Monday, February 15, 2010 The morning routine had me so absorbed this a.m. that I didn't really glance out a window before leaving the flat. So when I stepped out of the building, the sight of snow falling took me completely by surprise. Snow -- lots of it, really coming down. None of your gentle, lyrical flurries. The air thick with big, flat flakes dropping as if they meant business. Not that there was any accumulation -– it all melted on contact with street/sidewalks. But it had the look of the kind of weather that could turn genuinely serious at any moment. But beautiful. Lovely. Quieting urban hubbub the teeniest bit in the way that snow does. Some folks walked with umbrellas opened, others with collars turned up, shoulders hunched. (I fell into that second group.) And snow continued coming down, the tires of passing cars making a sssshhh-ing noise on wet pavement. Temperatures eased overnight, bringing rain. Lots of rain. Not as pretty, but it has its upsides -- apart from watering earth that does not normally get much rain through much of the year, it washes away lots of salt and dog poop. (Salt: tossed everywhere in feverishly excessive amounts at the first sight of falling snow. Dog poop: an unfortunate aspect of daily life in this barrio.) Meanwhile, I've been riding busses around the city center a whole lot lately. Forgot how much of an adventure squeezing one of those vehicles through old, narrow streets can be -- up and down hills, with only inches to spare on either side. Considering all that, it is amazing (in a hair-raising way) how certain bus drivers hurtle along, as if the speed of light was the goal, and a miracle that they don't leave a trail of flattened pedestrians in their wake. Makes for good, harrowing entertainment. Approaching warp-speed: I challenge anyone to sit through one of those rides and ponder the problems and miseries of their life. With the continuous stopping, starting and heaving about, it's impossible. One has to slip into a state of urban zen, existing in the present, high-intensity moment, hands gripping whatever will keep you anchored in one place, body jerking this way and that with the movement of the vehicle. Good therapy, though not necessarily of the variety that might promote inner peace. It will, however, promote a huge sigh of relief when feet hit pavement at the end of the ride. España, te amo. rws 7:18 PM [+]

Monday, February 08, 2010 Recent moments: -- Making the return trip home on the Metro from the city center two nights ago, the train blessedly less crammed with tired travelers/commuters than usual. Next to me stood a 30ish male, normal looking at first glance, neither unpleasant nor memorable. The kind of individual who would blend into a crowd easily. If, that is, he hadn't been so restless, so anxious, with something clearly eating at him. Fidgeting and biting his nails in a way that became hard to ignore (being right next to me and all). And that's how the entire trip went -- fidgeting and nail-biting. Except for the moments when fingers began probing nostrils in an open, not wildly attractive show of behavior one really should limit to (a) home or (b) the office of one's therapist. A person apparently so deeply submerged in whatever state of mind he had going that he was 100% unaware of the strange display he was putting on. -- Waking up pre-dawn, as the sky began getting light, to the sound of birds producing music that could only come from joyful hearts. Dawn comes late here, given Spain's strange time-zone configuration, so the burst of song doesn't happen at an hour that could get cranky individuals feeling the impulse to open a window and toss footwear at the noisemakers. Instead, I can feel a sleepy smile take form on my face as happy music registers. Then I burrow deeper into the sheets and drift off. -- And speaking of drifting off, the topic of the language spoken in one's dreams continues coming up in conversation, and after devoting far too much mental hooha to pondering my nighttime adventures it feels like it's been a long while since I've had dreams with dialogue -- talkies, if you will. Or at very least I have no memory of verbal communication in my dreams -- not for a years. Most of what returns with me to waking life in is more like impressions than real memories -- images, feelings. I have to stop, quiet down and think about it before I experience anything more. And it's all stories sans talking. Until recent conversations got me to turn my attention to dream activity, I had no idea this might be the case. But there it is. My dreams: silent movies. At least looking at them from a superficial perspective (and I can be as superficial as the next person). I get the feeling that there's no lack of communication happening -- just like there's no lack of dream activity, no matter how little of it returns to waking life with me -- it's just happening in a different mode from the five-senses model. I think. My question: if my dreams are dialogue free, what is up with the recent tendency to wake up with music streaming through my teeny brain? More often than not in recent days, coming to consciousness happens with a soundtrack -- not an extensive one. One tune, on a repeating loop. And as often as not, not a tune I would consciously choose to start the day off with. Getting out of bed and stumbling off into the day's first activity mostly seems to flush it out of my system, so we're not talking about any kind of real inconvenience. Just a quirky, transitory minor mystery. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In the barrio of Chueca, Madrid: España, te amo. rws 8:08 AM [+]

Tuesday, February 02, 2010 Woke up early this morning, somewhere around 5 a.m., with music from Dr. Horrible streaming perkily through my sleepy brain. From that point on, I drifted between sleep and barely-awakeness, dreaming about being in a Dr. Horrible sequel. (And how bitchen would that be?) The dreams about the sequel actually featured original music, featuring some pretty respectable tunes.. Sometimes my subconscious kicks ass. I made no effort to remember original music on waking, so it's all gone. The tunes from the original musical continue cycling through my teeny brain though, a soundtrack that has given this Tuesday a whole different feel from the garden variety weekday. I have been astonished at the extremely high percentage of people I see lately wearing headsets in the street, in the Metro, on buses -- most listening to music, some blathering away in phone conversations. The latter make it much more difficult to tell who is a genuine self-talker (another contingent well-represented in recent days) and who is conversing with unseen individuals. Now that phone reception is possible in the Metro -- underground, between stations -- more and more people seem to be inflicting their private chats on the rest of us. Often not my idea of a great time. Ah, well. Provides motivation for bringing reading materials to lose oneself in. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Today, looking up at the Ministerio de la Presidencia -- Madrid: España, te amo. rws 11:49 PM [+]

Saturday, January 30, 2010 Every now and then, I'll come up out of the Metro into what passes as fresh air in Sol, the very heart of Madrid's city center, and someone earning slave wages will be standing at the top of that long, steep set of concrete stairs that give out to the extreme edge of the plaza's west side. Performing the thankless task ofthrusting a handbill at everyone who passes -- a small square of white paper, maybe 4" x 4", its size and color indicating that it's the latest edition of my favorite example of advertising, hands down. Whoever puts these wonderful bits of propaganda together uses the same boilerplate. The name, phone number and address change, the headline gets tweaked, but the text is identical from one edition to the next. Always harping on about the amazing qualities of a great, illustrious African clairvoyant (GRAN ILUSTRE VIDENTE AFRICANO), the person in question sporting impressive handles like PROFESOR MARA or PROFESOR NNASTA, the professor being someone who helps to resolve diverse problems quickly, guaranteed (¡AYUDA A RESOLVER DIVERSOS PROBLEMAS CON RÁPIDEZ Y GARANTIA!) From that point on, the text is always the same -- the Master Afridan Shaman Blahblahblah, Great Magical Spirit Medium, with natural powers and blahblah years of experience in all fields of High African Magic, helps to solve all types of problems and difficulties, no matter how knotty they may be: chronic illnesses related to drugs and tobacco, any and all marital problems, the recovery or attracting of a loved one, sexual impotence, love, business, legal problems, luck, the elimination of curses, etc, etc. All solved immediately, with positive results, 100% guaranteed, in 3 to 7 days at most (not exactly immediate, but let's not be impatient). Open 7 days a week. I absolutely adore this. Don't ask me why -- it's just one of those things. All I can tell you is that any time I find myself with a brand new edition of this low-level, intelligence-insulting advertising in hand, it sends me down the street with a happy smile on my silly face. It's good to be easily entertained. España, te amo. rws 8:29 AM [+]

Monday, January 25, 2010 And speaking of dreams -- ‘cause, you know, that is what I was blathering on about in that last entry -- yesterday morning, I found myself awake in the wee hours, thinking (for reasons unknown) about a classic, deeply creepy episode of Dr. Who. Images of weeping angels, individuals thrown back in time against their will with no way to return to where they should be. With no idea why my thoughts were embroiled in all that. Fell back asleep, and from then on drifted back and forth between sleep and a half-awake state, dreaming about weeping angels, about being trapped in times I didn't belong in. Two or three hours of that, until I came to, a quiet, beautiful morning taking shape outside, me getting to my feet, shaking off nocturnal creepiness. Then this morning: me awake early once more, this time thinking about spiders, with no idea why my teeny brain had fastened onto that subject. Drifted back off to sleep, spent two or three hours dreaming about, yes, spiders -- surfacing now and then, half-awake, dreams continuing as I floated in and out of sleep, never fully awake during the times of not being fully asleep. When I finally came to, I returned from a dream scene in which I examined a long white porcelain utility sink, its surfaces covered by webs, all spun by tiny spiders, lots and lots of them. Got up, shook it off. Showered, shaved, pulled on gym duds. Stepped out of the building into a crisp morning, sunlight just beginning to show over the very tops of neighborhood buildings, local streets busy with rush-hour traffic, sidewalks alive with locals walking. Life everywhere, another day beginning in a city I love. Not a bad waking life to escape to after hours of weeping angels and spiders. España, te amo. rws 3:53 PM [+]

