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Wednesday, April 23, 2003 The mounted folk moved by, followed by a cleaning squad of two clad in the city crews' normal outfit of forest green, bright lime green and reflective silver, pushing a wheeled trash can, each carrying a push broom. One of the horses let go as it headed down la Calle Mayor, the cleaning crew hustled over to sweep up the equine leftovers, accompanied by a city cop wearing a reflective vest in cleaning crew colors. That done, they followed the horses and the marching band approached, drums and brass playing loudly. The brass players had apparently missed rehearsals because they were all over the place, murdering the music in enthusiastically eardrum-busting fashion. At which point the procession came to a standstill once more, all sound stopping except for the drums, which maintained a loud, nearly steady rhythm. And there they remained. For quite a while. Behind the band were long, loose lines of marchers in KKK-style outfits, white with big, red, pointy satin hoods. A couple of them -- short, maybe around 12, 13 years old -- carried straw baskets and moved up and down the street, one on each side, passing out small cards with photos of the procession's Jesus icon, receiving coins in return. Motion finally resumed, the costumed folk began to file by, the first carrying a large staff with a cross up top, the second carrying a banner. Most of the rest carried the large, white candles, a few carried crosses. They were a strange bunch -- mostly short (apparently either fairly young or well on in years, often equal in height to or shorter than the candles they carried), many overweight, appearing lumpily ungainly and uncomfortable beneath their outfits. Three or four walked barefoot. Behind them came the float, accompanied by a group of only five or six people, and as it drew near I saw why -- it was mounted on tires, they were pushing it along. Jesus on wheels, being carted merrily through the streets. Which raised the question of why the long, drawn-out pauses in forward movement? It's not like anyone had to stop and rest from the weight they were carrying. At some point, it became clear that another procession had turned onto la Calle Mayor and approached behind the current bunch, a procession that appeared far more serious, its marchers clad in black, people of indeterminate gender in pointy-hooded outfits and women dressed in mourning gear -- black, lacy dresses of many layers, complete with mantillas and black lace shawls, black stockings, black shoes. The band consisted of drums and a few woodwind instruments, playing a quiet, mournful number and playing it well. The float was a large, striking affair, its centerpoint an icon of Mary that trailed large, long shroud, emblazoned with silver stars and extending behind for several feet. Two oversized silver candleabras flanked the icon, gracefully-bent arms rising to varying heights, the candles glowing softly in the day's dimming light. The whole affair was borne along by 16 people, clearly working hard, so that when the procession paused for a breather, you knew they needed it. By the time float and marchers had moved past and the crowd around me began to disperse, darkness was coming on. The final procession had brought the experience some substance, though none of the evening's three compared with what I experienced in Granada. As a whole, the Madrid version came across as Processions Lite, kind of strange considering it's the capital city. Or maybe not so strange. It may be that the spirit expressed so clearly in the south of the country is an Andalucian thing. A friend was down there last week, in Sevilla, the heart of the Semana Santa thing. He's Catholic and gets something very different out of the experience than I do, but his description of the event suggests to me a distinction between Sevilla and Madrid that might be comparable to Mardi Gras in New Orleans and Fat Tuesday in Seattle. The second one is fun, a good party; the first is the real item, light years beyond a simple good party, done professionally, with fire, soul and a long, deeply nuanced history. So now I know. Afterward, I found my way back over to la Calle de Arenal and headed back toward the Royal Opera House and the Metro station. En route, I passed el Paraíso del Jamón, one of the many mid-level tapas joints that abound here, and on impulse I veered in that direction. Though crowded and busy, I managed to weasel my way inside and position myself behind a couple at the counter who were just paying up, taking over part of their bit of floor when they vacated. The first counter guy to ask me what I want was a South American, who seemed to have trouble with my Spanish. Another camarero took over, one who knew me from my many visits there during weeks and weeks of intensive Spanish classes in the next-door language academy. I asked for a pincho of tortilla español, he responded by slinging a wildly generous plate of it at me -- the last of it, what would have been two helpings in most places. Another order for the same thing came in immediately afterward, he replied that they were fresh out, aiming a friendly wink in my direction. It's good to have connections. rws 1:17 PM [+] |