|
Tuesday, April 08, 2003 I'm scaring myself, Revisited. For some reason -- don't ask me why, 'cause I don't know -- the Zappa song "Mr. Green Genes" (original version from the album "Uncle Meat," has been cycling itself through my head on a repeating loop. One of Zappa's weirder songs if you listen to the lyrics (and that's saying something), one of his prettier ones if you stick to the instrumental version from the album "Hot Rats" (titled "Son of Mr. Green Genes" to differentiate it from the original). ["Hot Rats: a CD of nothing but catchy instrumental cuts, well worth seeking out. Notable for "Peaches En Regalia," a tune you've probably heard at some point whether you recognize the title or not, and for "Willie The Pimp," the lone cut with vocals (sung by the inimitable Captain Beefheart, the balance of the tune featuring fine Zappa guitar and equally expressive electric violin by Sugarcane Harris -- top-notch fare).] [Sample "Willie The Pimp"lyric: I'm a little pimp with my hair gassed back. Pair a khaki pants and my shoes shined black.] But I digress. Yesterday: a classic spring day. Temperatures in the upper 70s, sky a clear, vibrant blue, sunlight falling gently into the narrow streets of this barrio. The kind of day that draws people out into the street in large numbers, the air filled with the sound of feet walking, of voices in conversation. Went to my evening language class where I pretty much slaughtered a couple of exercises focusing on both conditional sentences and the more advanced uses of the subjunctive verb form. Afterward, my mission of destruction accomplished, I stepped outside into the busy streets, air still warm, post 9 p.m. sky still aglow with the day's last light, sharply-cut crescent moon looming above the Royal Opera House. Following the guidance of my stomach, I stopped in at el Paraíso del Jamón (the Ham Paradise -- It's paradise! And it's filled with ham!!), where I managed to politely elbow my way into a small space at the packed counter for a small caña of beer and a bocadillo de tortilla, both of which hit the spot. (To anyone planning a trip to Madrid: should you find yourself on the west side of the city center, walking down la Calle de Arenal toward the Royal Opera and the Palace beyond that, you could do worse than stop in at el Paraíso del Jamón for a quick bite -- the food is good and cheap, the people-watching colorful and entertaining.) Back out on the street, I made my way toward la Plaza de la Puerta del Sol, bustling with people and activity, and headed up the main pedestrian avenue toward la Plaza de Callao. There are a bunch of street performers that hang out at different points along that hike, including a 30-something guy wearing a get-up designed to make him look like he's walking into gale-force breezes -- a wig of thick black hair stretching stiffly back from his face, a necktie that bends stiffly back over one shoulder, an umbrella blown inside-out, classically nerd-like glasses with standard issue thick black frames. Normally he's standing mid-walking-into-the-wind pose, or moving from one comic stance to another. Last night he stood off to one side, deep in conversation with another male, both wearing serious, thoughtful expressions, him still in high-wind gear, hair and necktie angling tautly back, glasses slight askew. On the next pedestrian way over, I could hear the sadly joyful music of a group of Peruvian musicians who can often be found playing around there. Music that moved along with a steady, stately beat, the melody resonating a bit between the buildings as it rose into the night air. Made my way through the crowds home, dropped off books, picked up gym gear, grabbed the Metro, went to join the nighttime crowds at the health club. This morning: Still mild, though mostly overcast, blue sky asserting itself from time to time, sunlight swelling for a while then fading once more. Went out for a cup of espresso and a glance through the morning paper, wound up at a joint I've been going to quite a bit lately. The second string counterman was on duty, a guy who doesn't seem to listen when I tell him what I want. For the second time in a row, he gave me a café con leche instead of the cortado I asked for. (Turned out to be good enough that I stuck with it, so I will hereby quit complaining.) A quieter scene than my last time there, the TV playing a nature documentary, looking like it might be centered on the Galapagos Islands. Lizards, tortoises, orcas. Behind me a 40-something guy stood at the local version of the one-armed bandit, inserting coins, pushing buttons, lights flashing and various sound samples playing in courteously quiet response. To my right, two slender males came in and sat down, one in a local version of rock-star mode, completely in black from his thick-soled shoes to his headband, the only hint of other hues being pallid skin and the reflection of light from several piercings. He and his companion received tall glasses of coffee with a bit of foam at the top, opened packs of sugar and emptied them into the brew, sipped and talked quietly, now and then glancing up at the TV. To the left of the rocker's glass and saucer, his essentials lay grouped together on the counter: sunglasses, cigarette pack, lighter. Today's papers were filled with the usual mix of bad news particular to this bizarre passage our world is lurching through, with the compensation of hyped-up sports sections, blabbering excitedly about tonight's match-up between Manchester United and Real Madrid, the two teams many believe to be the best in the world right now. This evening's game is the first of two quarter-final bouts between these contenders for this year's Champions League title. Real Madrid is essentially the soccer world's version of the New York Yankees, meaning the best collection of marquis names that money can buy, a kind of ostention that's had a lot of people here feeling ambivalent about the team this year. But as the season moves toward its wind-up and Madrid rolls over one opponent after another, people get excited despite themselves. And when a team of the stature and quality of Man. Utd. comes to town for a showdown, who can resist? In fact, I think it's illegal for guys here to ignore a game like this. One does so at the risk of having their Male Human identity card revoked. Therefore, come 8:45 p.m. I'll be planted in front of a TV, doing my best to comply with local norms. Outside, puffy, sprawling white clouds are gradually giving way to hazy blue skies and lazy sunlight. It's Madrid's mid-afternoon lunch break -– time to scare up something tasty, maybe an empanada de bonito and a bowl of gazpacho. Later. rws 2:53 PM [+] |