Friday, January 22, 2010 A couple of people asked me recently if I've dreamed in Spanish, my second language. The answer: I'm not sure. I know I have nights of dream-filled sleep, but for the most part hardly any of it returns to waking life with me apart from vague images and sensations. It's a genuine occasion when I return with something clear, usually the product of a dream that's especially intense or strange in some way. Which is what happened about five nights back: a kind of dream I've had a handful of times in this life of mine, featuring she who is The One. Mate, partner, true sweetheart -- whatever description applies. They're lovely dreams, those few that have featured that woman, leaving me pleased for having experienced them, not bothered that they're only dreams and so disappear when my real life eyes open. They're sweet, intimate, emotionally profound. And fun. I have no memory of who she is/was, have no idea if it's always been the same individual or someone different every time. Ni puta idea, as some Spanish friends might put it. And it doesn't matter. They're dreams, the rules of waking life don't apply. I also, every once in a long, long while, experience dreams that are not so freakin' pleasant. Not very pleasant at all. Unpleasant, really, even nasty, nightmarish. Or just not much fun, and intense enough that they wake me. In that case, I turn on the light, get up or grab a book, start reading. I don't try to hold on to them, make no effort to remember details. It's fine with me if they disappear from the memory banks. And they do. I love dreams, these adventures that kick in when we check out of real life for a few hours. And it would be okay with me if I remembered more of them. But I'm not so disturbed by not remembering that I'm willing to make myself jump through the various hoops that pass as methods to improve dream recall. I went through a period when I'd turn on the light and make notes once I found myself awake in the wee hours with fresh details of nocturnal hijinks galloping through my teeny brain. Man, I hated that. By the time I'd finished scribbling everything down -- in hideous, rushed, indecipherable handwriting -- I'd be too wide awake to slip back off to sleep. Far, far too high a price to pay -- 'cause, frankly, I love getting good sleep much more than I love waking up from it remembering whatever the hell went on while the real-life lights were out. Anyway. On to the day. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Seen along a local street this week: España, te amo. rws 11:56 AM [+]

Sunday, January 17, 2010 The rent was due this last week. That meant a call to the landlord, followed by a fast walk-through by her to collect the gelt. My current landlord: an elderly woman -- short, a bit squat, hair done up in the classic feathered helmet style. Walks with short steps, just this side of a shuffle, recent treacherous weather making her movements even more tentative, cautious. Talks very formally with me, employing the ‘usted' form instead of the familiar 'tu,' though has begun to relax a little with me after three months of landlord-tenant relationship. We arranged a time for her to stop by, she showed up in her version of winter gear, meaning a long cloth coat and shoes designed for sidewalks festooned with ice and slush. She shuffled in, we made small talk. When she saw me get out money, she reached into a coat pocket, pulled out an untidy mix of euro notes and assorted bits of paper. That began a slow process of sifting through it all, fingers carefully pulling out pieces of folded paper, trying to open them up to appraise. No receipt was found, that batch of paper got tucked carefully back into one pocket, a second batch appeared from a different pocket, went through the same slow process. It became clear that she had all kinds of euro notes tucked into every single pocket she had, from fives up to hundreds, along with a extensive collection of paper scraps, all kinds of paper scraps -- notes, receipts, movie ticket stubs, bits from newspapers, most folded up double or double-doubled so that they had to be opened to see what they were.. "I like to have money when I go out," she explained, continuing the slow search through yet another handful of paper. "I can see that," I said, teasing gently. At some point, after the event had stretched on and on, I just started laughing. She laughed a bit, but I could see she was beginning to grow uncomfortable and let her know she could come back at another time to drop off the receipt if she'd rather, that this was not a big deal in any way. She continued with the search, picking through the contents of pocket after pocket for a second time, saying quietly that this was a big deal, clearly growing embarrassed, me continuing to let her know it was nothing to be worried about. Until she finally gave up, agreed to stop by with a receipt sometime soon, then tottered out of the flat. The image that stayed with me: handfuls of paper being slowly sorted through, euro notes of all colors and denominations sticking out in every direction. A whole lot of abundance stuffed into each pocket. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Abandoned storefront, Madrid:: España, te amo. rws 11:16 AM [+]

Sunday, January 10, 2010 Woke up this morning with part of a David Bowie tune running through my head. Oh, don't lean on me, man, 'cause you can't afford the ticket I'm back from Suffragette City.... Why that tune? Why that bit of lyric? No idea. Haven't heard any Bowie music in a while, haven't even heard his name mentioned since... can't remember. A while ago. Not a bad tune, as tunes go. But I decided I didn't want rattling around in my teeny brain for ever and ever. Pulled myself out of bed, showered, shaved. Stumbled outside into a seriously cold morning, temperature around -6C. Possibly the coldest daytime temperature I've experienced here. Was out with friends a couple of nights ago, in a barrio not far from here. An Italian joint. This being Madrid, dinner didn't start until just before 10. (Good antipasta plate, good salad. So-so pizza. Killer tiramisu.) Stepped back out into the street around midnight, a few stray snowflakes falling around us as we pulled collars up, pulled on gloves. (A days back it snowed all day long, from morning to night -- first time I've ever seen that here. Nothing stuck, but it sure looked beautiful.) I expected to ride a bus back home, discovered after pacing back and forth at the bus stop for a few minutes that buses on the routes I'd need stop running at 11:30. Got feets moving, arrived home 20 minutes later -- cheeks red, ears tingling, hair acting wacky from cold weather static electricity. Since then temperatures here have slowly, steadily dropped. A friend in the U.K. said it snowed all week up in that part of the world. Yee-ha! This morning, after picking up the paper I directed myself to one of my preferred wake-up places. Spent a little while coming to, courtesy of chow and caffeine. Returned home, have remained inside since then. Wearing thermals and warm socks, 'cause the windows in this flat are hilariously inappropriate for this kind of weather. The old single-pane, wood-frame, full-length-window doors that open in from the teeny balcony let in so much breeze that the curtains billow in and out. A blanket stuffed along the bottom of the doors has taken care of some of that. All radiators are going at full throttle, further clothing will be pulled on as needed. There's a reason the sidewalk tables outside café disappear for a while in Madrid. Now and then winter decides to remind the local world exactly what winter weather is supposed to feel like. And as I write this, snow is coming down once more. Sticking, this time -- around an inch of accumulation so far. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Storefront, off hours -- Madrid:: España, te amo. rws 2:34 PM [+]

