How is it that the days get whipping by at such unnerving velocity? Who do I have to sleep with to get them to slow down?
Yesterday: had dinner with my landlords -- my version of the pre-return-to-the-States last supper, I suppose, with a much smaller cast. The 'lords (a couple: him American, her British) live out in Madrid's westerly-sprawling 'burbs, an hour-long slog, between Metro and bus ride. Since I'd be bringing a pile of cash to cover rent for my months out of country, J. (he of the couple) insisted on driving in to pick me up. I've noticed that whenever I've given them more than one month of rent at a time, he's gotten far happier than normal -- animated, talkative, positively bouncy. Happy landlords are a good thing, I'm pleased to be a bearer of joy. In this case, they also happen to be great people, any trip out to their place results in huge amounts of entertainment. Add to that the fact that -- me having no car here -- any time someone drives me anywhere it's a genuine event, I was guaranteed an afternoon of major diversion.
They live in a development with a slightly rural feel, each plot large enough, with enough trees, flowers, greenery, to provide a drastic contrast to city-center life. Tall grass. Wildflowers. Birds singing. A friendly breeze passing through it all now and then. There were moments, sitting out on their small covered terrace eating curried chicken, when the scene felt like a small preview of next week's return to northern Vermont.
Visits to Casa Landlords generally begin in the kitchen with food prep./conversation. Politics and family get heavy play, punctuated by comic digressions. Finger food gets hoovered, they uncork a bottle of wine or pull cans of beer from the refrigerator -- I generally ask for fizzy water, having little capacity for hooch. I am, I'm afraid, the original definition of a cheap date -- one or two beers is all I can handle. More than that, it would be no problem getting me into the back seat to have your way with me. (Though I would hate myself in the morning.) But I don't enjoy being drunk. It doesn't feel good. And the morning after REALLY doesn't feel good. In addition to which, more than a beer or two, the next day I start breaking out. Man, does that suck.
Wine is a part of the culture here, it sometimes seems to throw people when I refuse a glassful. Above and beyond everything enumerated above, I'm just not a wine person. Don't care for it, never really have, that's simply the way it is. "That's too bad," folks sometimes say, "you don't know what you're missing." Oh, but I do. I'm missing trying to choke down something I don't like. That's worth missing, think I.
However. I do enjoy a good beer with a meal, or a glass of good Spanish hard cider. That seems to mollify most people. With a tumbler of something alcoholic on the table in front of me, everyone's happy.
Blah blah blah. I'm stopping.
As usual, comedy abounded during the visit, reaching a sudden, unexpected peak when the time came for my return to the city. J. insisted on driving me to the bus stop. We're in the car, approaching the main drag where we have to take a left. A bus passes, heading in the right direction. J. decides we're going to catch the bugger, begins pursuit. I'm thinking this may not be a great idea, but he's primed, there's no stopping him. It was one of those moments when you can feel things accelerating around you, it's clear you have little control over what's happening, you can only hold on, assuming things will not turn out catastrophically.
Well ahead of us, the bus pulled over at a stop. We reached it just as the driver closed the doors, J. cuts in to the curb in front of the bus, angled to block the bus in. Really not a great idea, I thought in dismay -- words to that effect tumbled from my mouth, falling on well-intentioned but deaf ears.
I got out of the car, went to the door of the bus, the driver staring at me (a 30ish guy wearing big wrap-around shades), making no move to let me in. When it became clear J. wasn't about to move, the driver opened the doors. I step inside, the guy is radiating anger. I couldn't blame him, but had no intention of taking the heat for someone else's actions.
Mr. Driver begins yelling, gesturing at J.'s car, I politely say I know, I understand, I had nothing to do with it. J. begins to pull away, the driver gets the bus going, still trying to chew me out, me politely refusing to take it. This continues until I interrupt him, saying, "¿Puedo pagar, por favor?" ("Can I pay, please?") He shuts up, staring at me (smoke still pouring from his ears), asks where I'm going. "Madrid," I say. "This bus," he says, "is not going to Madrid." No expression, doing the hard-guy thing. "Where," I ask, "is it going?" "Alcorcón," he answers, one of Madrid's other 'burbs. That was when I started cracking up. Not appreciated by the man behind the wheel, but I couldn't help it -- my little existence had taken such a sudden, bizarre change of direction. I managed to hand over money sufficient to get me up the road a bit, he produced change/receipt (staring at me wordlessly in between glances at the road), I found a seat.
The handful of people in the back of the bus must have been mighty curious about the show at the front of the bus, but no one stared at me, everyone exhibited impeccable manners.
I get out a few stops along, ready to wait for the right bus. The wrong bus pulls out, J. immediately pulls up -- having gotten the picture re: the right/wrong bus thing, he followed, waiting for me to exit. The correct bus is off ahead of ahead of the bus I'd gotten on, J. decides we're going to make that one. Beginning another pursuit. The bus I'd just gotten off lay between us and the correct bus, the road was narrow, meaning we couldn't pass to go flying up the road. We had to poke along behind wrong bus, the driver not pulling over to the side when he made stops, meaning us and the rest of the accumulating line of cars had to sit and wait. Which was fine by me. Gave me an opportunity to mention (several times) to J. that getting out at a stop and waiting for the next bus would be okay with me. He wasn't having it, though.
The road eventually widened, he zipped by wrong bus (aiming the word "Prick!" at wrong bus driver), put the pedal to the metal. Right bus was on a service road, paralleling a several-lane highway. J. pulled onto the highway, flew past the bus. A bus stop loomed on the service road, a crowd of folks waiting. I pointed it out, J. pulled over to the shoulder. We shook hands, I hopped out, sauntered over the stop just as right bus pulled into view.
Routine trip from there. It's a fine thing, normalcy, especially after an unexpected bout of chaos.
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Thank you, Ray Charles.
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Stencilled image, spray-painted on ground -- la Plaza de Chueca, Madrid:
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 3:33 PM [+]
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