[continued from previous entry]
Something that nearly always seems to be the case here in Madrid: whatever group of people I'm hanging with, no matter how big or small, I'm generally the oldest. And often the only one with gray hair. Kind of strange, now that I think about it. There's something cultural at work there, meaning that many folks my age back in the States have a younger feel to them, seem to slip into the mindset of being old -- of experiencing physical decline, no longer feeling youthful -- later than most folks I see of that age here. There seem to be clearer divisions drawn here when it comes to the image of what it means to be a given age, the roles and self-images an individual adopts and identifies with as that number increases. People do that stateside as well, but the image of actually getting or being old has evolved, youthfulness now being a perceived quality that endures far longer than it used to. I suspect that's beginning to happen here, but it's a change only getting underway.
All of which is to say that this weekend, once again, I was the oldest. And that seemed to play a role at times in how the others interacted with me. That and the fact that they all knew each other better than they knew me, that my Spanish had limitations theirs didn't. There were times conversation went on all around me, 'around' being the operative word, dialogue curving in space around my contours of my body as it passed back and forth between speakers, leaving me in a pocket of quiet amid all the noise. Watching, listening. Happened out on the street, walking around the pueblo, happened in the bar of the pijo joint. Giving me time to absorb all the rest of the input. In the bar, a fútbol match played on the TV, a few locals hung about watching, talking, eating, drinking. Conversation flowed around our table, food appeared, got hoovered rapidly down.
And then we were outside in the brisk air, heading toward the cars. Somewhere during the evening, Juan Carlos had taken us to check out the village's castle -- the genuine article, old, impressive, shining in the darkness courtesy of discretely-placed floodlights. It loomed in the background as we mounted up, got underway, the wind giving the night a strange, wild feel.
I found myself riding with Tony, the member of the group I knew the least. 30-something, slender, close-cropped black hair, longish, pencil-thin sideburns, ears that bent outward at the top (suggesting wings), a small gold hoop hanging from one earlobe. A person whose vibe seemed to shift quite a bit, sometimes coming across as an alpha male, a bit distant, opaque, other times more open, more sympathetic, with a nice smile. I suspect he didn't know exactly what to make of me, took advantage of us sitting next to each other to ask me -- approaching it carefully, prefacing it by saying he was going to take advantage of the opportunity to lay a question on me -- how I'd come to be here. A reasonable question for which I don't have a tidy answer, so my response wandered on a while, as it tends to do when I answer that question. He listened, speaking infrequently, nighttime countryside passing outside the windows.
My response finally petered out, we pulled into a small road, parked, fell out into the brisk night air. Right outside a small compound, the house belonging to Juan Carlos' family. A large metal combo door/gate gave onto a small courtyard and the door to the house. Inside: hallway, stairs, small kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, living room (with fireplace, which Jorge immediately got to work on). More bedrooms upstairs, for whenever the hell people might want to get some sleep.
[continued in entry of November 6]
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Color amid the concrete and brick: a closet-sized corner flower shop on a busy, beautiful autumn afternoon -- the barrio of Chueca, Madrid
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 5:14 AM [+]
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