Spam: going to the dogs. Literally.
Er... flying Viking Kittens make a bunch of noise.
A different kind of think tank.
And a different kind of chat.
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For anyone devoting much time to Spanish newspapers and TV news lately, the general atmosphere in these parts may feel fairly unpleasant -- the way I imagine things might feel to many in the States or the U.K. right now. Turbulent, distressing, rife with strange happenings, ugly accusations. The campaign season is underway here, elections set for March 14, so the blathering and posturing is at a higher pitch than normal. Add certain recent events to the mix, the result is a loud, colorful, ill-spirited spectacle.
Last week, it came out that a highly-positioned member (Josep Lluís Carod) of the recently elected Cataluñan government -- a provincial government the current Spanish governing party, el Partido Popular, doesn't care for at all, being well to the left politically, with a strong streak of defiant independence -- had a clandestine meeting with higher-ups of ETA, a Basque terrorist/separatist group, in an effort to open dialogue aimed at convincing them to give up violent tactics. However well-intentioned the meeting may have been, its timing was a major blunder, given the combination of election season, the fiery emotions most Spaniards have toward ETA and the complicated question of Basque autonomy. (Not to mention the political party to which Carod belongs has strong separatist leanings) The uproar, driven by the PP in full campaign mode, forced Carod's resignation.
Within two or three days, however, came another discovery: the PP had known about the meeting because they'd had the Fuerza de Seguridad del Estado (National Security Force -- essentially, a bunch of spooks) spying on it -- tape-recording it, in fact. And knowing about it, the PP apparently opted to let it happen without detaining the ETA personnel, to make political hay out of the situation. The resulting uproar from that disclosure has been impressively intense. The PP has so far effectively stonewalled all demands for explanations.
However, the fallout from the recent admissions in Washington and London re: botched pre-Iraqi-invasion intelligence has rolled downhill to Madrid, the PP being the lone political party that backed the war, ignoring the country's overwhelmingly anti-war sentiment. The head of the Socialists is demanding an explanation to the "lies," the PP has played the stonewall card.
This is a highly simplified rundown of a complex set of events, including recent instances of misbehavior on the part of PP office-holders. The PP has been in power for something like 8 years now and, as happened with the previous Socialist administration, signs of corruption have recently been surfacing in strange, startlingly brazen, sordid, relatively widespread ways.
Not a whole lot of fun, all this. Many Spaniards I know are weary of it, and I can see why. Apart from reading the paper in the morning as part of my ongoing Spanish-language work, I do my best to ignore the ongoing racket. Which is not so hard to do, really, daily life in this city being so full with so many things to call and occupy one's attention.
Take yesterday, for instance. A day in which things to be done sent me to two or three different districts of the city during the afternoon and evening. During which I seemed to find street musicians everywhere I went.
Boarded a crowded train in a Metro station. The doors close, a violinist halfway down the car cranks up a boombox, a Mozart number starts (Eine Kleine Nachtmusik) -- mid-note, well into the piece. The musician starts playing along, his violin plugged into a small Peavey amp strapped onto a two-wheeled cart, the boombox lashed securely on top of that. Most musicians I see playing in the Metro are in their 20s or 30s, from Central or South America. Not this guy -- short, late- to mid-50s, neatly-trimmed gray hair/beard, dressed in running shoes, sweat pants, a windbreaker. And a hunter's cap of classic red/black plaid.
The guy played that violin like a veteran, like someone with many years' experience. The train neared the next station, he stopped mid-note, turned off the boombox, made a quick circuit of the car for change -- picking up more from us than I usually see Metro musicians receive.
As soon as that music stopped, the music from the Walkman worn by a 30ish longhair (dressed in black from head to toe, eyes hidden behind shades) standing next to me took its place, loud enough that I could hear the drums and chords of speed metal music with jolting clarity. Talk about a contrast.
Must have been a portent because shortly after that, I passed the local heavy metal street musician. Planted on a sidewalk, feet spread apart, churning out metal chords and melody lines, the music boiling out from a small Pignose amp. The day was mild enough, the sun strong enough, that he played with no coat on, just his customary black ensemble (Doc Martens boots, jeans, sleeveless t-shirt), one arm gripping the guitar, the other flailing away at the strings.
All that was yesterday afternoon. That evening, coming up out of the Metro in la Plaza de Callao I heard a saxophone playing a line from "Swing On A Star," a fragment of melody so familiar from childhood that my little brain automatically supplied the lyrics as the notes were played. ('A pig is an animal with dirt on his face....') The player: a 60-something black man from the States who can often be heard in the evenings around Callao. Tall, a bit stooped, usually sitting down. Rarely plays an entire melody line -- generally works on a phrase, playing it once, pausing, playing it again. Always sounding fluid, relaxed, usually looking a bit tired. Again a pause, then he'll play more of the line, or move ahead in the song. Now and then he'll stop to look around, maybe swab his forehead with a handkerchief before putting the sax back between his lips.
And a short time later, after 9 p.m., the streets of the city center crowded with people, I turned a corner, almost stumbling over another violinist -- a short, timid 70ish man. Playing quietly, scratchily, not very well. A cigar box lay open atop a carton in front of him, a few coins visible in it.
Shortly after that, on my way home, a 30ish couple passed, walking in the opposite direction. Both dressed nicely, talking together seriously. Pushing a baby stroller containing an infant, maybe six months old. Wrapped up in warm-weather clothing and scarves to within an inch of its young life, its eyes about the only bit of exposed face -- dark eyes gazing tranquilly up at the strangers passing by. Like those of a tiny, overdressed buddha.
One final thing seen yesterday: an enormous poster in the Metro, consisting of a photo of an oversized, exceedingly healthy potted venus flytrap, the lower half of a person sticking out from between two of its, er, lobes -- legs waving helplessly around. The caption: "Éste San Valentín, diselo con flores." (This St. Valentine's, say it with flowers.)
Hard to beat a sales pitch like that.
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Madrid, this morning -- along Gran Vía:
rws 6:02 AM [+]