Yesterday: Christmas Eve morning, the neighborhood so quiet, so few people about, that it might almost have been Christmas morning. Dragged myself out of bed at a horribly decent hour. Pulled on exercise-'n'-get-sweaty clothes -- knowing the city would be slowly shutting down during the course of the day, knowing the gym would go dark far earlier than normal -- dragged my sorry hind quarters out the door, attempting to be good, grown-up, responsible. Made the cold hike to said gym. Found it closed. Spewed colorful language. Trudged home.
Changed clothes, made the trip to the local centro comercial for groceries. I do my damndest to avoid shopping on the eve of days like Thanksgiving and Christmas, this time had little choice. Needed groceries, shops not already closed would begin locking their doors around midday.
The market: a bona fide madhouse. Short middle-aged and elderly women went about the deadly serious business of gathering provisions, expressions steely, not exuding a whole lot of holiday cheer, except with their designated shopping companions. Found myself being pushed aside by teeny, ancient females, poked with deadly sharp elbows, occasionally being cut in on. Navigated it as well as I could, eventually stumbled back out into cold pre-Christmas air with a few bags of edible goodies.
A fast pit stop at home, tossing groceries into the kitchen. Then back out into streets now busier with traffic and people. Pointed myself in the direction of a café, made the hike. Met up with someone I currently have a serious crush on (a fine way to recover from shopping traumas), sipped at decent espresso, tried to converse like a semi-intelligent human being.
A nice time. So nice we decided to extend it, running off to a matinee of a genuinely creepy spanish film. Afterward, she headed off to Christmas Eve family stuff, I walked along Gran Vía, the city quieting down as darkness fell, Christmas lights coming on, tourists far outnumbering spanish-speakers around me, the crowds sparse and relaxed compared to the usual rush-hour scene. At least until la Plaza de Callao, where stores remained open and people flowed in and out, carrying bags of last-minute purchases, many wearing joke wigs, santa hats, soft, puffy reindeer horns.
In other years, I watched the center shut slowly down on Christmas Eve, then return to life as I entered this barrio. This year seemed like I'd stepped into Bizarro Madrid. Callao and Sol were jumping, full of life. That all faded the deeper I got into this area. Chueca was quiet, most places dark, and the few shops left open were clearly preparing to call it a night. An hour or two after arriving home, the streets had grown silent, the quiet only broken now and then by the sound of passing voices or a stray firecracker.
Christmas Eve, Madrid.
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Gran Vía, Madrid -- the night of the 24th
España, te quiero.
rws 2:15 PM [+]
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