|
Wednesday, April 18, 2007 Mid-April. Springtime at last, after a long, strangely gray, cool period here. Sun coming up earlier, air softening. Chilly mornings, warm afternoons. Cold weather clothing melting away, t-shirts appearing. Sky remaining light until after 9 p.m., streets busy with a mix of locals and tourists. Yesterday's recurrent theme: dance music. Began in the morning when the radio greeted me with a cut by New Order, one of the groups that softened my feelings toward dance music after the scourge of disco during my tender years. (Apologies to disco aficionados -- once in a while in a club, in full dance mode, I can take it. Apart from that, not a fan.) Bits of dance tunes surfaced during the day, over and over. PARTY HEARTY HEARTY! EVERYBODY DANCE NOW! Shortly after 7 p.m., skipped out of the Metro at Callao, deep in the city center, gradually became aware of a kinder, gentler sound mixed in with rush hour racket. Down a pedestrian boulevard, outside FNAC, a string quartet worked its way through Bach's Air on the G String, four 30- and 40- something males producing some pretty sweet music, and as happened not long ago in the Washington D.C. Metro, not many people stopped to listen. Of the three or four standing there, the 50-something husband of a tourist couple was more concerned with snapping pix, stepping directly in front of me over and over, no matter where I moved to, until I had to place myself right next to him with my leg out so that the only way he could do it again without tripping would be to consciously, openly, carefully step over my leg in a blatant show of assholicism. (He did not go that route.) Attended my continuing language classes, where it was just me and the instructor, Eva, the other students away or studying for next month's DELE exam. A fast 90 minutes of chat and DVD watching (the very first installment of Cuéntame cómo pasó. Afterward, descended into the Metro for the ride home, stepped into a car to find myself facing an accordion player, busking for change. In the middle of the tune frequently flogged by the brethren of the accordion: Those Were The Days. He finished up with a cheesy flourish just before the doors opened at the next stop, wafted off to the next car. Upstairs at my station, two drunks staggered around near the top of the escalators, the booth person on the horn calling for police, the lone security guard barking into his radio, calling for same. Outside in the mild air, darkness falling, people sat at tables or stood about, drinking, eating, chatting. Mid-April. Springtime at last. España, te quiero. rws 4:43 AM [+]
Comments:
Post a Comment
|