Wednesday afternoon: sunshine in abundance, temperature strangely warm, me hard at work getting ready to bolt for seven weeks. As departure time drew nigh, the hours -- already slipping by at unnerving velocity in recent days -- began whipping past, flying by at near lightspeed. Ellen, a Montpelier-area woman with a taxi service, was scheduled to pick me up shortly before 2. She showed at 1:35, applying knuckles to the kitchen door as I stood hoovering down a sandwich. I hoovered faster, ran around drawing shades, locking doors, collecting baggage. Ellen waited patiently while I took a last whiz for the road, we headed out. She stopped at the general store in a nearby village, picked up a second passenger, followed Rt. 14 north to deliver her to college classes. Never really got to see the passenger's face, a woman named Felicity. Only heard a lovely voice and saw some of the most beautiful brown hair I've been around in a long time.
Winding two-lanes eventually led to Johnson State College, laid out atop a hill overlooking a spectacular, encircling spread of green mountains. Don't know that I'd get much studying done in a place like that -- it'd be too tempting to sit staring out at northern Vermont in all its hypnotic spendor.
Lovely voice/beautiful brown hair took off, a further hour spent following two-lanes led to Burlington and the airport.
Found myself the only person checking in, something I'd never experienced before. Also the only person going through baggage search, etc. They came across a cigarette lighter in my jacket pocket, a discovery I can’t explain. (Don’t smoke, have no memory of picking up a lighter, have no friends I'm aware of who would slip something like that into my clothes.) They also found a small plastic bottle of lens-cleaning liquid in my camera case. Though it was unopened, still sealed in the bag it came in, they made me go downstairs to either buy a regulation plastic bag or have the bottle tossed into my checked luggage. The guard accompanied me through nearly empty waiting lounges to the exit, pulled the door shut behind me once I'd stepped through. Downstairs, they accepted the bottle, promised to take care of it, sent me back upstairs to go through baggage search, etc. a second time (completely different personnel on duty, a whole five minutes later).
Sat, waited, other passengers slowly filtered in. When the moment came for boarding, it happened quickly -- ticket torn/passport eyeballed (the ticket-tearer/passport-eyeballer responding to my thank-you with a sincere, genuinely friendly "You're welcome!" -- god bless Vermont), a walk down to tarmac and out to plane. And then we were airborne, me slipping easily into napping mode.
An hour later: Philadelphia, the airport on a whole other scale from Burlington's cute, pint-sized airplane depot. Endless hallways. Long bus ride through expanses of concrete and wheeled vehicles of various sizes to another terminal. A slog along a long hallway lined with businesses created to vacuum as much cash as possible from passing travelers' pockets.
Stopped at a Japanese joint that seemed to deal almost exclusively in mediocre Chinese chow. Sat for a while, eating, thinking, giving thanks for food (mediocre or not), air travel, money to make both possible. Watched passing humans (a preferred pasttime), noted a 20-something sporting a t-shirt emblazoned with the words Dirt Bag.
Found the gate. Sat, read. Hardly anyone around. Another couple sat nearby, increasingly concerned that hardly anyone seemed to be around. Someone finally told them the gate had been moved, they picked up their bags, let me know the deal, took off. I followed, dragging ass down a long hallway to the new gate. Found boarding in process, got at the end of the line.
Inside the plane, a high-mileage 767, everything appeared slightly worn, slightly sad-looking. Found my perch for the flight, it turned out to be a middle seat in plane's middle seating section -- less than my preferred location. Then found it occupied by an attractive woman deep into conversation with her neighbor, someone she apparently knew. She asked if I'd mind switching seats, I said of course not. Hers turned out to be on the aisle, next to a window seat. Much better.
Stowed luggage, settled in. Said hello to my neighbor, a nice, slightly-shy 60-something woman from Idaho on the way to visit her son (married to a Spanish woman, living in Mallorca). The friend to the woman I'd switched seats with turned out to be a laugher, owner of a loud, infectious cackle that erupted every few seconds. The two of them blathered and carried on, their party (and the laugh) stopping only when they drifted off to sleep in the wee hours. Soon as they woke up, the laugh recommenced -- a bit more ragged than at take-off, but still infectious.
Once we were up in the air, the cabin crew distributed a startlingly awful meal. Movies played on a little TV that lowered into view above the center seats. I passed on paying five bucks for a headset, read and snoozed instead. Hours drifted by. Daylight swelled outside, brown Spanish landscape appeared through gaps in cloud cover. The crew handed out a sad excuse for a breakfast kind of thing, I settled for o.j. And then we were on the ground, queuing up for customs lines that seemed to stretch on and on, disappearing off in the distance, beyond the curvature of the Earth.
Eventually, a distracted Spanish customs agent entered my passport number into a computer, applied stamp to paper, waved me off. I waded through crowds around luggage carousels, claimed my belongings, headed out into the terminal and the light of day.
