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Saturday, April 28, 2007 This morning: me, sitting in a neighborhood joint drinking café con leche, reading the paper. One of several local spots I go to for the morning infusion of caffeine (no, not all on the same morning). This one, because of where it is -- in the plaza right down the street, behind the entrance to the Metro -- gets an especially colorful mix of humans wandering in, pretty much the entire spectrum of local types, from crusty old folks to young hipsters (straight and gay), plus the occasional appearance of confused tourists. A big television often plays, or a radio, pumping in music and blather. Lights and sounds come from two or three high-tech slit machines lined up together against a far wall. And human voices -- calling out orders, conversing, laughing -- most of them loud. In general, I hardly notice it, in part because I'm usually there before reaching full consciousness and a lot of the input just doesn't register the way it might when the system is functioning at what some might call a higher level. And in part because it's a kind of racket I'm used to and enjoy. Somewhere along the line I developed a preference for waking up this way, with people around, with activity, voices, all that. Not that I'm looking to interact much -- I just want to come to, with minimal pressure to perform. And frankly, some mornings it's a miracle I can walk, dress myself and mumble a few words in English, much less Spanish. There are those times when I find myself barely able to produce sounds, much less enunciate, which can cause serious problems when the people behind the counter can't understand my a.m. version of what is supposed to Castellano. Or if I haven't paid full attention to the coins I hand over, get back change that seems wrong and have to talk with the counterperson to figure out what exactly happened. Nothing like that happened this morning. I showed up shortly before noon, claimed a teeny table, got a lovely glass of espresso and slowly poured it into my system, paging through the paper. When I finally left, the world out in the plaza -- often not what I'd call a tranquil environment -- seemed peaceful compared with the wall of noise I'd just left behind. Which got me thinking about how I've adapted to living with all that, with the hubbub of this city of six million loud souls. Going back to Vermont is a major shock when it comes to the noise level -- not bad, just a huge contrast. One I seem to compensate for at times with the noise level in my head. Though the din up there doesn't always wait for a return to quieter climes before cranking itself up. Take this morning, for example. At some point after dragging myself out of bed and into the shower, a Talking Heads (Girlfriend Is Better) song found its way into my teeny brain, taking root securely enough that not even the hideous technopop blasting from the sound system in the gym could dislodge it. I can't explain the why or how for this particular tune -- can't remember the last time I heard it, wasn't thinking about anything related to it or the band or David Byrne. It's just one big mystery. Not that I'm complaining. As mental jukebox tunes go, I can live with this one. Better some ancient new wave cut than, well, most of what gym management had cranking today. None of which was memorable or distinctive enough to be able to take hold and follow me out the door. But I blabber. On to the afternoon. España, te quiero. rws 8:10 AM [+]
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