Starting late last week, rainy, cold conditions took hold of Madrid. A kind of November weather, as I've already written here, that I enjoy, though as it hangs about day after day after day the law of diminishing returns kicks in. By Monday, I was ready for a change.
I was ready. But the weather gods? Apparently not.
The plague of construction/rehab. work (las obras) that can be found throughout the city -- in some areas, as in this barrio, literally along every street, something being built, torn apart or rebuilt on every single block, at times producing an atmosphere of insistent, relentless chaos -- reached this building over the summer. When I arrived at the beginning of October, I found no workers about (though the evidence of their labor was everywhere: mounds of white dust strewn around the stairs and landings along with chunks of drywall and ancient plaster, walls and bannisters covered with powder). Work being done in the piso across the hall from here -- turning one old, rambling flat into two smaller ones -- had gone awry, I was told, a wall having been built incorrectly or in the wrong place. Putting everything on hold until resulting legal complications were worked out.
As a bonus, the dust had found its way into my flat, covering everything with a film of white powder. My first task on arrival: spend an hour cleaning up. And believe me, after a long overnight trans-Atlantic voyage there's nothing I enjoy more than sweeping, vaccuming, dusting.
Two, three days later, a pair of industrious women showed up to clean the hallways, leaving the place looking more like the building I remembered. A week after that, the workers materialized, las obras recommenced, I discovered why the halls had been such a disaster: in the course of tearing apart the neighboring flat and its downstairs cousin, the doors had been left wide open, clouds of dust billowing out into the passageways, chunks of pulverized materials spilling out.
As no work was being done in the hallways themselves, I began asking the workers to shut the piso doors, meeting with some surprised resistance that slowly gave way before my steady insistence. I asked without aggression, without anger, always thanking them for humoring me. They generally responded -- and continue to respond -- like gentlemen, often acquiescing gracefully, and when not exactly reacting with what might be called grace, at least not arguing the matter, not responding with attitude. For which I am genuinely grateful. We exchange greetings when we pass in the hallways or in the street outside, they seem to have settled into a tolerant acceptance of me, the foreign crank who keeps after them to close the doors.
During my time back in the States, for some reason -- I'm still not sure why -- as part of the work here, a small section of the wall my kitchen shared with the neighboring flat got torn apart, the work left unfinished, newspapers stuffed into a narrow gap that now gives directly out onto the outside world. Not a problem during warm, dry weather. Soon as rain moves in, however, puddles of water begin extending in across the counter and onto the floor. Not enough to cause damage, but enough to indicate that the work really needs to be completed. I let my sainted landlords know, they told me they'd tried getting the work finished but on the appointed day no one showed. They put me in contact with Alfredo, the person in charge of the job, he and I arranged to have someone come repair the wall a few days later.
That morning: got up, waited for the worker to arrive. And waited. And waited some more. Got a phone call saying the obvious: there had been delays. More waiting. Another call, more obviousness. Further waiting. Called Alfredo at the four-hour mark, told him I was done waiting, we rescheduled for a week later. A holiday, it turned out -- el Festival de la Almudena. No one showed that day, I received no phone calls. Sent the landlords an email letting them know I was finished dealing with Alfredo, that it was now up to them. Two days ago, they sent an email saying they'd just spoken with him, he'd be getting in touch. I'm still waiting.
Two days ago, the workers in the flat next door began tearing out the other side of my kitchen wall. The result: dust and cold breezes filtering in through the unfinished section, white powder covering every surface in the kitchen, combining with incoming rainwater to produce a special kind of ugly. At first, I cleaned it up, left the kitchen door closed to contain the chilly temperatures. Yesterday, I realized the dust invasion was ongoing, that cleaning it up was like trying to sweep sand off a beach. This morning I came to my senses, pulled out a roll of duct tape, covered the unfinished area with plastic bags.
Better.
Meanwhile, Monday morning, electrical work began in the hallways: hammering, drilling, debris all over the place. The workers across the hall stopped closing the piso doors, I had to go out periodically and close them myself to cut down the din.
And why, you might wonder, am I inflicting all this on you (in all its excessive, squalid detail)? Because the ongoing obras-related hooha and days on end of gray/cold/rain combined with the deteriorating situation in the kitchen in a way that finally felt overwhelming. I spent yesterday trying to write about a period of crisis 3-1/2 years ago, when I retreated back to the States, thinking my time here had come to its end. Woke up last night in the wee hours, in as low a place as I've been since that time, feeling worn down, thinking that if things here didn't improve in some way by month's end, I'd give notice, pack up, head back to Vermont, likely meaning my time here would be finished. A possibility that produces panic, gets me feeling trapped, desperate.
Eventually got back to sleep, woke up to find sunlight seeping in around the windowshades. Me immediately happier, everything suddenly feeling much less dire.
Sometimes that's all it takes. Morning sunshine, skies clear and blue. Plastic bags duct-taped over nasty, unfinished kitchen wall.
On to the day.
[Later: before writing the preceding, I sent a note to my landlords notifying them of Alfredo's continuing absence and the madcap developments of the last couple of days. After writing the preceding, las obras out in the hallway reached this floor, the workers in the neighboring flat using hallway noise/dust clouds as an excuse to leave doors open and make their own tooth-rattling contribution to the general roaring din. That sent me out of the building and off into the center, seeking relief. At which time my mobile phone rang: Alfredo! The she of my sainted landlords had received my email, immediately called him. I'm assuming it was a heavier call than he'd have preferred -- he sounded suspiciously eager to please. If all goes well, work in the kitchen will be finished up on Friday.]
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Damn, these honkies got soul!
And where the hell were these classics of children's literature when I was young and tender?
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This evening, along Gran Vía, Madrid:
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 6:59 AM [+]
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