Thursday, January 07, 2010 [continued from previous entry] When I fled in early October, I wasn't sure where I'd end up or how long I'd be gone, so hadn't taken precautions like removing battery from car to store indoors. Which turned matters like the question of whether the car would start after sitting out in subzero temperatures for weeks ‘n' weeks into just one more adventure. (It started -- yee-ha!) Showered, shaved, toasted a bagel that didn't fare well after three months in the freezer (mmm, warm, buttered cardboard....). Cranked out espresso decent enough to jump-start my system. Started in on stuff needing to be done as other people in the building left for work, the school across the street came to life. Appreciated things like working heat, working phone and internet, working radio, warm liquids. Did a fair imitation of a productive, high-functioning human. Errands took me out into the cold, down along Main Street into Montpelier's small downtown. Christmas lights shone, stores and cafés did good business. Booted feet walked along shoveled sidewalks, bodies covered in all kinds of winter wear moved along sidewalks, vapor coming out mouths. Noted a big difference in holiday atmosphere between the Spanish capital and Vermont. Madrid: the city hangs big bunches of lights -- in plazas, along main avenues, down pedestrian ways. Montpelier: municipal lights and decorations were minimal (though nice) -- the bulk of the displays get mounted by businesses and homeowners, a side of holiday hooha not seen much here. Apartment buildings in my current barrio will have a small artificial tree in the lobby, with lights, maybe garlands, maybe a few gift-wrapped boxes around it on the floor. That's about it - - nothing around entryways, nothing in windows. Apart from city street lights, displays are minimal, understated. Most of the energy goes into the gatherings that occupy a huge part of holiday life. And yes, gatherings play a big role in holiday life stateside, but the number and intensity of family-gatherings here remains impressive to me -- Christmas Eve, Christmas day, New Year's, little Christmas (January 5 and 6, the arrival of three kings). In this building during the last two weeks, the aroma of massive meals being prepared, the sound of gathered people in flats all around mine was frequent, extending through evenings, throughout days, feeling near-constant. Yesterday was the season's wrap-up, local streets remained quiet, most business closed -- life happened indoors, in homes filled with families and children, preparing meals, hanging about into the evening. Er, where was I? Oh, right -- Vermont. Being busy, productive, blahblahblah. Contacted a friend who's been taking care of my mail, met to buy him dinner that night. He arrived hauling a grocery bag packed with nine weeks of mail -- 95% of it unwanted, destined for the recycle bin. Most of it from nonprofits (and a few catalog-spewing businesses) who have ignored requests to stop sending stuff, ignored further requests to stop selling/sharing my address with other groups. Talked. Ate. Slowly defrosted. (Temperature outside: around 0°F/17°C. Chilly.) Returned to my teeny squat at around 3:30 a.m. (Madrid time), marveling at just how teeny it actually is. Very, very compact. And laid out around a corner of the building -- what used to be a big Victorian home -- so that the space is narrow and sound does not pass easily from one room to another. The stereo in the living room has to be seriously cranked to be able to hear it in the kitchen, and since the lease specifically forbids noise loud enough to bother other tenants, each room in the flat requires its own source of radio/tunes. (I pause here to remind myself that I picked this place specifically so that I would not be able to settle comfortably into it, would feel motivated to get out into the big world outside. That was my intent. And it worked. 'Cause spending too much time there gets a teensy bit claustrophobic, and it surely gets me wanting a change of scenery.) One good thing about being back in that teeny space: a closet full of winter gear, something that did not get packed nine weeks earlier (again, me not knowing how long I'd be gone, where I'd end up, wanting to travel light, etc.). A second good thing: genuinely kickass high-speed wifi internet, as compared with the moody, grumpy high-speed connection Telefónica has given me in my current Madrid squat. (Though I will say one thing for Telefónica: their concept of what service means has drastically evolved, from something not far removed from audible snickering -- if not outright yawning -- to requests for aid, to something way more reliable and trust-inspiring.) Uploads/downloads on my Vermont connection happen bizarrely, almost surreally quickly. Not that I'm complaining. Went to sleep real damn late, a habit deeply ingrained from life in Madrid. Which would be fine if my bod weren't still coming to on Madrid time, meaning ungodly early in Vermont time. Had me up and out to the gym, then out taking care of more errands, the hours skidding past at disorientingly high velocidad. [this entry in progress] España, te amo. rws 6:59 AM [+]

Wednesday, January 06, 2010 [continued from entry of December 29] As hoped, within an hour I was ensconced in the flat of friends, G. and S., using my paltry charm on S. in an effort to get her to head down Mass. Ave. to a café (me hoping a shot of caffeine might perk up my tired bod, my system having been up since before the previous midnight, Cambridge time). We went. It worked. For a while anyway. Long enough for S. to make dinner, for G. to return from work, for us to shovel down the meal. After that is mostly a blur of fatigue, me falling out on the sofa in front of the T&V. (It's a comment on how comfortable and at home I feel with G.&S. that I would fall asleep like that, in the middle of their home life, instead of retiring to the guest room to poop out more discretely.) Next morning: my bod, on European time, came bolt awake around three, I could feel that there was no chance in hell I'd be drifting back off to sleep. The flat's residents slept quietly, the world around me lay dark and silent, both indoors and outdoors. The wee small hours: Suddenly the thought of leaping into rental car and doing the three-hour drive north seemed like a good idea. A lot of things needed to be attended to during the short time I would be back in Montpelier -- the thought of driving before roads and highways got frantically busy, of arriving earlier rather than later leaving an entire day to work with, made so much sense that I found myself pulling on clothes, packing, leaving a note in the kitchen explaining my disappearance, stepping out into wee hour Cambridge, cold, crisp air filling my lungs. Early morning New Hampshire, out in the middle of nowhere: The drive passed in a smooth early morning blur of images -- empty urban streets, interstate highways spooling past. Pausing for bladder relief in the middle of nowhere, me the only source of sound/movement, the air soft with misting rain. Pulling off the interstate into Montpelier's compact downtown before rush hour. And suddenly I found myself pulling up in front of the garage stall that shelters my old Subaru, found myself dragging body bag up narrow stairway (leaving snowprints on old, tattered carpet), found myself in the teeny flat I'd abandoned nine weeks earlier. Everything quiet, the local world not really up and cranking yet. Bed and living room furniture covered with sheets. Radiators shedding waves of heat to counter serious below-zero temperatures outside. [continued in next entry] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Para Madrileños: hay que pasar por esta web, una obra de varios payasos que se trata de restaurantes en el centro de la capital. Tiene pocas entradas pero merece la pena leer las que hay. Una página web entretenida y poco respetuosa: La contraguía para zampar en la Gran Vía España, te amo. rws 8:30 AM [+]

Monday, January 04, 2010 Yesterday morning: after a long, delicious night of sleep, stumbled out into a gray morning, headed directly to the newspaper/magazine kiosk that's planted about 15 feet from my building's front entrance. From Monday through Saturday, a 20-something male presides there, cloistered inside the snug space inside the small structure, accepting money, giving change, doling out extras that sometimes come with papers/magazines. Not very talkative, at least with me, and puts in long, long days, opening up around 8 a.m., closing up shop around 8 p.m. On Sundays, an older couple takes over -- the ‘rents, I suspect. Both gray-haired, both 50-something, working in shifts on the day of their son's rest.. When I pulled up there yesterday morning, the 50-something male lurked inside. I grabbed a copy of El País, pulled a 20 euro bill from my shirt pocket, handed it over. The bill was accepted slowly, the man's hands unfolding it, smoothing it out, straightening a crimped corner. His eyes shifted from the bill to a pair of men who stopped to buy a paper, then back to the bill, his manner slow, methodical, a bit strange, his expression a bit dour. He inserted one end of the bill into a small black-light bill reader that crouched to one side of the kiosk window, the machine looking brand-spanking new. It sucked the bill slowly in, spit it slowly back out. The man took it, examined it further, holding it up to the kiosk's ceiling lights. Then he slipped it back into the machine. The two males at my side began to get restless, I began wondering why this bill -- one I'd gotten from my bank's ATM -- was being examined so intensely. The proprietor accepted money from the two men at my side, someone else appeared, bought a paper, disappeared, my twenty continued being scrutinized. "Is there a problem?" I asked. No answer. "Is the bill no good?" I asked. The bill disappeared into the new high-tech toy once more, smoothly reappeared. "I think it's okay," the proprietor finally said. "Yes, I think it's okay." "Good," I said, my tone politely communicating, Would you please give me my freakin' change then so I can get on with the rest of my life? He did, his manner not terribly warm. I accepted it, said thanks, took off. What exactly happened? I have no idea. One of those blips that appear unexpectedly on one's radar screen, an interaction with another human that don't go the as expected. The good part: they pass. And life goes on. Sure are mysterious though. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sunday morning in the barrio, Christmastime -- quiet, tranquil, awash in wan sunlight. España, te amo. rws 8:03 AM [+]

Thursday, December 31, 2009 This morning: dragged my sleepy bod out from the between the sheets at an indecently early hour. Showered, shaved, pulled on gym clothes. Stumbled out the door into not very user-friendly weather -- gray, cold, rain pissing down. (The case most mornings this week, the local jerkoff weather deities apparently having decided to make us work and suffer for our Christmas spirit.) Made the mercifully brief slog to the gym, part of a general decision to get back into a vaguely regular schedule with that, after a wildly erratic three-month span. Have been paying little attention to the end of the year thing -- best-of lists, reviews of the year's news, blah blah blah. On one hand, the hooha about the end of the calendar year (to me, an arbitrary division) mostly provokes in me a reaction of shrugging indifference; on the other hand the days have been skidding by at such whiplash-inducing velocity that there just hasn't been time to wade through the tsunami of year-end spewings. So, yes. Skidding by. And suddenly here we are the end of one more jaunt around the sun. After running around the barrio this morning being responsible, taking care of errands, my afternoon got spent in a sustained bout of responsibility avoidance, doing as little as humanly possible without descending into total, irredeemable, slothful decadence. Retreating, basically, in an effort to deal with a sense of panicked disbelief at the speed at which our year-long clownshow careens by -- days, weeks, months whipping past, holidays being one reminder of all that, path markers pounded into the overgrowth at the side of the path, providing hair-raising reminders that it wasn't so very long ago that we passed that very same spot along the year's trail. Only then the markers were scrawled with the number '2008'. (Remember 2008? Feels so long ago now, so very freakin' distant. Almost prehistoric.) But I blather. This evening, the weather took an ugly turn. I went out to meet up with someone, found myself being pelted with intense rain, a cold wind working to make the experience even more hilarious. The rain let up, then returned as hail. Then sleet. Then as rain again. Most everything was closed, this being New Year's Eve. The few joints that had their doors open for business were absolutely crammed with people, lines of chatting, drinking humans spilling out entryways to the street. Between that and the meteorological comedy underway, my companion and I decided to return to the warm, cosy shelter of a living space equipped with heat, running water, cooking facilities, all that. To eat, to talk, to cuddle. (Maybe in that order, maybe not.) Feliz año a todos y todas. See you in 2010. España, te amo. rws 9:32 PM [+]

