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Friday, November 17, 2006 [continued from entry of November 14] Thursday: Holiday. The morning streets lay quiet, the neighborhood took its time waking up. The workers usually outside hammering on the building stayed home like most of the rest of the local world. Result: blessed quiet. Pulled on clothes, headed out for fresh air and a visit to whichever local caffeine pusher might be open. While out, discovered that along la Calle de Augusto Figueroa, around the block from here -- where a year ago work crews blocked off the street, ripped it open, dug an immense hole, and have been down there pretending to be productive ever since -- those hard-hatted workers were on the job, filling the air with the music of jackhammers. Reminded me all over again how much better the work situation in my building is compared to twelve months ago. It's good, the occasional shot of perspective. Found myself at a table in the café at El Círculo de Bellas Artes, a beautiful, airy, elegant spot to spend some time waking up. Noted a few laptop users scattered about, something I'd never seen there in the past. Quizzed the waiter about it, he said some people had success connecting, others didn't, shrugging his shoulders in a casually fatalistic así es la vida way. Got me thinking about finding local connection points, which sent me out snooping around the neighborhood (post-caffeine) with my wi-hi hotspot finder, resulting in the discovery of the free access point already mentioned here. Somewhere in there, stopped in at an exhibit of wildly bohemian photographic wackiness. Saw a few things I enjoyed, but left feeling like I'd just experienced the most pretentious collection of arty pretentiousness that I'd stumbled cross in a long time. One of the pieces -- I have no idea which -- involved a clip of music that played over and over, a haunting bit of wordless melody sung by a woman, resonating quietly in the high-ceilinged space. A musical fragment that wormed its way into my teeny brain and stayed there for the most of the rest of the day, provoking goofily schizy reactions every time I noticed it playing up there in my head -- enjoyment and annoyance, mostly, the two of them duking it out as the tune tenaciously repeated itself, with no indication that it might throw in the towel any time soon. Hours of wholesome fun. Friday: Got up, thought about going to gym. Came to my senses, blew it off. Instead, packed up the laptop, made the hike to la Plaza del Rey, plugged into the free wi-hi hotspot. Sat working as city folk walked by, cars zipped along la Calle de Barquillo. I have yet to see anyone else there doing the laptop thing. Just me. No wonder passersby give me the curious glance. Someone else must be taking advantage of the open hotspot given the way its speed veers up and down -- just not anyone out in the open air. Sneaky types hidden away in flats and offices. Hours passed, by lunchtime many, many souls had gravitated to the plaza down the street from here to hang out, chat, toss down beer. I decided I deserved to be taken to the movies -- no one else seemed to be lining up to be good to me, so I took myself. Settled on a showing of Children of Men, a film I suspect has gotten little notice in the States. Directed by Alfonso Cuarón, he who put together Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (for my money the only successful version of the Harry Potter stories so far transferred to the big screen). And, as it turns out, a film with the vivid power of a dark, voluptuous dream -- so intense, so beautifully written, acted, shot and directed that I essentially fell into it somewhere during the first scene and didn't surface until the closing credits. And even then, I found myself revisiting scenes and images from it all that night and into the next day. Normally, when a film gets ahold of me like that, I go back to see it again. The problem here: it's not a happy tale. It's really not a happy tale. And once I'd freed myself from its grip, there was no way I'd be heading back to sit through it a second time. Glad I saw it, though. Has some amazing sequences. Later, back at home, I discovered that the refrigerator had given up the ghost. The engine/compressor continued working quietly away, doing nothing useful. Grabbed a box, stuffed the food in most peril into it, put it all out on the windowsill to pass the night in the cool November air. Sent the landlords an email giving them the lowdown, they sprang into action almost immediately, heading out to snoop around appliance stores. Once again, when I compare that with the likely response of the landlord I had my first year here (which would be, essentially, a lot of hot air with little to show for it), I count my blessings. And there we more or less are: my first full work-week back. Not a tidy affair, though packed with adventure. España, te quiero. rws 12:33 PM [+]
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