Sleep did not come easily last night, as you might imagine. With this morning's first light I gave up, pulled on clothing, headed to the gym for the therapy of simple, mindless, repetitive physical effort, a venting of energy I find helpful during times of stress. The Metro ride was as crowded as on any other morning, though virtually everyone remained silent, some reading newspaper accounts of yesterday's events (others reading over their shoulders), most seeming to be looking inward, lost in thought.
During my time here, Spain has not been a country given to flagwaving. The flying of the national banner is unusual, and I'm aware of only a handful of places around Madrid where the bands of red and yellow can be seen. As I emerged from the Metro in the barrio of Salamanca and made the hike to the gym, it became apparent that, overnight, banners and flags have begun appearing all over the place, most emblazoned with a black ribbon of mourning -- an echo of the way American flags became ubiquitous stateside in the days following 9-11.
Another change: since yesterday morning the drone of low-flying helicopters has become normal, now and then growing suddenly louder as a 'copter shoots into view above nearby buildings, flies across a street or avenue, disappears beyond other buildings.
I went for a long walk yesterday evening as darkness fell. A sense of more or less normal life had reasserted itself over the city center, streets busy with traffic, sidewalks and pedestrian ways crowded with people, the air nicely cool and fresh. Couples of all ages walked together, many hand in hand; groups of friends clustered together, talking. All this came as a relief after the intense atmosphere of the morning and afternoon -- though I suspect that over to the east side of the city, in the area around Atocha Station, things remained intense.
Stepping into a store to pick up one or two items, I waited at the check-out while 'Mrs. Robinson' played loudly over the in-house P.A., the guy behind the counter crooning softly along with it. (Coo coo ca-choo, Mrs Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know....) Heavily-accented pronunciation provided a distinct contrast to the original version, the scene feeling like one more slightly unreal moment in a day already overflowing with them.
In la Plaza de la Puerta del Sol, the very heart of the city, spontaneous protests against the terrorist group ETA -- at that time presumed responsible for the attacks -- had gathered during the course of the day, varying in size from large and sprawling to more compact. When I passed through around 7:30, something more than 1000 people remained, mostly college age, gathered together in front of the city government offices -- el Ayuntamiento -- chanting the words "¡Hijos de puta!" over and over again. Around me, I saw a huge range of emotions being acted out, from passing groups of laughing younger folk -- unconcerned at that moment with the greater drama -- to folks standing together talking soberly, the cheeks of a few shining with tears. A couple looking to be Central American in origin passed, her expression distraught, him holding her hand, saying, "Cariño, escucha -- estamos aquí, estamos bien. ¿Sabes? ¡Estamos bien!"
The lines at the mobile blood donation center were shorter than they'd been earlier, though still considerable. Staff encouraged people to come back during the coming days, reminding everyone that the need for blood would remain high, entreating people to please not forget.
I made my way home through streets comfortingly busy, went to bed late, slept little.
Today has seemed much harder. I'm not sure I can explain why. Less intense in terms of actual events, far more difficult emotionally. Maybe there's been enough time for it all to sink in, without the filters of cataclysm and shock to diffuse the impact of the simple fact of the happenings, with all their implications. Maybe the ongoing shows of grief have something to do with it -- that of individuals who survived the explosions, of their family and friends, of people involved in the rescue work. Or the collective emotion, the grief, anger, dismay, confusion of the pueblo. Maybe now that the noise and smoke from yesterday's events has cleared away, the uncertainty of what's to come, the anxiety about unanswered questions has begun to occupy a growing part of the emotional picture. Whatever the reasons, I heard a woman early this afternoon talking about this, working to speak through knotted emotions, and I realized I was experiencing something similar. Not as dramatic, not as disruptive. But not much fun.
Today's newspapers have, of course, focused extensively on yesterday's events, some with restraint, some without. This morning's edition of 20 Minutos, the free mini-paper distributed on the streets during the morning hours, featured lurid, intensely sensational images of chaos and carnage. El Mundo showed more self-control, El País even more. The television outlets continued the more or less continuous coverage begun yesterday, alternating harrowing footage from the actual events with panel discussions, interviews with victims or relatives of victims, and stories re: today's developments. Essentially wringing every ounce of emotionally cranked-up mileage they could get out of the drama. (Not that I take a cynical view of that. Harrumph.)
Sidenote: Thanks to Paul at Playing with my food.... for posting today's image by El País political cartoonist Forges, and for caring whether I sleep late or not.
For those seeking other Spain-oriented journals/blogs:
Puerta del Sol
Calles de Madrid y Granada
Caspa.tv
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 6:17 AM [+]