Hard to describe how this existence of mine has felt lately. Packed with input, the calendar entries flickering unstoppably past (day, night, light, dark....). The passing hours vivid in the moment, strangely dreamlike in retrospect.
Spent Monday evening with Nacho, an intercambio/friend I hadn't seen since last May. Several hours of talk in different cafés/tabernas, during which the conversation turned to Thanksgiving. The stateside holiday that touches me the deepest, though I seem to be observing it less and less with time. The holiday that brought out the best in my complicated family, leaving me with plentiful memories of hours spent in the cramped dining room of our small suburban cracker-box, around a table lavishly covered with plates of excellent food. Powerful memories of tastes, smells, and a kind of good humor I don't always associate with the clan of my childhood. The dinners included folks unknown to me at times, individuals without a Thanksgiving spread to attend, brought home by one or both of my brothers from college or the Coast Guard. (And sweethearts of one or the other of my brothers, females who paid me a kind of sweet attention no one in the nuclear clan did.) I've discovered that inviting someone without a place to go feels much better than being one of those invitees, and find myself feeling less and less inclined to take on the invitee role. Probably one of the reasons I'm happy to pass that time of year here, where it's just another day.
Tuesday: spent a while in a café with an online acquaintance, an intelligent, interesting American woman who's spent substantially more time in this part of the world than I have, with periods lived in Córdoba and Barcelona, she and her husband currently splitting their existence between Ohio, Madrid, Asturias. My first extended conversation in English since getting back here at the beginning of the month. Enough of a reimposition of those rhythms that the following morning I found myself thinking purely in English instead of the Spanish-English combo that's become the norm. Had to do a bunch of reading in Spanish to shake it, turn on the TV and radio more than I have been. Which re-introduced a phenomenon -- me watching American shows dubbed in Spanish that wouldn't even occur to me to follow back in Vermont. For instance, now and then I'll check out one of the CSI franchises here. the Spanish dialogue being a good language workout for me. Back in the States? Nah. On the other hand, I'm happy to watch a few minutes of The Simpsons in whichever language. Found myself eating lunch at a neighborhood joint last week, the in-house TV playing the daily 2 p.m. installment of Homer et al. Chortled all the way through, giggling even harder when I noticed that the subtitles had been enabled and whoever was doing them kept typing 'Mr. Bunrs.' (It's a good thing, being easily entertained.)
This evening: rendezvoused with my friend Jorge. In the same joint as last time, a place I find I'm enjoying more and more. On a main drag, lots of folks coming in and out, resulting in excellent people-watching and a ton of sensory input in general.
Himself walked in, pulled up a stool, we shook hands, began talking about women almost immediately. A topic that seems to be a mainstay for us, one that can occupy us for hours. And yes, it raises more questions than answers, in keeping with most of the rest of my life. But it makes us happy. And that's what matters.
He broached the political side only once during the course of the evening, doing so with tact, making a statement that more or less encapsulized his current feelings (didn't like the last government, doesn't like the current one), then letting it go. As did I, grateful for his brevity.
And while we sat inside entertaining ourselves, rain began coming down out in the street. A change in weather that has the entire country breathing a collective sigh of relief, hoping that the drought of many months has dissipated, that water reserves will recover. Everyone grateful to see the skies opening up, to see streets and sidewalks glistening with moisture. Hoping to see balance restored.
It's a good thing to hope for, to feel in one's life, balance.
The coming weekend is long one, what the Spaniards call un puente. I've got an invitation to spend some of it outside the city, but suspect I'll stay here, try to get some work done.
We'll see.
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Sidestreet mural -- la Calle de Augusto Figueroa, Madrid:
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 6:29 AM [+]
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