timed in that a friend was staying here for a few days after my return, and I may have come off a bit, er, I don't know -– stiff? Odd? Preoccupied? Unless he chalked it up to me being my normal weirdo self. (Yes, I get to say that about me. You don't.) Friday, early afternoon. I'm doing errands around the barrio, lost in my thoughts. I've stopped at the neighborhood recycling bins, am dumping glass, paper, blahblahblah. I feel a hand on my arm, I look up to see a very pretty woman talking to me. Couldn't seem to place the face, though she apparently knew me. I'm staring, trying to get my teeny brain to engage, it sinks in that she's asking me about the trip to Rome, then I realize it's the travel agent who booked my flight for me (her hair color changed from blonde to dark brown since the last time I saw her, contributing to my cluelessness). I finally get up to speed with what passes for reality, my brain jerks into gear, my mouth gets into sync, I answer her question about the trip, saying it was fine. She replies, "Me alegro" ('I'm glad'), and takes off. I stand watching her walk rapidly (maybe a bit too rapidly) off, thinking there may possibly have been something more than professional interest going on there, wondering if I'll ever find out. Saturday, early afternoon. Me, sitting at a table at la Plaza de Chueca, just down the block from here. Soaking up sunshine, watching people, sipping una caña, reading. At the table next to me are two young-20-something women. Beyond them, two kids -- a chunky 10 or 12-year-old boy with a girl half his age -– wander through the scene. The come upon some pigeons, both kids run at the birds, the girl laughing, the boy yelling, "You! Get out of here! Fly!" at the birds. He continues with that, veering toward pigeons situated near the table next to me, his shouting and manner growing more vehement, more extreme, until he's right next to the neighboring table, yelling with unnerving volume and intensity, the two young women staring at him, mouths open. The kid runs off with the little girl, the young women look at each other, bursting into laughter, glancing self-consciously around to see if many people are staring. Later: walking through neighborhood streets. Someone has a canary in a sizeable birdcage out on their piso's balcón. Between the sunlight and mild air, the little bird is singing in incredible fashion, as if bursting with joy at being alive. It's song rises and falls, going on and on without pause, resonating along the barrio's narrow streets. Seen in the front window of a neighborhood bakery: an apple cake -– more a broad pastry than a cake, actually, baked in a broad pan, the creation only as tall as the pan's rim. Its surface is covered with apples slices, beautifully arranged, topped with a honey-colored gel. Sophisticated, high-quality bakery fare, scrumptious-looking. Someone has plunged a swizzle-stick into it that bears a small sign which reads ES DEFÍCIL HACER ('IT'S HARD TO DO'). No price, just those words. Saturday evening, around 8:30. The streets of Chueca are filled with people, some strolling, others going in and out of clothing/footwear stores. Couples, young and middle-aged, and groups of young folk. Lots of chatter, lots of cars going by, windows open, conversation and music drifting into the night as they pass. I turn off a main drag onto a small, quieter side street. Fewer stores, fewer lights. I approach the door to a tienda that deals in custom-made clothes, a small, narrow shop with edgy, unusual pants and shirts in the window. The front door is open, a wedge of light extends out across the sidewalk. As I draw near, I can hear latin music playing -- fast-moving, with a heavy, driving beat and lots of percussion, loud horns playing atop it all. I draw even with the door, the music pours out from the space. Inside, the shop is empty except for a slender 20-something couple dancing in front of a mirror to the music, side by side, their steps identical and exactly in sync. Then I'm by, the music quickly fades. The sound of a bus going by at the end of the street surges, fades, the laughter of two young women walking in the opposite direction on the other side of the street floats in the night air. Madrid. It's my home. rws 2:46 PM [+]
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