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Monday, April 21, 2003 The arrival of Monday after a long weekend almost always startles me. I'm not sure exactly what it is -- something about that stretch of time off whipping by so quickly followed by the sudden start of another week. Time seems elastic to me -- its speed and feel change constantly. Sometimes I'll find myself experiencing a long, languid stretch where the hours seem to stretch themselves out in the friendliest, laziest way. Then, after the fact, it all seems to have flashed by at wild, contradictory velocity. Strange. But the weekend. Man, I don't care how mundane the activity is, a four-day weekend is a joy. Thursday and Friday had a peaceful, summery feel -- warm temperatures, sunlight filtering down through skies hazy with high clouds. I found myself walking around the barrio of Malasaña, the district to the west of Chueca -- another zone of narrow streets and big nightlife, looking and feeling mighty Mediterranean in the spring weather. Wandering around during the daylight hours you might not get any real sense of how active the place gets come darkness -- the bars and restaurants are plenty visible on certain streets, but many of the clubs maintain a low, discrete profile, like those of Siroco and Attitude. (Not so the club called Mutant Beach. During the day its entrance is covered by metal shutters painted in loud, garish colors, portraying a goofy scene of surfing at a, well, mutant beach.) Other hints re: the barrio's nighttime character abound for those with an eye for them -- for instance, a bit of graffiti magic-markered in small letters on a garage door: "By the way in the night be the party." You betcha. Friday evening: I found myself out with a few thousand other Madrileños in the streets around la Plaza de la Puerta del Sol, checking out the Easter processions. They're religious affairs, these processions, each one affiliated with a group/society/fraternity or whatever they should be called, similar to how traditional groups do the Mardi Gras thing in New Orleans. Most nights of Easter week, one or more processions will wind their slow, deliberate way through a long succession of streets, emulating, in their way, the carrying of the cross on the way to the crucifixion. Last year, at the end of March (Easter Week 2002), I drove down to the city of Granada in Andalucia with a group of folks to check out La Alhambra. A fine place to visit, Granada -- great food, nice people, and La Alhambra is spectacular, easily worth the trip all on its own. After a long day, we found ourselves in the city's downtown area where we stumbled across first one procession, then another, then a third -- all criss-crossing their way through the city center via routes that at times overlapped. If you spend much time in Spain during the course of a year, you will sooner or later see images from the processions of Easter Week (Semana Santa), the aspect with the most immediate visual impact being the outfits worn by people walking in long lines before and after each procession's float, outfits of the Ku Klux Klan variety, complete with pointy hoods, in different colors depending on the procession -- white, blue, purple, red/white. Weird to someone from the States until you get that these outfits were around long before the KKK and that the KKK probably cribbed the look from here. The centerpiece of each procession: a float, each featuring some version of Jesus or Mary, of varying degrees of elaborateness and grandness (or grandiosity, depending on your perspective). The floats in Granada? Fairly spectacular -- big and canopied, lit by many, many large candles, each featuring a dramatic image of Himself or His Mother as its focal point. The procession itself extended for quite some distance, consisting of long lines and groupings of marchers preceding and trailing after the float -- people in quasi-military uniforms; women in elaborate black, lacy dresses, complete with mantillas; marchers in the KKK-style outfits. Many folks carry large white candles (large meaning four or five feet in length). Others carry long staffs on which are mounted crosses or banners. A few walk with crucifixes slung over a shoulder, thankfully nowhere near the size of the original as seen in the customary images, but big enough to be symbolic. Each procession features a band, blowing dramatic tunes at a tempo that suits the somber rhythm of the doings. And the tail end of each procession often consists of various-sized groups of regular folks who attach themselves to the proceeding and follow along, swelling or shrinking as people come and go. At the heart of each procession we saw in Granada was the float -- big, heavy iconic images mounted sturdily on several horizontal poles and carried by squads of volunteers mostly hidden behind surrounding swaths of black cloth. Seriously arduous work done in the spirit of worship and penance, the floats so heavy that the bearers could only go 50, 100, 150 feet at a stretch, moving slowly then stopping to rest. Each crew had what amounted to a coxswain with a large staff walking immediately in front of the float, someone who set pace, provided encouragement, called out the order to stop, got the bearers organized and ready to start again, calling out a three-count before giving the order to lift then proceed. Each coxswain might have others with him, two or three individuals in front of and behind the float to help with support. Loads of detail, then, with each procession. And around each swirled spectators, filling the surrounding curbs, sidewalks and street. When the doings came to a halt, the music stopped, silence descended as the bearers caught their breath. Team members carried shoulder-height staffs with forked tops on which the float's support beams would rest, taking much of the weight off the bearers. After a couple of minutes, the coxswain would organize the team, the energy around the scene would swell, everyone aware that each team carried a huge amount of weight and that getting it back up and moving again was no small thing. The coxswain called out the three-count, the team shifted the full weight of the float back onto their shoulders, the crowd burst into applause, calling out encouragement. The band struck up a number, the procession would get underway again. During Semana Santa, television coverage of these processions abound, the images become pervasive. It's a strange phenomenon for someone from out of country to observe, all of it. And I have to say, the true feel of the event does not come across in photos or television images or print descriptions. I did not get it until I experienced it right there in 3-D fashion, in the chilly Granada night, and I have to say its worth getting. I'm not a Christian -- I live a spiritual life, but it's not of any organized religion. I grew up in a Irish Catholic household and that was enough of that kind of thing for me. But there is an expression of spirit and devotion in these processions that is real and powerful, that I'm glad I experienced. That was in Granada. The deal here in Madrid turned out to be somewhat different. [Continued in entry of 22 April.] rws 1:21 PM [+] |