Tuesday, December 29, 2009 Two weeks ago: woke up real damn early, as sometimes happens on days that will involve big traveling (my bod keyed up in anticipation). The first leg of the trip involved a ten-minute hike through dark, early-a.m. local streets to the Metro, dragging baggage. Before leaving, stepped out onto my teeny-tiny balcony to see what the weather was doing, receiving the day's first surprise: snow, wind, genuine cold. Not your standard-issue conditions for this city. Pulled self together, made the hike. (Accumulated a fair amount of snow en route.) Did the ride to the airport (three train changes), checked in, discovered that Aer Lingus would only provide the boarding pass for the trip's first leg. Stumbled from there to the line for the security area, took my place, watched the show put on by fellow travelers -- the person in front of me: a 40ish male with a sizeable mole right on the very tip of his nose -- marveling at how few actually seemed to know what would be required of them by the hard-working security folks, meaning one surprise after another when those ahead of me in line reached their turn to go through (jackets/scarves/sweaters hurriedly pulled off, panicked hands emptying pockets, shoes dragged off, water bottles jettisoned, etc.) Some time later, found myself on an Aer Lingus plane heading to Dublin. Had a window spot, leaving me content. As we made the descent to the landing strip, cloud cover over the city opened up, sunlight streamed through, the land below shone soft and green. I'd forgotten how small and friendly that airport is, had forgotten how sweet the local accents are -- characteristics that made the not-very-tidy process of getting a boarding pass for the next leg of the trip easier to take. Once I had that in hand, we were channeled through a security checkpoint, which turned out to be the customs check for our entry into the U.S. -- the first time I've experienced that actually happening outside the states. (It meant when we landed in Boston, they channeled us through the passport control area behind the booths, our passports already checked and stamped -- the immense hall on the other side of the booths stood empty and quiet, agents hung around the booths chatting, watching us file through to baggage reclaim. Strange.) The Irish personnel were friendly and relaxed, to the point that the security check had an entirely different feel from what I've grown used to -- kinder, less intense, though no less thorough. Had me thinking about spending some time in the city. Still has me thinking about it. Turned out I'd been given a seat in the middle of the plane, I tried not to grumble too audibly about it. Once we'd reached cruising altitude, I found an unclaimed window seat in the back, moved there, felt much happier. Then discovered that each seat not only had its very own video screen, Aer Lingus had the best selection of films and television I'd ever come across in a translatlantic flight. Spent the rest of the afternoon wading through District 13 and episodes of The Wire as the north Atlantic slid by below, extreme northeast Canada white with snow. We landed in Boston -- breezy, milder than Madrid -- 30 minutes early, meaning there was a good chance I'd be out of the terminal, in my rental car and with friends in Cambridge before rush hour. (The rental car: not my usual routine, but a much better option than suffering through the long, not wildly comfortable Greyhound ride north and back, and only a teeny bit more expensive, given that it was only for 96 hours. A bottom line for me these days: if spending a few more shekels means more convenience and less discomfort, I am all over that. I've put in my time in this mortal go-round when it comes to suffering -- to the best of my ability now, I make different choices.) In the big baggage claim hall, a long line of blue-uniformed males stood ranged along the exit side of the space -- customs personnel waiting to grab travelers for searches and Q & A. One crooked a finger at me when I'd aimed myself toward the exit, I followed him to his post, he started with questions. Had me open my big wheeled duffel (the body bag), we both stared down into it, marveling at neatly it was packed (easy to do when one is traveling light). He asked more questions, then wandered over to a computer terminal with my passport and customs statement, typed away for a while, me not enjoying the idea that the government was prying into my fairly innocuous existence and building a file about me and what I'm doing with what passes for my life. But the guy I was dealing with seemed okay, he did his job without being a dick, and in a few minutes it was over, I was out into the Boston version of fresh air, figuring out what had to be done to get to the rental place. [to be continued. soon. (no, really.)] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ La Calle de Narvaez, Madrid: España, te amo. rws 9:23 AM [+]

Friday, December 25, 2009 Stayed up far too late last night. Far, far too late. Saw no sign of oversized dude in red suit, no trace of airborne reindeer. Every now and then explosions rattled windows (I have no idea where that custom comes from, am grateful local mischief-makers only started with the fireworks two or three days before Christmas instead of weeks before as in my last barrio of residence), the 'hood finally going quiet when the celebrants crept off into the early morning darkness, leaving what remained of the night silent, calm, peaceful. Woke up at nine a.m. to the sound of neighbors in full Christmas morning frenzy -- rushing about, yelling back and forth. When I stumbled out to the street, wan morning sunlight fell through thin yuletide cloud cover, quiet reigned. Passed people walking -- couples talking softly, individuals appearing slightly dazed, god owners walking four-legged companions. Saw more businesses open than I'd expected -- nowhere near the number of a regular weekday, but enough to suggest normal life. Stumbled into one of my principal morning wake-up joints, found it alive with people eating, talking, getting caffeinated. The big difference between this morning and a standard a.m.: most of the customers were police (blue uniforms) and city cleaning crews (green outfits, w/ bands of reflective lime green) -- normal neighborhood foolks were scarce. I hadn't realized so many sanitation types would be about, gave silent thanks for their continuing work -- without them, the city would gradually disappear beneath piles of litter, dog poop and fallen leaves. Whatever they get paid, it's not enough. Stepped back out into fresh, strangely mild December air, marginally more awake. Walked down the avenue, enjoying the quiet, dragging out camera now and then, pointed it at things that caught my eye. Back home, cranked up laptop (why does that sound strangely obscene?), found Christmas emails waiting. Gave thanks for the internet, for a comfy squat, for friends scattered around the map, for clothes to wear, food to eat, for a day of peace and relaxation stretching out ahead. Feliz Navidad a todos. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Christmas Eve along la Calle de Princesa, Madrid: España, te amo. rws 7:35 PM [+]

Monday, December 21, 2009 Here, in a nutshell, is what I think (not that you asked): I think we're meant to love, without holding back -- open our hearts and let it rip. Not demand things of our partner, just appreciate the hell out of them and savor the days, months, years we're fortunate enough to have in their company. Because there is no guarantee of how long that span of time will be, and whether it turns out to be brief or blessedly long the point of the game is to love and appreciate. Anything less would be a sad pissing away of a miracle. You may not agree, and that's okay –- you get to do it the way you want to (no matter how blinkered). But if I get another shot at all this, I'm going to do my damndest to make that last paragraph my groundrules. We'll see if I get another shot. In the meantime, life goes on. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This morning, Madrid -- not an everyday scene in a city where snow rarely falls: España, te amo. rws 9:28 PM [+]

Sunday, December 20, 2009 Got back late yesterday afternoon from a fast -- and I do mean fast -- trip stateside. Some things came up that needed serious attention, hasty arrangements were made, I flew out of Madrid last Monday a.m. Had to book the return trip via Munich, which meant going through the German version of a security check on the way to the connecting flight back to Madrid. A slight, serious-expressioned, middle-aged blonde security worker saw my camera bag, instructed me to open it, turn it on, show her a photo. I did all that. Not sure what she thought she might encounter, but the image that came up for her was this: I got the impression she may have expected something dramatic. Cute kitty pix, sadly, do not rate high on the drama scale. She stared, expression neutral, showing zero emotion. A moment passed, as if she needed a bit of time to process the contrast between potentially sensational find and sadly banal reality. She finally said, "Okay," voice betraying the teeniest hint of what sounded like disappointment, then waved me on. Kitty pix -- bringing down security people everywhere. España, te amo. rws 11:02 AM [+]

