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Saturday, January 27, 2007 Saturday morning, streets slowly filling up with Spaniards out shopping, sidewalks crowded with people carrying bags, newspapers, the air alive with the sound of voices, footsteps on cement and asphalt. Me out in the middle of it, hands stuffed in pockets, the air genuinely cold for the first time all season, feeling just a bit like winter in Vermont. I go in and out of stores and the nearest centro comercial (a nice walk of seven or eight minutes instead of the one or two minute walk it used to be, now that the doors at the closest mercado are shut and locked -- the building supposedly closed for rehabbing, but given the lack complete absence of activity it may be that place has simply given up the ghost, the stallkeepers ushered out to the street and left to find a new venue. I visit a butcher, a bakery, a huge, beautiful produce stall run by a family who have gotten to know my face and just today began addressing me with the familiar tu instead of the more formal usted. When I step back into the cold air, I'm carrying several bags of purchases. The hike home takes me past a small neighborhood bar, one of the hundreds that abound in this part of the city. I decide to stop inside, take a breather. I enter, stand at the bar, drop my bags and ask for a cañ, a small pony glass of beer, maybe four or five ounces worth. The barkeep gets my order, sets it in front of me, then goes to get a small plate of food to go with it, the local equivalent of the popcorn, peanuts or corn nuts that joints in the States might toss in front of you. Here it could be some patatas bravas or some pieces of cooked ham mixed with a few small pieces of potato, or maybe some olives. Could be anything -- what you wind up with is the luck of the draw. The barkeep returns, sets a small white plate in front of me. A small white plate bearing a bunch of tiny breaded tentacles. Octopus tentacles? Could be -- grossly underfed octopus, maybe. Taken from a poor, baby octopus that should have been thrown back when he or she who caught it saw how diminutive and sad it was. I ate one. Not bad. Tried a second. A little rubbery. My mouth didn't mind, but my brain began doing unpleasant things with the idea of what I was eating. I tried a third, managed to get it down, but could tell if I tried any more I might find myself experiencing a sudden bout of reverse parastalsis. Pushed the plate away, finished up my teensy glass of beer. Paid up, said so long, headed back out in midday Saturday, cold streets bright with sunlight and hopping with people out taking care of life. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Overheard recently, from two different conversations: 1) During an exchange between two well-dressed thirty-something women: "I just struggle with the idea of buying clothes from a supermarket." 2) Said by an attractive 30ish woman wearing goth/aspiring-vampire clothes and make-up, during a conversation about lifestyles as reflected in one's diet: "I didn't sink to the underworld to become a vegetarian." España, te quiero. rws 7:06 AM [+]
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