Sitting in a lunch joint down the street from here. Seated at a small table to one side of the space, next to a cabinet that serves as the stand for the in-house T&V (the telly perched up top, scant inches from the ceiling, where everyone can see it). Now and then I'd look up from the newspaper I was paging through to see diners' eyes trained on the TV screen, faces expressionless, chewing a mouthful of chow.
On the other side of the cabinet, three 50-something manual workers sat at a small table, shirtsleeves rolled up, working on lunch and glasses of wine, arguing politics. Arguing and arguing, the volume steadily increasing, until one began pontificating loudly enough that everyone in the joint could hear him, voice hard and insistent, pounding the table now and then, going on and on, rolling right over what his companions tried to say. An adherent of the right side of the political spectrum, determined to flatten all other opinions, talking so loudly and stridently that his words cut through the ambient noise -- and that is saying something, given how intense the racket in a Spanish lunch joint can be. Around the space, conversation stopped, people standing by the bar with drinks in their hands turned and watched, mouths partly open. And I found myself remembering all over again why I do my best to steer clear of the political part of life -- I really don't enjoy most of what it seems to bring out in us, and being around all that does not leave me feeling joyful or mentally healthy.
The last couple of days here have brought mild temperatures, sunlight pouring down between buildings into the barrio's narrow streets. Mild enough that many walking the streets wear light jackets or winter coats left open (and by 'many' I mean, er, me). Days with the promise of spring on the way. A kind of weather that promotes easy breathing, relaxed walking.
Two days earlier, on a cooler, more seasonally appropriate day, I sat in a different joint -- a café in one the Madrid's nicer areas -- having a spirited chat with a friend, S., one of those conversations that veer all over the map, zig-zagging more erratically as the quantity of caffeine being guzzled swells. We sat a table in the rear of the place, absorbed in an exchange about... politics? gossip shows? the joy of life? something... when out of nowhere appeared a clown --in full make-up and clownish duds -- en route to the loo.
My companion, a smoker, had a cigarette going. The clown saw that, stopped short, hit S. up for a butt, then borrowed her lighter to get it going. I studied him as he lit up -- rose colored shirt, turquoise colored pants, both covered with sequins. Suspenders, big, floppy bow-tie. Full, classic make-up and wig, the only real departure from the boilerplate being a long, slender, pale nose instead of the usual round, red jobby. His serious expression gave way to a brief smile as he handed the lighter back, saying thanks, he then resumed course, disappearing into a short hallway that led to the bog.
S. and I exchanged a look, eyebrows raised, and resumed blabbing where we'd left off. At some point the clown passed again, making the return trip to the front of the shop where he grabbed a spot at the counter. A few minutes later, S. and I pulled ourselves together, paid up, headed out. Clowndude remained at the bar as we walked by, expression serious, cigarette jutting out from his lips, a strata of smoke around his head. I heard him exchanging a few words with one of the women behind the bar -- his forearms resting on the counter, shoulders hunched forward, sequined outfit glimmering -- and then we were out the door.
Clowns hanging out in cafés -- one more reason to adore Madrid.
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Chinese restaurant, Madrid:
-- runswithscissors: as cute as a freakin' button.
España, te quiero.
rws 1:28 PM [+]
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