Outside: tried to locate a bus to the city center I’d taken many times before, a route that terminates at La Plaza de Colón, an easy walk to this neighborhood when not weighted down by luggage, a short taxi ride when hauling bags. Found nothing, looked around blearily, collected myself, went back inside to an information booth where I learned that bus route had been eliminated. (I leave for ten and a half months, the sneaky bastards in the city government begin dismantling the public transport system.)
Grabbed a taxi, found myself with a friendly 50-something driver -- wiry, wizened, talking like he'd tossed down a fair amount of espresso. (Liked Clinton, hates Bush, thinks China is gearing up for global dominance.) He followed my directions into this neighborhood, let me out on a backstreet a couple of blocks from here, accepted my cash, wished me well. I walked the rest of the way along streets familiar to my feet, soaking up sunlight, spoken Spanish, sounds of high-density city life.
Found the same scaffolding in place in front of this building that had been here last autumn, the green, gauzy material draped over it looking weather-worn. Inside, the hallways lay quiet, cleaner than when I'd left. I carried far too much baggage upstairs, remembering all over again the downside of life in a five-floor walk-up. Entered the flat, its rooms quiet, almost serene. My landlords, bless 'em, had to pack everything up when the kitchen and bathroom were torn apart and rebuilt earlier this year, then had to unpack everything and do a ton of clean-up prior to my return -- vacuuming, mopping, tossing things back on the shelves. They picked up my mail. They left a small vase containing three roses on the little table I'm now sitting at. I count my blessings when I compare them with the first landlord I had here.
Since they'd been here doing all that, dust from work happening in the hallways and on the front of the building had insinuated its way in through windows, under the hallway door. I found the bottom of my socks turning white from construction dust, found my hands streaked with white powder after resting on counters or brushing against shelf surfaces.
Stopped unpacking, dragged the vacuum out of the hall closet, got it going. Spent time in the kitchen sponging up dust, washing dishes and glass that bore traces of white.
Picked up the flat's phone at some point, discovered that the euros I'd been shelling out to maintain service hadn't paid off. No dial tone, no nothing. Plus, since the last time I'd walked Spanish soil (or concrete) had been in March, the money in my cellphone account had passed its six-month lifespan and disappeared into the ethers. No telephones. No computer access. No way to call the phone company to beg/plead/grovel for help. (Could be the cause for the outage rests not with phone company gremlins but with the merry construction workers who have been ripping this building apart for the last 14 or so months. Not much comfort, that.)
Took a break from cleaning/unpacking, hiked to the nearest Telefónica office. Picked up a number, waited for service. Time passed. More time passed. I noticed they had a machine that would accept money to recharge mobile phone accounts, gave it five euros and my phone number, it gave me a receipt. When I do that at my bank's ATM, a text message reaches my móvil within minutes thanking me for giving Telefónica money. In this case, half an hour later -- me finally at a counter, explaining my situation to a chubby woman -- no such message had materialized. The little bugger wouldn't make or receive calls, wouldn't accept or send messages, ignored my attempts at coercion. The woman suggested I call the company's customer service line. I pointed out I had no phones to do that with. Her eyes widened with comprehension, she brought me to a phone, got someone on the line. The customer service gnome didn't want to believe there was money in my account, when the woman helping me -- now my advocate -- assured them I had, that she was looking at the receipt, they suggested that the money might not find its way to my account for a few hours. I gave in gracefully, my advocate called a different number, they took the information about my landline outage, promised someone would call.
Hours later, nothing doing. No message indicating money arrival, no nothing. Went out into rainy streets, bought groceries, stopped at an ATM, shifted 20 euros into my mobile phone account. Five minutes later, a text message arrived thanking me for giving them a bunch of money. As if by magic, my phone sprang to life, suddenly able to make calls, produce funny ringtones, connect me with the world at large. So much for fancy machines in phone company offices.
When I left last December, I loaned a bunch of stuff to a friend who had just bought his first home, a flat south of here -- television, Ikea armchairs, computer loudspeakers, like that. None of which will find its way back to my little hideyhole until sometime over the weekend. Leaving the space a bit underfurnished, but liveable. Yesterday evening, I found myself working here at the computer, looking forward the entire time to being able to watch Las Noticias del Guiñol, a blast of brilliant political satire (mixing sly, sharp writing with low humor, a direct descendent of the '80's British show Spitting Image) that airs at 9:50 here most weeknights. This while I sat directly in front of the alcove where the TV lives when it's here -- now clearly bare and empty except for vase/roses. At some point, I got up to get it going, walked over, extended a hand to pull the magic knob (you know what I mean, filthy minds), found nothing there. Paused, thought Oh, right, returned to computer.
[continued in next entry]
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Sidestreet art ('Mother's love') in the barrio of Chueca, Madrid:
España, te quiero.
rws 9:06 PM [+]
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