Returned to Spanish class yesterday evening after nearly four weeks of desperately-needed time away. Between the events of mid-March Madrid and trying to do a poopload of writing, I ran out of gas, not to mention time and desire to study, so that my performance in the last classes attended back then deteriorated pretty drastically. A waste of my and everyone else's time.
So here it is, mid-April. Time for another round. I am by far the oldest student in this current group, last night consisting of two females, two males. The other male is a 23 or 24 year old American slacker, here to party -- amiably, entertainingly up-front about himself in a way that produced an amused, indulgent attitude from Jesús, our instructor, who then gave us a pile of homework. Time to drag the wading boots out of the closet and get back to work.
Went this morning to get the stitches taken out of my keepsake from last week's brush with a political conversation gone bad. [See entry of April 7.] Like my last experience at this clinic, no waiting -- this time taken to a unnervingly efficient extreme. Once the payment part of the process was out of the way -- the only phase taken at a leisurely velocity -- the balance of the routine shot by at near light speed. A late-20s physician's assistant tossed me into the consult room, whipped the stitches out, smeared orange disinfectant over half my face, shoved me back out into the sunshine. The receptionist waved cheerily as I flew out the door.
I spent a few careful minutes outside the clinic entrance wiping away disinfectant from everywhere but the actual area of the stitches, hoping to minimize attention received from local fellow humans. Seemed to do a decent job, attracted little notice on the trip home. Why, you might ask, does that concern me so? Because I've come to value street-invisibility as a means of taking photos of certain moments, certain individuals.
Case in point: a 30-something Asian guy who sat next to me on a bench at la Plaza de España last week. Appeared sedate enough as he approached -- once seated, though, he put on a display of behavioral tics that didn't quit until he got to his feet and wandered away. I sat quietly, camera on my knee, while the soul next to me said not a word, speaking instead through a long series of nervous gestures. At one point he pulled out a camera of his own, though it seemed to function as a focal point for angst, not as a way to capture the moment.
And then there are scenes that present themselves after their creators have moved on. This morning: an urban image of a very specific kind, with a strangely out-of-season accent:
Spring continues to settle in over this part of the world, the sunlight already adopting the look of summer. The air still holds a cool edge that direct sunlight washes away -- step into the shadows, though, it's clear that the transition to the warm season hasn't completely taken hold yet. Regardless, as increasingly intense sunshine reaches into courtyards and passageways between buildings, they've begun to produce explosions of color, heightening the city's contrasts of light and dark.
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 8:44 AM [+]