Yesterday afternoon: one more in a series of beautiful holiday-season days here in Madrid, the air practically glowing with sunlight pouring down into narrow streets, plenty of people about, shopping, drifting in and out of restaurants and taverns, enjoying the day. I found myself suddenly hit with a massive bout of brain-numbing fatigue, the kind that turns thoughts into a thick stupidity soup, making the doing of just about anything an effort. The day being so prime, I refused to retreat to bed, finally herded myself outside to a movie. (A good one: Good-bye, Lenin! -- a German production that took the European equivalent of the Oscar for best picture two or three weeks back.)
Got myself into bed at an excessively (for Madrid) reasonable hour, slipped happily off to sleep. Then woke up around 5 a.m. from dreams in which I spoke English, Spanish and a bogus version of French. I think my in-dream self sustained the fiction that I spewed legitimate French because the languages can appear so similar on paper. Silly, gullible me.
First instance I'm aware of where I dreamed in Spanish. (And about time.)
Somewhere out in the neighborhood, a few all-night partyers stumbled about, yelling back and forth at obnoxious volume, making sleep impossible. Turned on the light, picked up a book until they wafted off to another part of the barrio. Killed the light, returned to drifting comfortably in and out of sleep, interrupted every now and then by old Mr. Bladder, who'd mysteriously decided to shift into overproduction for a while. (Probably more info. than you'd bargained for, that. One of the hazards of stopping by this corner of the web, I'm afraid.) When 8 a.m. rolled around -- the hour I'd resolved to get myself up and out to the gym -- I snorted drowsily with derisive laughter at the very idea, rolled over, drifted back off to sleep.
Pulled myself out of bed around ten to find a neighborhood active with prep. for the wind-up of the local holiday season, this being the final shopping day before el Día de los Reyes Magos (the day of the Three Kings) -- at least as important in these parts as Christmas Day. Today, I'm told, is actually analogous to Christmas Eve in feel and importance. Folks are out picking up last-minute gifts and provisions for the last of the season's big dinners, including the roscón de reyes, a sizeable O-shaped sweetbread, some with a thick layer of sweet cream inside, some without, all liberally sprinkled with almonds, chunks of sugar and bits of candied fruit. Lots of people calling out "¡Felices Reyes!" to each other -- "Happy Kings!"
The city is heaving with activity, between shopping, outdoor stages featuring live music, etc., everything leading up to the big parade through the city center this evening, the arrival of the Three Kings. I'll rendezvous later on with a couple of friends for parade-watching and whatever else comes along.
In the meantime I'll allow myself the luxury of waking slowly up, something an earlier outing for groceries/newspaper/coffee did not accomplish.
A few stalwart workers are about doing a relaxed version of the nose-to-the-grindstone thing at a couple of the many worksites around the neighborhood, notably right across the narrow street from here. Now and then I'll hear the sound of hammering, which turned out to be the first noise that greeted me on stepping out of the building this morning. Due, in that case, to someone at a payphone down the block at the plaza, holding the receiver to an ear with one hand, pounding on the phone with the other in a vain attempt to get some coins back. The cafetería at the plaza -- the closest caffeine vendor that isn't a Europop-playing fern-bar (not that there's anything wrong with Europop-playing fern-bars apart from inflated coffee prices) -- turned out to be packed with folks tossing down cups of joe, the atmosphere practically vibrating with high-volume conversation. The last of this holiday season's crop of like mornings. Tomorrow a.m. most places will be closed, most folks will be home.
The last such morning, New Year's a.m., I went out on a midday caffeine hunt, winding up at a bar/café a few blocks from here -- one of the few joints conducting business, not one of my normal haunts. Busy, with abundant loud conversation, nearly everyone there appearing around 60 years of age, working on cups of coffee or glasses of beer. The bartender, a tall, hefty, florid-complexioned 50-something, looked half in the bag, as if he'd gone directly to work from all-night celebrations. A dubbed version of the first Crocodile Dundee film played on the TV, most everyone stopped to watch the scene where C.D.and a friend, walking down a Manhattan backstreet, get accosted by four wildly stereotypical punks in a convertible Caddy. Two pistols appear in the hands of two of the low-lifes, money is demanded. C.D. and friend disarm them and so on, the scene producing appreciative smiles from my fellow-customers. One of them, apparently a regular, pulled on his coat, went to leave. The bartender began shouting after him in high-spirits: "Ey, ¿vas? ¿A dónde vas? ¿A dónde vas?" ("Hey, you're going? Where are you going?") The customer disappeared out into the midday sunlight, Crocodile Dundee continued humiliating the Caddy full of street punks, the bartender dispensed more coffee. The first day of the new year rolled on.
And here we are, four days later. In a few hours, the Three Kings will make the grand entrance, perched atop floats, moving through the crowds packing the city center. Tomorrow, most people out of town for the weekend will stream back into Madrid during the afternoon and evening hours, producing the season's final enormous traffic jams. Then it's back to normal existence.
On to 2004.
rws 8:40 AM [+]