This morning, in the plaza down the street, the day getting underway in tranquil fashion. Early summer sun slowly gaining elevation, most of the plaza still in shadow, the air fresh and mild. Me paging through the Sunday paper, slowly regaining consciousness.
A white van pulls in to make a delivery to a small convenience shop. The door opens, a tinny rendition the Star Wars theme music can be heard playing on the radio.
Three gentlemen sit at a bench ten or fifteen feet to my left, sharing a morning beer. A teeny little dog goes shooting by, clearly overjoyed to be out in the morning air, careening all over the place in a show of raw, existential ecstasy. The men watch, enjoying the show. One extends a hand, snapping his fingers, trying to call the dog over. Without effect. The midget canine gallops across to the other side of the space to leap about with another happy, slightly larger four-legged.
One of the benchwarmers spots a heavyset male coming around the corner, shouts out a congenial, "¡Cabrón gordo!" ('Fat bastard!') The approaching male, also carrying a morning beer, responds, "¡Gilipollas!" ('Asshole!') Congenial is as congenial does, I guess.
That was this morning. This being a four-day weekend, many locals have fled town, a process that produced huge Friday evening traffic tie-ups, extending out away from the city for 80 or 90 miles, at least according to the news media. With boring predictability, el Partido Popular -- ousted from national office last year after the bombings -- blamed the year-old Socialist government for the mess. The Socialists in turn blamed the PP (who maintain control of both the city and provincial governments). If one ignores that kind of background noise, life here in the center is quieter, more tranquil than normal, abetted by the kind of early summer weather for which words like 'ideal' and 'gorgeous' were invented. Apart from the ongoing sounds of construction and rehab happening everywhere, that is, something that's been getting to me a bit lately, an indication more of my state of fatigue than anything else.
Saturday morning, 8:30: some nitwit down the street began whaling away at something with a hammer. Yesterday morning: a different nitwit began hammering on metal, partying like that on into the afternoon. When I left the house at 4, they were still at it. You might not consider this a major deal, but trust me, with this barrio being ground zero for nighttime festivities, revelers hanging about until the first hint of light in the dawn sky, a few hours of peace and quiet feels like a gift from a benevolent universe. (Friday, 6 a.m. -- a group of 20-something women passed slowly by, singing -- loudly, in unison -- a tune that might have been fun to listen to at a more user-friendly hour. A guest using the flat's second bedroom for a couple of nights -- the sweetheart of a Belgian friend, a deep sleeper who remained out cold during the Saturday a.m. hammering -- awoke to the Friday wee-hour recital, mentioning it later with wry amazement. The display of nightlife wackiness here is sometimes truly impressive, and it says something that I've become accustomed to it, rarely find myself bothered by it. On the other hand, I've recently found myself looking forward to an extended period of relative quiet out in the northern Vermont countryside, waking up to crickets instead of folks deep into their early-morning cups. You got your yin, you got your yang, know what I mean?)
Re: fatigue, etc. -- during the last two months' preparation for the DELE exam, my ability with castellano began steadily improving in clear, satisfying ways. That seemed to peak about two weeks back, right about the time I hooked up with a group of Spanish folks by way of a hugely entertaining guy named Jorge. I've since found myself hanging about with various configurations of that bunch, providing me with (a) fun, (b) interesting conversation to take part in and eavesdrop on, (c) opportunities to air out my language skills with folks who are mostly patient, encouraging, etc., and (d) the opportunity to get a good idea of my limits, to watch my performance level ebb and flow. And as the feeling of fatigue has taken hold, I've seen my capacity with the language shrink a bit. Understandable, I suppose, and a good barometer of how I'm holding up in the middle heightened activity and, at times, stress. All things considered, I'm holding up fairly well, the positive far outweighing whatever downsides I come across.
[continued in next entry]
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Recent handbills received here in the barrio (background: ads from El País Sunday magazine):
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 6:12 AM [+]
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