Sunday night, post-elections: partying could be heard around the neighborhood. Not wild, trash-hurling, bottle-tossing, shrieking crowds of shitfaced revelers -- far more low-key. Bits of pleased conversation on the street, punctuated by laughter. Now and then a car would pass through, horn blowing in celebration. Sometimes a pedestrian would join in, letting loose a howl -- maybe a version of the classic dog/siren reflex. The horn would fade with distance as the car continued on to another part of the barrio, the howling ceased, quiet descended for a while.
On Monday the newly-elected Spanish president, Zapatero, took the stage -- meeting the press, laying out his intentions, lacing his discourse with words like 'dialogue,' 'plurality,' 'unity.' He also reiterated something he promised during the campaign, that Spain would consent to being part of a U.N.-directed transition force in Iraq, but that if the mandate for the occupation were not turned over to the U.N., Spain would withdraw its troops at the end of June, the date the previous government had set to review the situation.
Nothing new in that for folks in this part of the world. Zapatero made his intentions clear throughout the campaign process, consistent with his long-standing opposition to the Iraq incursion. It made the headlines in all the local papers, though -- most reporting it simply, accurately, one of the two far-right papers being the lone print outlet to employ a bit of hysterical, sensationalistic distortion (ZAPATERO TO WITHDRAW SPANISH TROOPS IMMEDIATELY!) -- everyone aware that of everything Zapatero came out with during the course of his first post-election day, that single statement would likely generate the biggest shockwaves out there in the world beyond Spain's borders. A close second would be his statement that Spain will become more European in its political alignment, moving closer to Germany and France.
And so began the spewing of opinions in the world media and in various cyber-hangouts, something I normally pay little attention to. In the process of checking in on some blogs/online journals I often visit, however, I followed various links that led to examples of the vociferizing going on in response to the last week's events here in Spain. And I find myself amazed all over again at our capacity to proffer opinions as if they were the only possible perspective, as if they were, in fact, indisputable truths etched in titanium. We are an endearing bunch, we humans, a source of so much strange, fascinating behavior. Most of us so well-intended, carrying so much good in our hearts, regardless of the form it may take when we spray it outward.
But I blather.
Monday and Tuesday: Zapatero suggests that Bush and Blair might want to engage in some reflection and self-criticism. Bush and Blair call Zapatero to congratulate him on his victory and express their desire to work closely with him. Zapatero attributes his election to a desire for change, not to last Thursday's bombings. The Wall Street Journal opines that the terrorists have brought down a government of the coalition. The New York Times doesn't agree. The Daily Telegraph says the Spaniards have dishonored their dead. The Financial Times says Spain has given the world a lesson in Democracy. Mariano Rajoy, the PP's defeated presidential candidate, claims in a television interview that the PP never lied, never hid information, the war in Iraq didn't affect the vote, he lost the election because "some groups convinced the voters that it would be better if the PP didn't govern." ("Some groups?" asked the interviewer. "I don't mean anyone specifically," responded Rajoy. "Persons, people....") King Mohammed VI of Morocco congratulates Zapatero, calling him an experienced and wise politician. At various locations around cyberspace, right-leaning folks call the Spaniards cowards, others take heart at the elections' demonstration of democracy in action.
*Morocco: Spain's neighbor to the south, across the Straits of Gibraltar (and country of origin to some of the alleged authors of last week's bombings), where Spain still possesses two bits of real estate, the cities of Ceuta and Melilla
Meanwhile, here in Madrid, life goes on. Lovely early-spring weather has taken hold -- sunlight pouring down, a cool breeze giving the mild temperatures a slight edge. The political hoo-ha is part of the general vibe, one can hear plenty of conversation about it during the course of the day, but people are out shopping, drinking coffee, picking up groceries, sitting at tables outdoors with something to eat or drink, talking, enjoying the weather.
The shrines to those killed and wounded in the bombings continue to receive a steady stream of visitors and media types. I stopped by Atocha Station two days ago, where in memoriam displays have proliferated, indoors and out. I paused among a quiet crowd by one long grouping of candles, bouquets, handmade signs situated well outside the station, by the large, busy traffic circle. People came and went, traffic passed, the breeze riffled taped-up bits of paper and flower blossoms, making candle flames flicker or go out.
