Spring has settled convincingly in over Madrid these last few days, bringing sunlight softened by high clouds in tandem with temperatures just warm enough to allow life without coats, jackets, sweatshirts, sweaters. Combined with a long weekend, many locals fleeing the city, what you've got is three days that have felt relaxed in the way August in these parts feels relaxed. Less traffic than normal, less people about than on your standard weekend. Nicely low-key. A state that has felt just fine after the upheaval of the previous week or so, and continues today. Trees are greening up, bare branches disappearing beneath rapidly-expanding foliage. Birds are everywhere, making happy noise. In the plaza down the street, bars and restaurants are busy dragging tables/chairs out into the air. People carrying a Sunday paper appear almost instantaneously, sunglasses in place, easing themselves down into a chair, stretching out their legs, soaking up sunlight. (The wet blankets in the weather-predicting biz have been warning that far less friendly temperatures are about to make a return visit to these parts. I make rude noises in their general direction.)
During the course of yesterday afternoon, I became aware of a change in the ambient sound outside, something that joined the mix of voices in conversation down in the street, the sound of the occasional passing car, the chatter of sparrows: the drone of helicopters. At times distant, other times closer. Something that became a component of the city's background noise in the wake of the bombings, fading away during the course of this last week. As late afternoon leaned toward evening, a chopper occasionally drifted into view, way up in the sky, slowly circling the city center. And at some point memory kicked in, I made the connection between the 'copters and a demonstration marking the one-year anniversary of the incursion into Iraq.
On impulse, I pulled on a jacket, stuffed my camera into a pocket, headed outside. Making my way through narrow local streets, lots of other people out enjoying the evening, plenty of daylight left.
The center hummed with activity, some folks out in the more traditional Saturday evening manner, others clearly there with a political purpose. Sol overflowed with people, a steady stream arriving from the direction of the procession's starting point, la Plaza de la Cibeles, the general atmosphere relaxed, like that of the city overall. Signs were carried, banners hoisted, Spanish flags flown -- sentiments expressed ranged from continued mourning in the wake of the bombing, to anger at ETA/al-Qa'ida, to the more explicit purpose of the gathering. Speakers orated from a stand off to one side of the plaza, the sound system muddy enough that I could only make out the occasional word. Musicians performed, people sang along. Chants began, rippled across the plaza, faded away. Daylight dimmed, night came on.
After a while, I followed an impulse to make my way through the crowd out along la Calle de la Montera, away from Sol, looking to walk, watch people, enjoy the evening.
I've found myself these last few days feeling an overwhelming enjoyment of small, simple things I experience during my days: sunlight slanting in windows; the way passing people -- friends, lovers, families -- interact with each other; the simple enjoyment of a meal or a cup of espresso. Washing the dishes, hearing the woman in the piso next door in her kitchen, carrying on her life. Music coming from my radio. You get the idea. The kind of stuff that would get crushingly dull if I spent more time elaborating on it.
The last week here in Madrid has featured a massive shift in the political scene, followed by an ongoing flood of blabber and political positioning. As the week unfolded and the fact of the shift sank in, the media provided a steady stream of political pronouncements/maneuvers from out of country, along with strange, bitter in-country mutterings from the just-defeated Partido Popular (apparently unable to simply come out and say Yeah, we could have done better), with which the incoming President has steadfastly refused to engage, continuing to talk instead of plurality, honesty, inclusiveness, while moving steadily forward, putting together the new administration. I find myself watching it all flow by, feeling no pull toward partisanship, experiencing a deepening regard for this country and its people, whatever their philosophy or ideology. And deeply content to be where I am in my life.
Blah blah blah.
Got myself out of bed at a decent hour this morning, dragged myself to the gym, which turned out to be nicely uncrowded, the way Sunday mornings on a holiday weekend sometimes are. Something got me thinking about three males I saw there about four weeks back, college-age or slightly older. Longish hair, fresh-faced, their conversation laced with laughter, with jokes at each others' expense. Looking like it might be their first time going through the machines. Bearing little resemblance to the more hardened, bulked-up alpha males working around them. Afterwards, I saw them down in the locker-room, using a high-tech weight/height machine that sits in a corner, a device that provides your details aloud, delivered by a female computerized voice, instead of via a printed ticket or electronic readout.
Two of the guys used it, the results provoked laughter. As they passed me on their way out, one said to the other, "Enano." (Dwarf.) The other replied, "Gordo." (Fatty.) They disappeared out the door, continuing the exchange as they moved out of earshot:
"¡Enano!"
"¡Gordo!"
"¡Enano!"
"¡Gordo!"
It's good, this life.
On to the day.
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 7:44 AM [+]