Man, what a beautiful December morning. When I did the right thing and pulled myself out of bed to drag my little bod off to the gym, I found a Madrid cloaked in fog, just enough of it to soften the city, to provide an air of benign mystery. A scattering of folks were about, a mix of older folks out to get a newspaper or baguette and younger folk at the tail end of a long night's club-going. The majority didn't look overjoyed to be up at that hour (just shy of 10 a.m., early here). The younger folks, in fact, appeared ragged and surly, keeping to themselves. I can relate. I -- barely half-awake -- could easily imagine what being out in the plaza on a cool, foggy Sunday morning might feel like after a hard night of partying.
The Metro and the gym were nicely underattended. When I stepped back out onto the street, post-sweatiness, around a quarter of 12, a more normal mix of humans were about, walking together arm in arm or being pulled along by dogs on leashes.
I passed a father with three children, two boys aged five or six and one adorable little girl, maybe 2-1/2, 3 years old. The father and boys were deep into an exchange among themselves, while the little sweetie had something on her mind she was trying to get across to them -- repeating what sounded like "na-se-ta-la-pa-ta-ta," all the different syllables pronounced separately just like that. Could have been a string of nonsense sounds she found entertaining or could have been some profound thought related to potatoes ('patata' being one of the two words for spud that I've heard hereabouts). The males in the group paid no attention, forcing her to repeat the phrase, louder, then again, even louder. Still no response from the others. For all I know, she's trying to get them to listen to her even now, repeating "na-se-ta-la-pa-ta-ta" at ear-rupturing volume.
Just up the block from them, a lovely 30-something woman pulled aside the curtains at a second-story window, wearing a thick, white bathrobe, face framed by long black hair. She opened the window, leaned out, dropped a set of keys to a male waiting below, him holding a plastic bag containing Sunday paper and groceries in one hand, catching the keys with the other. The window closed, she disappeared, he unlocked the building's front door, vanished inside.
The build-up to the holidays continues here, crowds clogging the city center, the energy level climbing steadily. Beneath it all, however, a winding down has begun as many people -- foreigners and Spaniards alike -- commenced the Christmas season migration, heading off to whatever points on the map function as home. Schools of all kinds have closed, much of the ubiquitous construction work has begun easing up in prep. for the holiday work stoppage.
And within the last two days the annual Yuletide explosions started up, something I've only experienced here. Individuals out on the street setting off major fireworks of the ashcan/cherry bomb variety, stopping everyone's heart for a moment, leaving sizeable clouds of smoke drifting quietly upward in the wake of the concussion. St. Nick had better pull on a flak jacket when he reaches Spain.
Sunday in Madrid, four days before Christmas. On to the afternoon.
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The Lord of the Rings hits Madrid:
rws 6:53 AM [+]