At some point I became aware of one individual, a guy who appeared to be looking through items left at the shrine as if out shopping. Walking along, picking up certain candles, looking them over, putting most back, holding on to a couple. When the only box of matches at the scene found its way into his hands, I watched with more attention. He moved from one spot to another, sometimes stepping into the shrine itself to examine items, looking around from time to time to see if anyone was watching. He held the box of matches in one hand for a while, finally shifting it inconspicuously into a plastic shopping bag he carried, along with a candle or two. After a couple of moments, I moved to his side, mentioned quietly that if he'd finished with the box of matches other people might want to use it. He looked over at me, startled, said, "¡Sí!", pulling the small box from the bag, putting it back where it came from. Another person picked it up, began lighting candles that had gone out.
The guy resumed moving along the shrine, now examining bouquets. A minute later, a bunch of yellow flowers made the shift to his bag. He'd caught the attention of other people by that time, who watched open-mouthed, beginning to make angry comments. One elderly woman gestured at him, mentioned she'd first noticed him with the matches, expressed outrage, saying, "¡Qué caradura!" ('What cheek!') By that time, he'd glommed on to the box of matches again, glancing around to see if anyone had cottoned on. At which time he noticed the potential lynch mob of pissed off shrinegoers staring at him. A moment of hurried deliberation, then he put the box of matches down. A minute passed, he browsed without touching anything, then furtively picked up a small candle, examined it, slipped in his bag, bolted.
The outraged conversation continued in the group near me until they began moving off, one by one, heads shaking. I watched the souvenir klepto disappear down the avenue, thinking about this small event. A handful of tiny candles, a bouquet of flowers -- they don't mean much compared to the event that had brought them to this spot. Their new owner didn't appear to be the happiest or most tranquil of people. Could be he needed those few items, for whatever reasons, more than the shrine did.
Examining the goods:
Inside Atocha Station, shrines are spread out in a number of locations, with many people stopping to gaze soberly, talk quietly with a companion. Two squat 50-something women down at one end of a memorial area on the stations main floor talked together, upset, as I paused 15 or 20 feet away. One suddenly raised her voice in sharp emotion, the words "¡Hijos de putas!" erupting out of her. Her volume immediately quieted, they continued talking together, both clearly feeling some feelings.
This site, like many of the shrines at the station, featured numerous handmade signs, some aiming clear, heartfelt messages at the recently-defeated government.
Up a level from this site was another, spread along a hallway that saw less traffic than the one I'd just stopped at. People stood quietly along its length, two or three like me bearing cameras, taking pictures, something that seemed to bother no one. A moment later, two television cameramen appeared, each with a sizeable camera riding a shoulder -- positioning themselves at different places along this lengthy memorial area, seeming to produce a ripple of unease that ran through the people paying their respects. A sound person showed up, bearing a microphone, a headset, a recording device -- he approached one or two individuals, both of whom declined to be questioned. All the shrinegoers then scattered, walking quickly away, leaving the television folk behind, expressions contrite.
Both outside and inside the station's main entry concourse is an enormous, sprawling accumulation of candles, bouquets, signs, and messages written in marker on walls, columns, windows. Its size and location attract large, reverent crowds, including substantial numbers of media folk. When I stepped outside from the concourse, I practically walked into a massive camera emplacement, three technicians standing around it talking in crisp British accents. Other crews had similarly-sized equipment set up, vans with satellite dishes were visible a distance away from the entrance, numerous crews with smaller equipment roamed around, looking for a shot or an audio clip. Attempting to do their job, media folk and shrinegoers coexisting more successfully here than they had several minutes earlier, inside.
There is a strange matter-of-factness about all this, despite the nagging edge of unreality to it all when contemplated. News programs have shown footage of crippled trains being pulled apart, taken away piece by piece, crowds of people watching silently as the visible evidence of the bombings disappears a chunk at a time.
Life moves on, something I'm grateful for. Walking in the barrio of Salamanca earlier today, I saw trees greening up, my first sighting for the season. With the last few days' milder weather, tables and chairs have appeared outside restaurants and cafés. Even today, mostly overcast and cool, people are sitting outside, ready for spring, acting like its already here.
The days roll on. That's a good thing.
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 1:26 PM [+]