Last Friday -- Cambridge, Massachusetts:
Sunday -- Provincetown, Massachusetts:
A convenience mart somewhere between Cambridge and Provincetown, deep inside Red Sox territory:
Yesterday -- Lisbon, Portugal:
Today -- la Plaza de España, Madrid: a small white-haired woman, looking close to 80 years of age, walked slowly, arm in arm with a 20-ish woman. The older woman wore a baggy black coat, large enough that it made her appear even more diminutive than she already was. The younger woman had the air of someone mentally disadvantaged. As they walked, they talked back and forth, their dialogue consisting of one word spoken over and over, their exchange sounding strangely musical:
Older Woman: Ya!
Younger Woman: Ya ya ya?
Older Woman: Ya!
Younger Woman: Ya ya ya ya ya?
Older Woman: Ya!
Younger Woman: Ya ya?
Older Woman: Ya!
They were doing that as I approached, it continued as I passed and moved out of earshot.
This evening, here in the barrio: me, walking back to the flat, just down the street. A slightly paunchy 50-something male stood up the block a bit, staring around, taking care not to glance my way as I approached, turning away as I drew near, presenting his back to me. As I passed, he farted loudly (in local lingo, él se tiró un pedo) -- a classic, the kind Robin Williams can imitate perfectly. Not too long, not too short. Clear, distinct, almost musical.
Mr. Pooter carefully focused his attention elsewhere, staring off down the street, nose slightly up in the air, manner aloof. I noted no noxious odors, thankful to be experiencing this strange moment out on the street in the cool open air rather than, say, in an elevator.
I continued along, heading home for the day, that brief passage joining the countless passages that have moved through my life, slipping through the present moment to disappear into the past.
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 1:45 PM [+]
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