Sunday, December 13, 2009 A few days back, friends stateside let me know they'd gotten a whole lot of snow dumped on them, the first major accumulation of the season. Two days later -- yesterday morning -- cold weather arrived here, the very first truly blast of what passes for frigid air here. I wasn't prepared, stepped out the building's front door in my usual a.m. state of near-sleepwalking, found myself suddenly freezing, my body leaping into a state of immediate shock. Looked around, saw people dressed in winter gear, looked at my inadequate fleece zip-up autumn jacket thingie. Pulled the collar up, hunched shoulders, made tracks for a local bakery/café. Where, it turned out, the woman behind the counter was complaining loudly about the near-arctic conditions, seeming to be having some difficulty in unwrapping her hands from the warm cups of coffee she was supposed to hand over to a stream of slightly stunned looking customers. An accordion player hangs out at a corner between here and that bakery/café. Hails from somewhere in Central or South America. Keeps business hours, essentially, puts in a full day during the week, half a day on Saturdays. Works hard, and is good. Lately, he´s introduced certain Christmas tunes to his playlist, leaning heavily on a goofy rendition Jingle Bells (tossing in loud, strange 'HO HO HOOOOO!'s at unexpected moments). This has meant that every time I´ve gone by, I´ve come away with that melody heaving around on an endless loop in my teeny brain, and for some reason it has been seriously removal-resistant. On the other hand, a week ago I came across a musician in the Metro busy cranking out a terrifying rendition of 'Love Is In The Air' (which may explain the howling of dogs I heard aboveground not far from that Metro station). Compared with that, 'Jingle Bells' is positively benign. (The accordionist was out there this morning -- Sunday, after a full workweek -- in seriously raw conditions, sporting a Santa hat and trying not to look like he was experiencing progressive frostbite. I hope he's making a decent pile of cash out of all the time he's putting in.) Yesterday a.m.'s change in weather sent me home to pull thermal underthings from drawers, dragging them on before the next foray into the world outside. First time this season, at least here. Had to bring some along some -- fortunately left stashed away in a storage compartment here when I left my previous flat in April 2008 -- for the visit to the U.K. a couple of weeks back, since the cold and damp there would have overpowered the autumn-weight duds I brought when I fled Vermont in early October. Having thermals along was a huge blessing, given cold winds, cold rain, and the season's first encounter with snow-covered landscapes. Staffordshire, looking north into Derbyshire: And why, you may ask, did I only take autumn-weight duds when fleeing Vermont? (1) I wasn't sure exactly what I was doing, where I would end up, how long I'd gone. And (2) I decided to err on the side of traveling light, since I've gotten weary of dragging overstuffed baggage around. Given that I wound up re-establishing myself in Madrid instead of wandering off somewhere more northerly, somewhere darker, colder, damper, that hasn't been a decision I've regretted. Until now. As it turns out, something's come up and I have to make a fast trip back stateside. Will hop a plane out tomorrow, then will hop a flight back here at the end of the week. And when I return I'll come armed with more winter-appropriate clothing. The upside of the sudden, though brief, return: will get to see some friends, will get to take care of some things that need to be taken care of. This is good. Will also get to slog through Vermont snow, slop and freezing cold temperatures. Am not quite as psyched about that, but Christmas lights and holiday hooha will compensate some. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Names of genuine businesses and shops seen in the U.K. during the recent trip north: Curl Up & Dye Bargain Booze Everything's Rosy Balls Brothers All Wrapped Up Booze Butler Jones & Snufflebottom Ltd. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Madrid -- waiting for a Sunday afternoon bus: España, te amo. rws 12:13 PM [+]

Tuesday, December 08, 2009 When I arrived in the U.K. -- two weeks ago now -- the Christmas season was just getting to its feet. Lights were up, daylight hours were growing real damn short, and one could feel the very beginnings of the yuletide atmosphere that would be cranking some serious rpm's before long. Pubs were finishing up with the annual holiday facelift -- and mostly looking pretty good, I have to say. In short, although Christmas was still weeks away, its looming presence was making itself felt. Decorations had not yet been hung at my friends'/hosts' home, but a fair-sized pile of already-purchased presents sat to one side of the dining room, waiting to be wrapped, tagged, all that. I am pretty much out of the present-purchasing routine, so don't really experience that part of the holiday cycle any more. Have little family (and what there is withdrew from the gift-exchange biz a few years back), currently have no partner, my closest friends are scattered around the map and with the unpredictability re: where I'll be at any give time we've all fallen out of the habit of inflicting seasonal gift-type thingies on each other. Which, I have to say, is mostly just fine. On the rare occasion when I get one, I appreciate it like you would not believe. Which I suspect is the way it's actually supposed to be. Anyway. The afternoon I arrived in the Midlands, rain fell, wind blew, the air felt strangely mild. During the night, clouds and rain went away, the temperature dropped. I slept like, well, not the dead exactly -- more like the comatose -- and when I stumbled down to the kitchen around 9 a.m. the following morning, sunlight slanted in through the windows, flowers in baskets outside shivered in the cold breeze. And for most of my stay, it felt like early winter. Which of course it was. Three mornings in a row dawned like that, with the sun climbing slowly above neighborhood rooftops, golden light slanting into that comfy kitchen. (I reminded D. on numerous occasions he had me to thank for bringing Spanish sunshine along, he graciously acknowledged my wonderfulness.) The morning I hopped a train south for London -- five days after touching down in Stoke-on-Trent -- rain fell (the Midlands getting all weepy about me pissing off). London was better. And when I say better, I mean the rain didn't come down every single minute of every single day. Though I did carry an umbrella at all times 'cause there was no telling when the local world would start with the rampant moisture falling in all directions at a moment's notice. London was well along into a shameless display of Christmassy spirit -- shop windows all done up, streets hung with lights, holiday markets vending holiday hooha, burkha-wearing women adorned with cheery reindeer antlers. (Sorry about that last bit -- though there were in fact burkha-wearing women strewn about in a strange show of London's ongoing melting-pot-style evolution, none that I saw had been draped with yuletide ornamentation of any kind.) All of which I enjoyed in a shameless display of craven Christmassy cravenness. Even went out to a panto at the Lyric Hammersmith -- very silly and easily the most professional panto I've seen to date, with Patrick Stewart supplying the voice for the giant in the tale. Not that I've seen many pantos. Just that one and another here in Madrid some years back thrown together by a group of British expats who mostly used the mounting of stage productions as a good-humored excuse for drinking. Christmas archways, London: And when I returned to Madrid, I found the Christmas season had elbowed its way in during my time out of country. Municipal mucky-mucks had thrown the big ceremonial switch in a big ceremonial, er, ceremony, igniting Christmas lights everydamnwhere. Where once vaguely jazzy muzak had provided the soundtrack in the barrio's supermercado, vaguely jazzy renditions of Christmas carols now played. Tickets for the national Christmas lottery were on sale, lines stretching out the door of state betting shops, in some cases stretching down the block, around the corner and off into the distance –- the lotería de navidad is always an impressively huge deal here, but some of the lines I've seen during the last week beat any display of lotería fervor that I've ever seen. And in a more basic show of the shift of season, while I was away all tables/chairs disappeared from outside cafés and restaurants, a clear indication that the cold season had taken hold. A change that at first left me feeling a bit sad, bereft, but one has to accept and move on. The trailer that houses the local maker of churros and porras remains in place at the big roundabout down the street, the occasional purchase of highly addictive chocolate-covered churros is an acceptable way of drowning one's melancholy. España, te amo. rws 6:37 AM [+]

