Between songs that played on my inner jukebox and tunes heard while out around the city center, the Clash provided the day's soundtrack. Until a short time ago, when someone quoted a line from 'Mother's Little Helper,' an old, old Stones single. Never, ever one of my favorite songs, it nevertheless elbowed aside Joe Strummer and friends and has yet to give way to something I actually like. At this point, I'd take almost anything as a replacement music clip. (Note: just connected to soma fm, the Stones are on the way out. The internet: a weapon in the fight for mental health.)
Have been working hard at various things lately and so feeling no guilt when I slip into rest periods of total sloth. Sometimes the occasional bout of decadence is just what the sawbones ordered. (Which reminds me: the Spanish version of the word 'sawbones,' the colloquial nickname for doctors? Matasanos -- kill healthy ones.)
Have recently been doing a better job of ignoring all the political hooha currently heaving about on both sides of the Atlantic -- one more step in the direction of mental health. (Hey, your needs may be different -- please curb any impulses to lecture this writer on civic duties, etc.) Next up: getting my adorable bod into bed at a reasonable hour. I adore long nights of good sleep, something not promoted by conking out between 1 and 2 a.m.
A friend back in the States let me know they were working on a paper about Gaudí and wondered if I'd seen any of his work here in Spain. Which gave me the perfect excuse to grab a camera and stumble down to the local Gaudí building, just a few blocks from here -- a spectacular creation belonging to The Society of Authors and Editors (la SGAE -- La Sociedad General de Autores y Editores). A nice walk down a narrow sidestreet whose residents have endured months of the city ripping up and redoing pavement/sidewalks. A guard stood at the gate near the rear of the building, staring at me doubtfully as I pulled camera out, began snapping pix.
Detail, Gaudí building, Madrid
Five, ten minutes later, camera in its bag, I began the wander home, decided to stop in a neighborhood joint for a small glass of beer. Paged through a newspaper as conversations in Spanish carried on around me (Mexico City has begun running buses for women only as a solution to rampant sexual harassment; the immense bribery scandal in the Madrid city government continues, the party holding power [el Partido Popular] trying to limit the investigation to those already arrested, the opposition trying to open up the investigation's parameters; a driver that killed a bicyclist several years ago is now suing the bicyclist's parents for 20K euros to cover damages to his Audi; Richard Branson unveiled two aircraft with which he plans to begin commercial suborbital flights in 2009, including 4-5 minutes of weightlessness and amazing views).
When I paid up, the bartender did something I rarely encounter here: he purposely broke my change down into coins that could be used to leave what Spaniards would see as a generous tip. Tipping in this part of the world, as a local reminded me recently, is mostly symbolic. Many people leave nothing, no one seems to bat an eye, much less display disappointment or outrage. I handed over 3 euros for a bill of 2.40 euros, the barkeep gave me back three 20-centimo coins. Most times, the change would be a 10-centimo piece and a 50-centimo piece, the customer might leave the 10-centimo coin. This lad was smart enough to set himself up for double that -- I could only appreciate his savvy and give it to him.
Back outside, walking home, a group of three 30ish males passed me, absorbed in conversation. All three with identical hair styles, a popular cut that can be seen everywhere, that many footballers sport -- hair trimmed reasonably short and combed toward the center up top, forming a distant, much tamer cousin of a mohawk. In this case, looking like they all had modest, sleek, misplaced dorsal fins, cutting through the twilight air as they moved by.
Friday, late January. Madrid.
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For a good time: Moby-Dick in haiku!
-- runswithscissors is sufficiently caffeinated.
España, te quiero.
rws 3:11 PM [+]
Comments:
they sure as hell were on the way out for me that morning -- without soma.fm, my life would be a much more hellish place to be.
thanks for your kind words, btw. :)
thanks for your kind words, btw. :)
Wow, you've been writing for a long time. The photographs are great too. Hopefully I'll be able to remember to come back. There's no RSS on this site.
# posted
by 
: 7:32 PM
: 7:32 PM
causalien, the rss feed for this page is in the page's right-hand column, below the contact/copyright stuff. :)
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