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Sunday, March 09, 2008 It's election day in Spain and the neighborhood has been strangely quiet. Disorientingly low-key for a Sunday in early spring. Almost sober. (I say almost, this not being a barrio known for sobriety.) As if a collective breath is being held, as if many are keeping a cautiously low profile until they see how things work out. (Though I admit I may be projecting with that last bit.) It might have been like this in any case, given how intense the campaign season was. But once again, a last-minute happening roiled already muddy waters. Elections take place on Sunday. By law, all campaigning comes to a close Friday at midnight, leaving Saturday as a day of reflection. Friday afternoon, the terrorist/separatist group ETA assassinated someone associated with the Socialist party in a town in the Basque Country, an ex-councilor -- immediately throwing the last day of campaigning off its axis. An army of media folk descended on the town, political types abandoned their big staged political mitins to hurry north where all attention was focused. Even without strange developments like that, I find this a poignant, slightly melancholy time of year, this period between the cold season and the warm season. Spring does not impose itself all at once here. It slips slowly in via spells of sweet, teasingly mild weather, punctuated by sudden backslidings to less user-friendly conditions. And once Carnival has passed in a burst of music and confetti, the year's first wave of tourism gets cranking as school vacations happen in Europe and North America, bringing a resurgence of furriners. Germans formed most of this year's initial wave, followed by Americans, Brits, and a sprinkling of folks from the country on the other side of the Pyranees. (That would be France, for the geographically challenged.) I know it remains perennially popular to dump on the French, but for what it's worth my experience with them has always -- well, mostly -- been good, and the music they bring to the mix of languages here feels just fine to me. It's become normal to see people dragging wheeled luggage, the sound of plastic wheels on pavement part of the season's soundtrack. As I descended into the Metro yesterday evening, a young male bounded up the stairs past me, followed slowly by a 40ish male -- guardian? parent? -- loaded down with luggage, grunting with effort, expression revealing someone surprised and a teeny bit desperate at his situation. [continued in next entry] España, te quiero rws 5:06 PM [+]
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