Two days ago, had the impulse to go to the movies for the first time since returning to Madrid. (And before that, now that I think about it.). For the most part, since settling into the new flat I've spent far too much time holed up in front of the computer. Getting work done (this is a good thing) -- a pretty fair amount of work. But spending long days indoors. Haven't had the vaguest interest in running off to a movie. Until Friday.
Decided to take advantage of that impulse while it was hanging around giving me the elbow, grabbed the weekly arts mag that comes with the newspaper at the end of the week, flipped through it. Discovered a film that I'd read about stateside, liked what I read, had the feeling it would be a good bet.
The single biggest disadvantage of the new flat: the nearest Metro stop is a 10-minute hike. The next nearest, 10 to 15 minutes. There's a bus stop down the street though, buses from three or four different routes pass by -- I decided to try one, see how that went. Chose a route that skirts the city center, skidding through peripheral neighborhoods, plazas and traffic circles before veering back in to touch base not far from Princesa, an area that's a hotbed of movie theaters that traffic in foreign films in the original language, subtitled in Spanish (instead of dubbed). Caught that bus. Ten minutes along they made us change to a different bus. Two minutes after that, all of us on the second bus, they did it again (producing a whole lot of complaining and ugly language by unhappy passengers fleeing toward the third bus). They didn't make us change buses again after that, but by then rush hour had begun choking city streets, slowing forward movement to a crawl (producing unhappy muttering among increasingly desperate passengers). The bus eventually reached a stop out in the middle of an urban version of nowhere, a huge percentage of the passengers bailed, nearly sprinting out the doors. I stayed. 'Cause I harbored the hope that I'd make it to the movie on time.
Finally made it to Princesa, minutes before starting time. I skipped through the plaza, stopping to take some pix of the bigass, gravity-defying sculpture that gives the plaza its nickname (la plaza de los cubos).
Gravity defied....
Made it to the cinema, slithered into my seat a minute before the lights went down. Found myself enjoying a strange movie: a tale about some genuine space oddities -- directed, strangely enough, by David Bowie's kid. (Note to Sam Rockwell: dude, good acting work. Seriously.)
Afterward: wandered out into cool evening air, streets nicely alive with couples and groups of friends talking, clustering in front of other cinemas, wandering in or out of restaurants, taverns. I aimed myself toward la Plaza de España, drifted slowly down the street, came to a halt in front of a kebap joint. One of the countless kebap places that have popped up around this city in recent years. A 20-something couple sat at the counter inside, the woman turned around and glanced out at me. I stepped inside, found a TV playing in the corner to my left, up near the ceiling. A South American soap, called culebrones, a word that means big snake or serpent. Called that, I'm told, with this in mind: the classic image of a snake with its tail end in its mouth, creating a circle, a shape that has no end or beginning. Because South American soaps go on FOREVER and EVER, with no hope of an end for those who are driven to helpless tears by their bizarrely dramatic story lines and overripe acting.
Looked like a nice little joint, apart from the hideous entertainment. The woman sat on a stool at the counter, eyes fixed on the TV, the male next to her fiddled with an iPod, earbuds stuffed into ears. I asked for food, drink, the woman got up to toss it together. Plump, rubenesque, wearing tight clothes. She got to work, I looked around discovered two or three framed thingies on the walls, touristy paeans to Syria. Leading me to conclude the owners were Syrians. Food arrived, I sat at a table and dug in. The soap went on and on. The door opened, two middle-eastern males entered, speaking a middle-eastern tongue. Syrians, could be. Friends of the couple, judging by the conversation that burst into happy life. They all blathered away, the door opened again, a 30ish guy with a camera and a big daypack entered. Stared up at the TV, looked at the knot of chatting Syrians, finally found the menu, checked it out. The woman asked if she could help, he answered in English, his tone of voice assuming everyone would understand him. She spoke no English, seemed confused that he expected she would. Fortunately, one of her friends spoke some English, stepped in to help. I worked on a pretty good pouch filled with bits o' chicken, watched South American actors overdo it shamelessly.
When I finished, I paid up, stepped out into the local version of fresh air. Found my way to the plaza, discovered that booths had been installed, a craft fair was underway. Wandered through, not looking to buy, mostly interested in checking out the humans in attendance, a nice mixture of tourists, locals and South/Central Americans working the booths.
Continued on through the plaza, to the big intersection at the corner where Princesa turns into Gran Vía and heads up the hill toward Callao and a whole lot of real expensive stores. Daylight slowly faded, crowds moved along the sidewalks.
Friday evening, Madrid. A nice time of the week, a city that feels like home.
España, te amo
rws 5:24 PM [+]
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