Thursday, December 03, 2009 Back in Madrid after 8 nights in the U.K. A few thoughts and observations in the wake of the journey back: Sitting in a café off Oxford Street yesterday morning. A place run by extremely nice Italian folks. At the table next to mine, two suits sat working on coffee, a morning scene I´m used to from here in Madrid. One major difference: instead of chatting over coffee as they do here, these two were bent over their cellphones, reading and sending messages, surfacing now and then to glance at the telly (an Italian channel showing music videos and the occasional brief newsbreak) or making comments about attractive women passing outside. Headlines seen during this last stay in England: "Christmas Comes Every Day For Tragic Teenager" "He's Not Out Of The Woods Yet" (That last one referred to guess which professional golfer, currently the subject of a whole lot of gleeful gossip by virtually every newspaper -- tabloid and otherwise -- I saw in and out of London during the last few days.) I'm not sure streets and sidewalks ever completely dried out during my eight days on that big island, even during lovely spells of sunshine. When I disappeared into the Undergound in Marble Arch yesterday at the start of the journey out to Heathrow, wan sunshine fell. When I arrived at the airport, that had changed to rain, heavy enough to delay takeoff by 15 or 20 minutes. The security routine travelers are funneled through in Heathrow is organized and intense, with a boarding pass checkpoint at the beginning and at the end. When one totters out from all that, overwhelmed and a bit off balance, they get released directly into a bright, orderly, extensive shopping area instead of hallways leading to gates and stores. Designed to maximize the possibility of hoovering money from the pockets of travelers before they board a plane and get out of there. Diabolical. Stepping into an Iberia Airlines plane to find the inboard music cranked and playing loudly, a woman singing 'Is you is or is you ain't my baby?' During the flight to England eight days back, the plane featured rows spread comfortably apart, leaving plenty of leg and body room for us paying customers (making me wonder if they only packed the seats closely together on flights to and from the States). Yesterday's flight made up for that, the rows so tightly arranged that I could barely make it into my window seat. A tall, business-suited Englishman sat ahead of me, me dreading the moment that he tilted his seat back, wiping out the teeny bit of space left to me. Happily, he never did that, for which I gave silent, repeated thanks. (Seriously -- thank you, unknown businessdude. Your consideration was deeply appreciated.) The lights from homes and streetlamps that shone softly through the rain when we took off looked like enormous displays of Christmas lights, stretching off into the darkness. The flow of headlights along curved main roads moved between all that, looking far more quiet and gentle from the air than their reality on the ground, I'm sure. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Life underground, London: España, te amo rws 12:49 PM [+]

Wednesday, November 25, 2009 Yesterday morning: found myself awake in the early hours, body keyed up for a day to be spent traveling. Had to be at Barajas Airport to catch an 8:45 plane to London, which meant, of course, arriving much earlier than takeoff time. Much, much earlier. Or at least that's what I thought, me still working on the stateside concept of pre-flight arrival time. (3 hours before takeoff.) Figured I'd need to be awake by five and out before six. That, to my bod, meant waking up at 3 from anticipation, keyed up and ready to go. I got the hint, didn't even try to fight it. Got out of bed, cranked up laptop, stumbled around doing a surprisingly decent imitation of a conscious human adult. Was out the door around 5:30, found a taxi almost immediately, made it to the airport in no time flat. Wandered quiet hallways past sad slumped figures covered with coats (attempting to get shuteye before the next leg of their journey). Slowly realized I was there long before any airline employees were, realized the silliness of using the stateside expectation of when airline employees would get things up and running. (This is Spain, after all. The gym I use opens at 8:30 a.m. -- wWhen I mention to Spaniards that gyms stateside open at 5 or 6 a.m., they just start laughing.) Found myself enjoying the quiet, the lack of frenzied travelers, the big open spaces free of noise, motion, commerce. Found myself in a big metal tube filled with other humans just as the morning sun pulled itself into view, plane lifting off soon after, brown Spanish countryside spreading out below as . Was easy to tell when we approached England: clouds filled the sky, sunlight dimmed. The plane flew between two layers of them, one below looking for all the world like barren, snowy landscape, the one above looking like, er, wintry clouds, sun fading in and out. Landed at Heathrow, wandered through empty hallways, found myself the only traveler at the non-E.U. immigration point. The young official who stamped my passport lay a couple of perfunctory questions on me, waved me politely through -- the fastest, easiest entry into the U.K. I've ever experienced. Found my baggage already waiting for me at luggage reclaim (a shocking happening for one accustomed to the more leisurely work of Spanish luggage personnel), wandered through empty customs passages, made my way in no time flat to the Underground, virtually the only person in view most of the time. Began wondering if I'd somehow wandered into an alternate reality, one where the great London area had emptied out, leaving behind a quiet world, deserted and strangely tranquil. That fantasy vanished as the train approached London, ambient noise gradually increasing with each new group of passengers at each successive stop. One 20-something had headphones on with speed metal cranked, volume so high I could hear it clearly from ten feet away. I wondered how he could function, then noticed the glassy glaze of his eyes, the slack expression of someone completely trashed. Other folks talked on cellphones, life slowly accelerated. By the time I changed trains at Leicester Square, the local world had grown fast and loud. A short time later, I was in Euston Station, part of a crowd watching the big board. A nervous crowd, I realized, dealing with notices warning of possible delays and cancellations due to line damage north of London, the result of intense weather. A big screen showed clips of bridges collapsing in Cumbria, where relentless rain had caused flooding and mayhem. A train to Manchester -- the line I'd be taking -- got canceled. Then a second train, along that same corridor. I heard phone conversations around me, dismayed voices notifying friends, family of changed travel plans. I left my big wheeled duffel at left-luggage, went out for food. When planning this trip a few weeks back, on an impulse I made first-class reservations for the train ride to Stoke-on-Trent and back. Done in advance, the price was not much more expensive than coach and the difference in the experience is massive. One advantage to this that I discovered up returning from trawling for chow: Virgin Trains has a first-class lounge at Euston, where one can relax and where a wonderful woman covers phones, provides information, solves problems. She advised I keep an eye on the train status screen, seemed to think there might be more cancellations. She was right -- five minutes later, my train got canceled. I went right back out to talk with her, a line formed behind me, more agitated people appearing as more cancellations happened. She got working on the phones, within five to ten minutes, it looked like one train might a possibility, a train leaving in a matter of minutes. She advised me to get down there and speak to on-board personnel, I flew immediately out the door. Down on the station's main floor, the crowd in front of the big board had swelled to twice its earlier size, visible panic sweeping through the assembled travelers as a rash of cancellations appeared, one after another. I passed rapidly through, heading to left luggage, the roar from the crowd increasing in volume and intensity. When I'd checked my bag in, there had been a line, it had taken a little while. The place was empty when I ran in to reclaim that bag, I was in and out in no time. I made it to the ramp leading down to the boarding platforms just as a general announcement was made about the train I was aiming for, letting all the stranded travelers know that one train would be heading north in a matter of minutes. A tremendous roar went up, a river of people swept into view. I found myself surrounded by running, shouting humans, a flood of frantic individuals pouring by, streaming toward their chance of getting the hell out of there. I veered off from all that, spoke to a conductor who stood talking with other train personnel, told him of my status, that I'd been informed I might find a seat on this train. He quietly opened the door of the nearest car, gestured me inside. I found myself in an empty first-class car, took the perfect seat, was stowing my luggage just as the car doors flew open and agitated people rushed in, throwing themselves into seats, the noise and energy levels going from zero to overload. Outside, people ran by the windows, the scene chaotic and wild. Things slowly settled down, the onboard crew -- intially taken by surprise by the flood of desperate travelers -- slowly took control, the train finally pulled out. The station disappeared behind, urban London gave way to greener, less populated climes. The crew slowly began making their way through the car, patiently weeding out travelers with tickets from those without, kindly dealing with those who had tickets for coach, me watching it all and marveling at the strange impulse that had me make first-class reservations instead of coach, saving me a whole lot of aggravation and heartache. Outside, the sky darkened as we headed north, driving rain came and went. For the first time ever, I used wifi on a moving train, thinking that 21st century life had its positive points. I let friends know about the wild scene I'd just lived, train personnel plied me with food and liquids. Green English landscape slipped by outside. The train pulled into the my destination a few minutes before my canceled ride would have gotten there. I dragged my bags out, found my way through the station to the street, breathed cool, moist air, listening to the music of the local accent as people passed in and out of the station's entryway. My friend D. showed up a few minutes later, headlights blinking at me as he pulled to the curb. A minute later, I was inside, my bags in the rear, the streets of Stoke moving by. Welcome to the Midlands. España, te amo rws 12:39 PM [+]

