[continued from previous entry]
The positive, an example: Jorge and I connected doing an intercambio, something that has not gone unnoticed by his friends. Last weekend, E. -- one of the women in the group -- spoke to me about the possibility of trying out the intercambio thing, yesterday afternoon found us sitting at a table outside a café, making conversation. She's an attractive, intelligent person with a lovely deep voice, spending time with her was not a painful process. A couple of hours along, one of the other women from the group rings E.'s mobile phone, it develops that she's on her way to join us. Next thing I know, I'm in a car with them heading toward El Retiro, Madrid's Central Park.
Within a matter of minutes, we're in the park, greenery and flowers all around, a mild early summer breeze blowing. Trees in full foliage (leaves rustling), fountains (the sound of water falling), crowds of people (the murmur of many voices), me inhaling the rich odor of earth and vegetation for the first time since last autumn in northern Vermont, enjoying the sound of my companions talking. We eventually pull up a plot of lawn on an incline overlooking a wide pedestrian way, people streaming by. A third woman shows up, a friend of E. and A., conversation flows faster and faster, me content to listen as the velocity moved beyond the point where I could contribute to a three or four-way exchange in Castellano.
I found myself listening to an increasingly serious exchange about relationships, them talking as if they'd forgotten a male was hanging about, me feeling like the fly on the proverbial, er, lawn. Until a 30ish couple strolled by with a beautiful little girl, maybe three years old, decked out in a sundress. She veered off from the 'rents, wandered up onto the lawn just down the incline from us, intent on a spread of minuscule wildflowers that dotted the grass. I caught my companions' attention, we watched her as a couple of blossoms caught her eye. She reached out a tiny hand and slowly, carefully picked them, bringing one to her nose to sniff. She looked back toward her mother and father (them watching patiently), then headed carefully back in their direction, all three of them moved off. One of the women to my left said to me, "And what do you think of the mother?", I looked around, surprised at the question, having not even really noticed the mother. My head swiveled to glance at her as the sound of female laughter started up to my left. It felt like any comment I made would only provoke more laughter, I stayed quiet, enjoying the silly moment.
One of them asked me if I liked Spanish women, I could feel a snorting, semi-sarcastic DUH! trying to elbow its way out of my mouth, managed to come out with a simple affirmative instead.
Next thing I knew, we were on our feet and heading out of the park. Me with no idea where we were going, strangely content about being herded to points unknown by these women. Which turned out to be, after a brief stop to pick up two kids -- A.'s daughter and nephew, six or seven years old -- a bar/restaurant in a residential neighborhood some distance from the park. Not the place they'd been intending to drag me -- that place, a joint that apparently offers a kind of, er, meat product they wanted me to try, was closed -- but not bad, as it turned out. Jazz playing on the stereo, a handful of customers sitting about (eating, talking), bar help ready to get us whatever we wanted. The women began working on glasses of wine, a teeny glass of beer found its way into one of my hands. Food got ordered, several plates showed up shortly thereafter -- great chow, it turned out, making me happier and happier. The two kids ran in and out of the place, stopping by for a mouthful of food now and then, other customers began streaming in, the noise level and energy rising. And in the middle of it all, I found myself discussing what the three women called the cultural experiences we all shared courtesy of American television. Meaning Dallas, Falcon Crest, The A-Team. Yes, they spoke with smiling irony, but they also had a point, that they grew up with a vivid picture of the States and the people who lived there, courtesy of American television. Bizarrely inaccurate in some ways, extremely accurate in others. And there I stood in my black jeans and pointy boots, one more goofy image of things American, this one inhaling Spanish food and enjoying the company of Spanish women. Enjoying being in this part of the world, soaking up all the input.
Later, when we stepped back outside, darkness had fallen. No breeze blew, the nighttime air felt soft on my skin, its temperature just about perfect, neither cool nor warm. Good night for a walk. I got a ride partway home, did the remainder by foot.
It's a good way to live, this.
************
A strange image that's become ubiquitous here in recent days thanks to the tireless efforts of local poster pasters:
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 5:35 AM [+]
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