The second week of my latest Spanish class binge is drawing to a close, a substantial part of that time has been spent quietly grappling with aspects of the language that must have been designed for the specific purpose of torturing honkies like myself. Exercises possibly concocted by direct descendants of Torquemada, endowed with a diabolical ability to cloud my feeble mind, get me doubting my ability to reason and understand. And even so, as I stumble along, desperately repeating my studies-related mantra ("Huh?") over and over, I'm also aware of the distance I've come, aware that I'm now capable of entertaining the Spaniards who know me with my version of their language at a much higher, much more impressive level than ever before. Which heartens me. It means I've finally reached the point where I can spend an hour or two in the company of, for instance, my friend Jorge and tell him with all sincerity, "¿Sabes? A veces me preocupas." ("You know, at times you worry me.")
We met up a couple of nights back, Jorge and me, at a beer/tapas joint a five minute walk from here. We shook hands, started catching up, he immediately diverted the conversation in the direction of his most heartfelt complaints (politics, etc.), providing me with yet another graphic reminder of why I do my level best to avoid wading into those waters: 'cause that kind of conversation makes me so godawfully unhappy. And as the talk began getting louder and hotter, me unsuccessfully trying to steer it back toward more benign chat, I mentioned that I genuinely hate getting embroiled in arguments like that. "We're not arguing," he responded. I checked my argument meter, the needle had clearly edged its way up into the red zone. "Of course we are," I said. "No, we're not," he replied, shaking his head. "We're just talking about things we feel differently about." Well, yes. War is peace. Freedom is slavery. What is the frequency, Kenneth?
I asked if we could change the subject, he heard me (being essentially a mensch), we switched to talking about women, a subject that, while at times raising more questions than it answers, makes us both happy. And that's all that counts.
On the walk home, through Madrid streets alive with nighttime activity, I got to thinking. That exchange with Jorge was not the first time in recent weeks that I've run into big differences of perception or perspective. Not by any stretch, a fact I note with a nervous attempt at a self-assured smile. Because while that kind of, er,
There have been at least three occasions during the last month when I've found myself in situations with people I care for where our individual perceptions have been either at cross-purposes or seemingly rooted in frames of reference/perception at such goofily drastic variance that we might as well have been attempting to communicate from separate dimensions. Through null space. And, who knows, maybe we were, at least metaphorically. Maybe we are, all the time, all of us. (Or maybe not. Because, really, do I want to get into that kind of blathering, metaphysical demolition derby right now? Big, emphatic no.)
(Brief pause to pull self together: take deep breath, clear throat, adjust pants in exceedingly masculine fashion.)
It's packed with mysteries, this life. Which is in its favor. I'd much rather find myself puzzling over strange, confounding events than nodding off from ennui. On the other hand, sometimes enough's enough.
Like right about now.
Later.
**********
Light streaming above la Calle de Augusto Figueroa, Madrid:
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 1:51 PM [+]
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