Sunday, November 15, 2009 Yesterday morning: got myself up and out in time to do grocery shopping before swarming crowds of caffeinated consumers descended on local shops. Realized I'd finished with enough time to hop a bus and make the trip to a museum for its 10 o'clock opening, thought ia an excellent idea. Flew out of the flat, caught a bus, switched to a second bus, reached the museum just shy of 10. Discovered that so many people had made the same cunning plan that a line stretched from the museum entrance down the block. Decided to try it again another day, aimed myself toward la Calle de Alcalá, started walking. Found myself in front of el Círculo de Bellas Artes, saw that their sidewalk café had not yet been shut down for the cold season, tossed myself into a seat at a likely table. Ordered, pulled out morning paper, began sipping espresso. El Círculo de Bellas Artes is across from where Gran Vía joins la Calle de Alcalá -- plenty of passing vehicles, lots of pedestrian traffic. The seats are far enough removed from the street that automative noise and motion is not overwhelming, it's a fine place to pass some time. Three or four pages into the paper, still swimming slowly toward full consciousness. Immersed enough in reading, eating, drinking that traffic hooha seemed far, far away. Until the sounds of a siren, of engines going at high rpm, of screeching tires caught my attention, combined with the motion of a small red car leaping into my peripheral view. I looked up just as a police van in pursuit of the car streaked into view, overtook the smaller vehicle, collided with it -- on purpose or because car driver lost control, couldn't tell. The car did a screeching 180 and came to a halt (driver's door now visible), the police van pulled up maybe 15 feet along. The doors of the van flew open and a cop leaped out of either one, the near cop pulling out a gun, running at the vehicle, yelling at the driver to freeze, show his hands. The cop stopped a few feet away, pistol aimed at the driver, the second cop arrived at the passenger side door. The driver didn't respond to the shouted instructions, seemed to be hunched over, doing something. The cops pulled at the doors, found they were locked. The near cop shattered the driver's side window with his arm, backed off again, gun aimed directly at driver, yelling at him, while the other cop peered into the vehicle, face showing tense concern about... anything that might be a threat -- weapons, a bomb. The driver finally turned to face the near cop, I saw he had the look of the western stereotype of a fundamentalist Muslim -- hair cut short, a full beard, clothes of a loose, middle-eastern cut. He called out something, finally held his hands out the window so all could see he was unarmed. The near cop jerked the driver's door open, the cop on the far side of the car finally managed to get the passenger's door open. They forced the driver out the passenger's side and to the ground, cuffing him. By this time, sirens were approaching from various directions, other police vans appeared, two or three motorcycle cops skidded up. Traffic had come to a dead stop in all directions, some agentes began to get it moving again, directing vehicles around the scene. Two or three cops cleaned up broken glass and other debris from the pavement. The rest clustered around the individual on the ground. He was spirited into a van that took off, the tense energy of the scene began to dissipate as the scene was cleaned up and normal city life slowly, slowly reasserted. It's impossible to know what produced this happening, impossible to make assumptions of any kind about it. A family of four sat at the table next to me, two 30-something parents with two small daughters. Both girls appeared nervous, shaky in the wake of the event, and I can understand why. It happened so suddenly, with so much intensity and clear potential for ugly, ugly turns. I watched, overwhelmed with it all, completely forgetting to pull out camera until the most intense parts of it had come and gone, until I realized I was barely breathing, straightened up, drew in air. A strange, intense, not at all typical Saturday morning in Madrid. España, te amo rws 11:05 AM [+]

Saturday, November 14, 2009 City crews here have been methodically working their way through the city in the weeks since my return, and I'm not referring to the traditional ripping apart and reassembling of streets, sidewalks, plazas, etc. I'm talking people in cherry-pickers, hanging big light displays -- the first tangible sign that Christmas is sneaking stealthily up, looming closer with every passing November day. At some point during the month's final calendar entries, the Mayor and a bunch of other mucky-mucks will get together one evening, blather out speeches, someone will press a switch, the entire city will suddenly be radiant with Christmas cheer. I know some folks complain about Christmas and all the wackiness associated with it. But I'm not one of them. As unfashionable as those hardbitten, cynical types may consider it, I love Christmastime. The feel, the look. The lights, the decorations (in some cases, the tackier, the better). I just like it, always have. And I love Madrid at that time of the year. They don't have the seasonal kickoff of Thanksgiving/Black Friday in this part of the world -- they just crank up the lights and everyone starts shopping, running off to holiday fairs, going out to bars and restaurants with friends, family and groups from work. Just being around it makes me happy, simpleton that I am. Walking around the city at night in the middle of it all makes me smile, avenues, neighborhood streets and pedestrian ways hung with glowing displays. Part of the tradition hereabouts: the city's largest department store chain-- with enormous stores dotted around the local landscape -- tosses up humongo creations of Christmas lights on its flagship store, at the very heart of Madrid's city center. Big, oversized, sometimes garish displays, the biggest, most complex of all being a huge installation that covers one side of the several-storey high building. An installation with moving parts and characters that sing, telling a story -- the sidestreet that side of the building fronts on overflows with crowds at performance times, parents bringing kids to watch, tourists gawking. I passed the scene of this annual yuletide crime the other evening as work crews labored away, installing this year's mammoth, slightly surreal edition. Off to one side, the head of a dragon (I'd be willing to bet a bunch of shiny new euros that it turning out to be a singing dragon) waited to be lifted up into place. I had to stop, I had to gawp. I had to drag out camera and act like clueless tourist. I did not have the discipline to resist. Christmas. It's on the way. España, te amo rws 1:53 PM [+]

Wednesday, November 11, 2009 This last weekend being the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall, news outlets here were awash in stories and images about it -- remembrances, coverage of anniversary celebrations, all that. Me, I went out for a long walk on Sunday, found myself drifting along el Paseo de la Castellana during the afternoon, pulling up alongside the German Embassy. It occupies a fair-sized chunk of real estate, the embassy does, with a substantial wall running along its perimeter. I might not have realized that I was outside that particular embassy except for their way of observing the anniversary of that major turning point 20 years back: hanging large replicas of murals originally painted on the original wall's West Berlin side. Big, brazen, insistent works of political commentary -- impossible to miss. Leonid Brezhnev and Erich Hoeneker show just how close their friendship was: I spent a while checking them out, wondering what it must have been like to encounter the real thing, remembering television coverage of the massive explosion of joy when the wall was brought down. And then I moved on. Cool autumn air, November sunlight, the long three-day weekend, unexpected sights. A good day. España, te amo rws 8:45 AM [+]

Monday, November 09, 2009 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 [+]

Wednesday, November 04, 2009 Last night: coming out of the Metro close to 9:30. The avenue -- a broad, four-lane city thoroughfare -- more tranquil than during the daylight hours. Dark. Except for the twirling blue lights of a police van. Three Madrid cops carrying out a traffic stop -- one standing by the driver's window of a car that had been pulled over, dealing with the detained individual; the second standing by the side of the van; and the third pacing around, arms cradling a submachine gun. A big black, submachine gun. Reminded me of someone's description of visiting Madrid during Franco's last years -- they said there were cops with machine guns on every corner. Not the kind of display that screams 'welcome to Madrid' to me. I debated pulling out camera and taking a couple of pix as unobtrusively as possible. Then decided that might not turn out to be the smartest move I'd ever made, turned and headed away from there. Three or four blocks along, at the big traffic roundabout that channels traffic in five different directions, the trailer that houses the folks who make and sell churros three or four days a week was open for business, all lit up, handsome piles of golden churros strewn across the conter, along with one platter of big, chocolate-covered ones. Couldn't help myself, had to stop and pick up half a dozen, eyeing the chocolate numbers lustfully but limiting the purchase to the lovely, less-orgasmic ones. Crossed lanes of traffic with green walk lights, headlights gleaming along the long stretches of city roads that extended off in different directions. An evening at the end of a long day. In a whole different kind of barrio from the last one I called home. España, te amo rws 4:29 PM [+]

Friday, October 30, 2009 One difference between here and the States -- something I noticed almost immediately upon arriving (3+ weeks ago now) -- the fragrances used here are not at all like the fragrances one encounters in the States. Or at least not to my nose. It's a difference I've noticed in the U.K. as well -- the scents used in bathroom and personal care products are completely different. And now that I think about it, with the surge of sensitivity to smells that's taken place stateside during the last however many years it's been, I've gotten used to a general lack of, er, scents -- must have something to do with the Vermont. Or the people I spend time with. Or something. Where was I? Oh, right. Suddenly I'm faced with having to buy personal care products that stink a bit. Or they register with my senses in that way ‘cause of what I've grown used to. One difference between the barrio I'm in now and the barrio in which I spent several years (before the last year and a half back in the States): there's an actual supermercado a block away from this building. I like the small shops and the centro comercialies, big buildings packed with small shops and stalls, but when it comes to heavy items, it's nice to have the bigass market right around the block. Not that they make certain aspects of the experience easy. The first big shopping expedition for this flat turned out to be big enough that I tried to arrange home delivery. Tried. The store has no management offices or customer service counter where one can bother store personnel with questions or requests. A sign advised that one should speak to personnel in a certain place to arrange a delivery time. Asking store workers produced bits information, until I finally got that one of the cashiers was the person who had to be spoken with (a cashier wearing nothing that would indicate that, whose post had no signs that would indicate that). A bunch of hooha followed, the upshot of which was that they had no delivery times available until the following day. At which time I gave up, bought piles of stuff and dragged it around the block myself. I go back there for certain items, go to small shops along the main drag for bread, meats, produce. There is an arcade of shops along the main drag – a modest version of the big, crowded centro comercial in the old barrio. When I pass, it mostly looks empty and forlorn -- shiny, clean and in need of customers. The supermercado, by the way, carries a line of paper goods called Bosque Verde -- Green Forest. Not recycled paper, any of it. So I'm assuming the name refers to the forest they're gradually mowing down to create the products I'm dragging home to use in kitchen and bathroom. Either that or some corporate marketing funcionario has a wicked sense of irony. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Local shopworkers do the Halloween thing: España, te amo rws 12:30 PM [+]

