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Friday, April 18, 2003 No, I'm not writing much this week. Like I said, I'm on vacation. However, I just found myself seized by the impulse to blurt out some stuff, so here I am. Yesterday morning: woke up with a Frank Zappa tune ("My Guitar Wants To Kill Your Mama") going through my head. Drifted back off to sleep, had a dream in which I picked up Neil Young hitchhiking. We headed up to northern Vermont, hung out there for a bit, after which I drove him down to his destination, somewhere in central or western Pennsylvania. Don't ask me what this stuff is about. I appreciate the hell out of both those characters, but I can't say I worship them and I sure wouldn't describe myself as a classic rock type. This morning: woke up (tune-free), pulled on some clothes. Stepped outside to a lovely morning -- plenty of sunlight, air mild and soft. Walked around the corner, heard a sound that hasn't been around since last year's warm season, looked up to see one a swift go streaking across the strip of blue sky visible from the street, my first one for the year. The swifts are the local equivalent of what swallows are for certain parts of the States -- a confirmation that the warm season has arrived. During these last three days, the weather has recovered from the strange damp/gray version of the local climate that hung about last weekend and a bit beyond, sunlight and temperate air taking hold, bringing with them the feel of early summer, the city suddenly feeling a touch Mediterranean. In fact, between this weather and the city being so quiet, so many people gone, there's been a distinct August-like feel at work. Cooler than the real thing, yeah, but with the same low-key, relaxed ambience. The kind of weather that produces a lazy desire to get outside and lounge at a café or talk long walks along city streets, without any real purpose or destination. So. After the swift sighting, I picked up a paper and baguette, headed to one of the neighborhood espresso pushers and swilled down a cortado. On the walk back here, I passed a stocky, 70ish woman in a heavy dark coat, walking slowly, slowly along, talking to herself. Cane in one hand, a leash in the other. At the other end of the leash, a medium-sized, shaggy pooch did the best it could with the little bit of latitude its pokey, complaining owner gave it. Talk about keeping someone on a short leash -- this poor little bugger literally wasn't allowed to move away from the space immediately next to its owner's feet. So it made the best of its situation, sniffing at the sidewalk, sniffing a bit of wall, looking up at the sky, pink doggy tongue hanging out one side of its mouth. One does what one can. The sound of nails clattering on sidewalk made me look around, I saw a second dog trotting toward me, larger, a black hound of some sort. Galloping in my direction, mouth open, tongue flopping around. No sense of threat here, just curiosity. I put my hand out, it slowed as it neared, sniffing my fingers, its owner a few feet along watching the encounter. And then we were past each other, off to our respective mornings. The neighborhood plaza was surprisingly active with passing people, two six- or seven-year-olds riding in circles off to one side in front of the space on teeny bicycles, still using training wheels (the first trainers I've seen since coming over here), the sounds of rattling bicycle parts and high voices chattering busily away all mixed together. Their mother and an older brother emerged from a nearby tienda de alimentaciones, the mother carrying a plastic bag from which the end of a baguette or two protruded. She headed off across the plaza toward the street, the two bicyclists followed, the older brother breaking into a run to pass all of them and head around the corner, out of sight. Along the other side of the plaza, some individuals sat on the few concrete benches that line that side of the space and one person perched on the seat of a scooter parked between two benches. One of the local nerdy versions of a hipster, dressed in thick-soled black shoes, black pants, dark sport coat, necktie, white shirt, wearing black-framed glasses, listening to a walkman, earpieces plugged into ears. His face bore the scars of some serious zit history, his body moved to music I couldn't hear, swaying back and forth. He sang quietly along, yawning now and then. The cleaning crews had been through the neighborhood earlier so that no trace of the nighttime festivities remained, all litter gone, plaza hosed down and already dry. I passed through, headed toward home, and as I turned the corner onto the street, an olive-skinned South American family rushed past me, two 30ish parents, four kids swarming around mom and dad, all moving around the street as happily as a bunch of puppies. Beyond them, a slightly stout 50-something Madrileño couple walked slowly along, arm in arm, expressions serious and distant, her in a nice dress and comfy shoes, hair bouffed up, him in light sweater, dark pants and shoes. Serious, serious folks. Hard to imagine them ever carrying on like the South American family (now in the plaza, their voices rising into the morning air in laughing conversation). The streets have remained relatively quiet. There are folks about, sounds of passing cars, sounds of voices in conversation, now and then laughter, but it all seems a notch or two more sedate than the normal neighborhood soundtrack. Which is just fine with me. I'm debating tracking down tonight's Easter procession, getting a hit of spectacle and seasonal religious hooha. We'll see. Later. rws 12:22 PM [+]
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