Lovely, soft spring weather began edging its way in here several days back, beginning last Friday, the anniversary of the bombings. Feeling like a kind of emotional counterweight to the heaviness of that week. Each day since then has grown a bit warmer, each night slightly milder, a trend so far showing no sign of turning tail and bolting. There are those who see it as a cause for concern, given that the peninsula has been experiencing its driest early spring in many years -- the elevation of temperatures with no rain in sight does not bring good cheer to farmers whose land is drying out. I've heard little complaint around here, though. Recent months brought wave after wave of cold weather to these parts -- the arrival of kinder conditions comes as a relief.
Tables and chairs appeared immediately outside some cafés and restaurants on Friday. The sight of people sitting outside -- eating, drinking, talking -- has become normal in the intervening days, the sight of winterwear (normal just a week ago) progressively more out of whack with the changing conditions. And for some reason, as the warm weather has settled in, self-talkers have come out of the woodwork, jabbering away with the air of those feeling newly freed from inhibition.
Last Friday, the memorial to those who died in the March 11 bombings -- 'El Bosque de los Ausentes,' a compact, sharply-terraced installation that, from certain angles, appears strangely bunkerlike -- was inaugurated in El Retiro. Over the weekend, thousands of people showed up to pay their respects.
The Commission investigating the events surrounding 11-M has been slowly wrapping up its work, all political parties signing on to its conclusions and recommendations except el Partido Popular, the center-right party that had been in power when the bombings happened and was turned out of office three days later. The PP is the direct political descendent of the Franco dictatorship, their lineage is starkly apparent in the ongoing unpleasantly aggressive comportment of many at the party's highest, most publicly visible levels and in their insistence that anything not in conformance with how they view things is weak, corrupt, etc.
And speaking of Franco, late yesterday evening, in a neighborhood near Nuevos Ministerios, site of the last month's massive skyscraper fire, a city crew materialized and began taking down Madrid's last remaining statue of the dead dictator. A small crowd gathered (most of those in attendance from the media, according to media reports), those from the left applauding the event, those from the right protesting, including a handful of lost souls calling out Franco's name in fevered homage, performing the fascist salute. Police maintained order, a crane lifted the statue onto a truck which quietly took it away. Nothing remains of the generalissimo (not to mention, given the equestrian nature of the statue, the horse he rode in on) but the base and the resulting news story.
Anyone paying attention to this little corner of my existence is aware that productivity here at rws has not been at its highest in recent times. (Also that my little camera seems to be getting tired of the exciting life it lives, or of the light here in Madrid, or of something. Because the quality of the images it's cranked out since returning to this part of the globe have been looking anemic.) There are reasons for this,
The reason: studies. Meaning classes. Of a daily kind. Because I've apparently decided to take one of the language certification exams that the Spanish government will be giving in May. Don't ask me to explain how I've arrived at a desire to put myself through pain and suffering -- suffice it to say that prior to this the idea of taking the DELE felt intimidating. And now? Not so freakin' much. Must mean I've reached a level of comfort with the language in some fundamental way. That or I simply haven't experienced suficient discomfort in recent times and am actively casting about for ways to reach my quota.
I've been given a couple of clear illustrations of my growing ability with Castellano a couple of times since returning to Madrid, one of being the couple of hours with Esperanza last Friday evening. She can get talking like someone who's got high-octone espresso on a drip-feed, I often find myself at least once during a chat with her struggling to keep up. Not this time. Got me feeling pretty pleased.
Next day: got me feeling less pleased. I found myself working with three South Americans -- from which country, never found out -- all working class folk with thick, slurred accents. With two 30ish Spanish guys, apparently from Andalucia -- fast talkers, slurring their words as many from the south do, dropping the ends of some words altogether. And more folks. Found myself sitting at a teeny little table, seven people crammed in around it eating a fine lunch Esperanza threw together, two more diners seated over by the window, plates on the sill. Two 30ish males conducted most of the conversation, engaging in that strange pasttime many of us humans seem to do: expressing opinions as if they were absolute reality. A kind of conversation I rarely interact with any more, preferring to simply listen, watch, see how other people are reacting (or in this case not reacting).
[this entry in progress]
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 3:57 AM [+]
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