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Thursday, March 27, 2003 Some days I take myself to a nice café somewhere, intending to sit and write. The inmate out for a field trip, a change of scenery that brings all sorts of sensory input, lots to watch, pleasing things to drink and nibble on. Sometimes I get wherever I'm going, I actually do write, the promise of a nicely-productive interlude is fulfilled. Other times I arrive, sit down, immediately sink into some kind of stupor. Endlessly stirring my cup of espresso, staring out the window, half-seeing what's out there, half-lost in thought. This morning I got myself out at a fairly early hour, made the trek to the main post office at la Plaza de las Cibeles to mail a package. The walk took me past the big Circulo de Bellas Artes building, whose first floor houses a large, beautiful, high-ceilinged, art-filled café. Having been awake and alert enough to leave the house armed with notebook/pen, I decided to stop in at the café after bothering the post office personnel. (And this mornings' postal representative did seem to be bothered by me and my early-morning version of the Spanish language. La de freakin' da.) It's been raining on and off here since late yesterday -- today more on than off. There once was a time when I enjoyed weather like this, savored it even. Lately it seems to have lost its allure. Not sure why. Too much time spent in New England's dark, cold, wet seasons? Too much time spent in Madrid's long, normally glorious warm season? Don't know. I only know that now when rain begins falling, I mostly wait for the sun's return. Not always, but often enough that it's caught my attention. So I'm out walking, umbrella up, a spirited breeze now and then whipping falling moisture into my little supposed anti-moisture zone. I'm in and out of the post office, I go back to el Circulo de Bellas Artes, a big, beautiful building on la Calle de Alcalá, right across from where Gran Vía empties out onto Alcalá. Beautiful architecture everywhere, wide avenues which channel cars, buses, motorcycles, scooters in different directions, pedestrian traffic passing all around, many umbrellas bobbing above the flow of walking bodies. For people who are not staff or members of el Circulo de Bellas Artes, it costs one euro to get into the building. A worthwhile outlay, even if you're just going to the café with no interest in checking the current art exhibits. ‘Cause it's a beautiful place. Beautiful enough that when local a.m. news shows do talking-heads-blathering-about-current-news, they often film them a corner of the space, in one or two groups of sofas and comfortable, overstuffed chairs, enormous windows looming behind, looking out on the avenue. I walked in, paid up. Found the perfect window table waiting for me, took possession. Got out newspaper and writing stuff, ordered my morning cortado. Whipped quickly through the paper (bad news, bad news, bad news -– ahhh, sports!), uncapped my pen, applied it to paper, wrote three, four, five words. Glanced outside and immediately drifted away. Stirred my café, sipped a little. Drifted away again. Watched people walking by (especially female people!). Thought about this and that. Stuck spoon in café again, swirled it around. Sipped further cafe. Looked outside once more. Felt a pang of guilt, looked down at paper, trying to will myself to come up with something worth writing. Looked back out the window, absently observing the stop/go of traffic as the intersection's traffic lights went through their cycles. Watched passing people a bit more. Noticed a small sea of black umbrellas bob by, then a bunch of other colors, just about everything but black, including one done up like a giant sunflower, another in a difficult-to-ignore mixed-bouquet floral motif. Looked back at notebook, picked up coffee cup, sipped more café. Blah blah blah. Not a bad morning, really. Went from there to an internet joint, sent a couple of letters, accessed Mimi Smartypants' page, the first time I've been able to get through in nearly a week. Chortled my way through a couple of entries. Then logged out and left, satisfied. Out on the street I remembered I didn't send the two notes I'd meant to send when I walked into the place. Bugger. Despite all this seemingly pointless lack of industry, I swear that I only appear to be a lazy git. I swear to you that as I do all this apparently idle floating about, I'm in a sort of work mode. Thinking, reflecting, watching what goes on around me, checking out people, sometimes stopping to take notes. Sometimes stopping to take lots of notes. And then every once in a while I'll get an impulse to go somewhere and hit the jackpot in terms of sheer people-watching fun. Two days ago. Went to see the film "Frida" (great soundtrack, GREAT visuals, not a very good script -– two out of three ain't bad, you know?). Afterward, walking through la Plaza de España, something reminded me of the teeny cluster of Chinese businesses that lurk in the underground passageway to the plaza's parking garage. Saw the stairs heading below ground, on impulse veered in that direction, visions of excellent Chinese food dancing in my head. A 30ish Chinese guy passes me as I head down the steps -- apparently coming from the little restaurant I was en route to, still chewing loudly, mouth open, spewing the odd speck or two of food. (Er, bleah.) Found the joint, walked in to find nearly every table in the postage-stamp sized place occupied, everyone but me Chinese and speaking Chinese -- Mandarin, I imagine. One table emptied out, the skinny, diminutive waitress gestured me there. In the far corner, a TV sat on a shelf above a table hosting a family of five. The TV played Chinese music videos, the lyrics displayed in two lines of Chinese characters at the bottom of the screen, first white then changing to blue, character by character, as the words were sung. Now and then, the youngest of the family's three young boys would spring to his feet and dance about a bit to the music. The guy behind the counter brought me a menu in Chinese. I asked for a replacement in Spanish, he brought that, smiling in agreeable amusement. I ordered, a bottle of spritzwater, a plate of solid matter. A minute later the waitress brought the water, left it on the table unopened, walked away. Not the kind of bottle you can twist open, as I discovered when my hands tried wrenching the cap free. I stared at it, then looked up to see a lone diner at another table watching -- a tall, lanky type, looking like he should be studying physics at M.I.T. My situation registered, his hand went up to signal the waitress at the same moment mine did. The guy behind the counter saw us, came over laughing, opened the bottle. I smiled a thank-you to the other diner, he nodded then dug into a fine-looking plate of Chinese fare, head down low over the plate as chopsticks ferried food to mouth. More tables opened up, the space clearing out some. A pair of 30ish, hip-looking business types entered, one in a sharp suit, the other in black pants, leather coat, white shirt, black necktie. They walked by me, speaking a comic, drawling version of Chinese, sat at the table behind me. A minute later, a third 30ish male appeared, carrying a folded-up Chinese-language newspaper, the two behind me spotted him the same moment he spotted them. Surprised, laughing cries of greeting started up, he walked by me, hitting one of the seated males with the paper, the laughing exchange getting louder. At that moment, the guy behind the counter appeared at my table with a steaming plate of food and a fork. I asked for chopsticks, his eyebrows lifted in surprise, he disappeared, reappeared a moment later with the requested utensils. I dug into the food which turned out to be a killer pile of fried noodles with sprouts and mystery meat, my mouth practically going slack with pleasure when the first mouthful arrived. A short time later, I'd inhaled all my food and drink, went up to the counter to pay. The grand total: 3.80 euros. Afterward, walking home through rush-hour crowds along Gran Vía, enjoying the amazing display of humans streaming around me. At one point I passed a short 50-something woman, pushing her way through the crowds. Done up in a brightly colored, wildly disharmonious outfit, clothes in visible disarray, streaks of off-the-mark make-up arranged helter-skelter on her face, mouth in a wide smile, talking happily to herself. A joyous psycho-dowdy, hustling along at her own pace and having a fine time of it, letting nothing and no one slow her down. We humans -- we're a wacky, beautiful, chaotic bunch. Pure, high-octane entertainment. rws 12:41 PM [+]
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