Went to the movies last night, saw something featuring Marianne Faithfull that turned out to be one of the stranger, most overhyped films I've ever sat through. Woke up this morning with the song Broken English going through my head. Not a bad tune to have lodged in the inner jukebox, thought I, and let it play on. Then realized at some point that it had been replaced by another cut. It's been a long time since I've considered myself a Stones fan (they call them Los Rolling here), a long, long time since a song of theirs latched on to me and followed me through my day. I'm not a fan, in general, of corporate rock 'n' roll or of rock songs being used to shill products. But there is something about that Sony Bravia ad with the claymation rabbits set to She's A Rainbow' that is so wonderful it almost makes me ready to look at advertising with a kinder, less jaundiced eye. (One question: in the middle of the brief version of the ad shown on Spanish TV, the camera cuts to an older t-shirted bystander -- clearly missing one or two teeth -- and holds there for a moment. What in hell is that all about?) The Stones and Ms. Faithfull have been trading off in my inner sound system all morning.
Going to the film was partly an attempt to escape the wind-up of the Spanish holiday season, the arrival of the Three Kings. The local world was out shopping yesterday, either caught up in the final gift-buying frenzy or beginning to do the January sales thing. Yesterday evening brought the big parade, los Reyes Magos making a slow trip through part of the city center, surrounded by crowds gone wild trying to catch the candy being thrown by personnel riding parade floats. Several tons of candy, according to the news -- gluten-free this year, the newscaster added, so that everyone can partake. (The sweet, fatuous goofiness of that last detail left me with a blissful smile.)
This morning in the local plaza, the sound of wheeled luggage predominated, one traveler after another trudging across the open expanse to disappear into the Metro, dragging a suitcase behind. As clear a signal of the holidays's end as the gradual disappearance of parking spaces that have abounded on neighborhood streets since just before Christmas. Not to mention the traditional circular baked sweetbread that appears everywhere on this day, el Roscón de Reyes. I passed three different local bakeries yesterday that were packed with customers, each shop with a line extending out the door and down the sidewalk. This morning, the counterman at my a.m. caffeine joint mentioned that they had no croissants because all available time and counter space had been devoted to roscones. I'm not big on sweets normally, but I saw a couple of small cream-filled numbers that had me considering a purchase.
When I stepped back out into the gray, chilly morning, marginally more awake, I was met with birdsong. Distant at first, growing louder as I walked along. The sweet soundtrack one hears along streets where people have canaries and their cousins out on balcones, providing a sensation of sunlight despite overcast skies. At least to my still-sleepy system.
Sunday morning, early January. Madrid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Store window, Gran Vía, Madrid:
-- runswithscissors smells like teen spirit and has no idea why.
España, te quiero.
rws 9:52 AM [+]
Comments:
Post a Comment