Monday, October 26, 2009 Have now been here nearly three weeks. Shelled out the cash for a monthly Metro pass the first woozy morning back, have been airing it out on a daily basis, often 3, 4, 5 times a day. A thread running through many of those trips: musicians. In trains, in station hallways, out on the street outside Metro entrances. For instance: Peruvian dudes. Or Andean. You know. With guitars, pan flutes, homemade gizmos for percussion. Groups of 2 to 5 (always male), cranking out extremely catchy tunes, impossible to dislike. They show up on a regular basis during Metro rides, rushing in when the doors have opened at a stop, finding a place to stand, launching into a song. Doing a number that lasts to the next station or maybe one more, passing through the car holding out a pouch for change, disappearing off into the next car. I usually ride the Metro on my feet, leaning against a door, wading through a book. Interruptions are always welcome distractions. Or, well, almost always. A couple of weeks back a tall, slim male stepped in the door at a stop, a small amp entering with him, strapped to a handcart. He stopped directly in front of me, held a microphone to his mouth, began crooning out a muzacky ballad, reverbed voice slithering in and out of syrupy strings that oozed from the amp as accompaniment. A bona fide karaoke nightmare. Loud enough that moving down the car didn't provide enough relief -- at the next station, I fled to a different car, giving thanks that I wasn't worried about whether or not my hasty exit might hurt crooning dude's feelings. (Another kind of interruption: individuals who appear, launch into a loud, slow, lugubrious, heavily practiced speech asking for money, their vibe often so creepy that everyone in the car looks down, waits until the individual has finished, passed through the car and disappeared. Every now and then someone who is clearly in genuine need appears, their speech coming from the heart, not manufactured. They get money.) Musicians are fixtures around heavily-traveled stations. Often doing music +1 renditions, playing along to a tape or CD. Guitar, harmonica, keyboard. One older male -- late 50's? -- dressed all in black (shirt and jeans scarily form-fitting), sings an unnerving version of 'Hotel California,' boombox accompaniment resonating through the hallways. A 60ish woman stands to one side of a busy passageway in the station at Sol, gray hair pulled back and up, sawing away at a violin -- putting in long hours, clearly serious about it. Not professional but, compared to some I've seen, not bad. There used to be a skinny heavy-metal 20-something who haunted station passageways in the city center. Clad completely in black, standing with legs apart, feet firmly planted, long black hair swinging as he thrashed away at a long-suffering guitar, relentless chordage churning out of a small amp so that he was always heard long before he was seen. I even spotted him now and then on Gran Vía, thrashing away, not looking at passersby, ragged music boiling out of his amplifier. Haven't seen him at all this time around. These people have an impact on my day, almost always positive -- doesn't matter (mostly) what kind of music they're producing. Just the fact of them being there brings color, life to what would otherwise just be transit. And every now and then I cross paths with the genuine article. Two or three days ago: a saxophone player sat in a passageway between train platforms. Mid-morning, not many travelers about -- his bum rested on his tiny amp, a lovely Miles Davis track played, he blew lilting, relaxed saxophone lines that weaved easily through the tune. I stopped and listened until he took a pause, thanked him, dropped coins into his bag. He had an easy smile, responded to my thanks in softly-accented Spanish, possibly Argentinian. As I walked away another tune started up, he played along, eyes closed, in no rush at all, saxophone singing sweetly. That one encounter made my day. España, te echo de menos rws 7:05 AM [+]

Wednesday, October 21, 2009 Last night, 1:30 a.m.: A bigass, unnerving racket jerked me out of sound sleep -- the sound of something large and heavy falling to the floor somewhere off in the flat ,of things breaking. The sound of potentially serious damage, hefty enough that neighbors were likely sitting up in bed like I was, wondering what in hell had just happened. Turned on bedside light, got blearily to my feet, wandered out of bedroom searching for source of racket. Turned on a light in the living area, found ground zero: a sizeable faux antiquey kind of wall mirror had come down, shattering. Nearby lamp knocked to floor, glass shards scattered about. Amazingly, despite the size of the mirror and it colliding with furniture with on the way down, there didn't seem to be any other damage. No scratched wood, no torn fabric, no gashes in floor parquet. I slowly cleaned up, put lamp back on table (lamp and lightbulb responding cheerily to being turned on, as if they'd experienced no mishap at all), swept up glass. And finally examined the wall. Found a hook insufficient for the weight of the mirror, found the mirror's eye-screw hanging from that small, abused hook -- also too tiny, too light for the weight it was supposed to hold. Whoever did the job had done it shoddily –- it was a miracle it hadn't come down sooner, a miracle nothing more had been destroyed The flat is furnished, the owner is elderly, someone undoubtedly did the work for her. Could be they left her in the dark about how the task was done or didn't know enough themselves to get that what went up would come down, given the way the job was carried out. Mr. Natural once advised, 'Get the right tool for the job.' -- if only he were around to enlighten sloppy workmen/workwomen.* So the rest of us could get a night of sleep free of big noise and flying glass. *Or in lieu of that, dole out enlightenment in the form of some mystical, remedial ass-trouncing. España, te amo rws 8:02 AM [+]

Tuesday, October 20, 2009 And so. Two weeks ago, on a beautiful autumn day, a friend drove me to... well, Montpelier no longer has a bus station. To the Town Hall, where the bus now comes to a brief stop. I boarded, surveyed rows of truculent-looking passengers who clearly did not want the seat next to them occupied by anyone other than, er, them, imposed myself on a 20-something woman who cleared her things from the seat at her side with good grace, and headed south, rolling mountains covered with autumn colors providing beautiful scenery beneath dramatic skies. Five long hours later, another friend –- S. -- picked me up in front of the station in Boston -- the air noticeably warmer than up north, late afternoon shadows of tall buildings slanting across streets busy with rush hour traffic. Got dragged over to Coolidge Corner and up to the new offices of G., S.'s sweetie, to hang about until G. was ready to go. G.'s office overlooks a small terrace, I went out there to enjoy the view before the evening light bled away. A short time later, back in G.'s office, I noticed a large bird out on the wall at the end of the terrace -- a red-tailed hawk, watching the comings and goings in the parking lot below. I let S. know, she began calling to G. loudly -- the hawk remained, unbothered by voices, office lights, movement. Watching everything, turning to observe us now and then. I tried taking photos, the glare of office lights off the windows torpedoed the possibility of getting a good image. The hawk finally spotted something down below and went after it, dropping out of sight. G. -- liver of a spiritual life -- said that she'd been asking for a sign that the new offices were a good place for her to be. I know some Native Americans who would say that hawk was the answer to that request. Or it could simply have been an unexpected encounter with an impressive being. Either way, I liked it. Shared a long dinner of killer Indian chow with G. and S., then spent the night at their flat in Cambridge. Dragged myself out of bed the next morning, acted like a responsible adult and took care of things needing to be done. (Found two good cheap shirts at Oona's Experienced Clothing -- woo-hoo!) Subway station escalators -- Cambridge, Massachusetts: Got driven to the airport (a huge freakin' luxury after years of dragging travel bags through various subway lines to get there). Ran the luggage-search gauntlet, waited patiently, found myself on a plane as the sun disappeared behind Boston skyscrapers. Hours later, after a night of no sleep, found myself riding a bus in the early morning darkness of Madrid, on the way to Avenida de América to hop the Metro. When I emerged from under the ground in el Barrio de la Concepción, light was swelling in the eastern sky, the cafeterías to the side of that plaza were jumping with people gearing up for the day. Three or four weeks earlier, I'd swapped emails with the friend who lives in a flat that overlooks the plaza, letting him know I was returning after a year and a half away. He and his sweetie offered a bedroom, I let them know when I'd be arriving, everything seemed to be set. During my last few days in the States I'd had the vague, nagging feeling that it might be a good idea to send an email and re-confirm. I usually pay attention to impulses like that, but I had so much to do during those last few pre-bolting days and our email communications had seemed so clear. This time I shrugged off that gentle tap on the shoulder, ignored the prudent impulse. And as I stood at of the entrance of their building, waiting for a response to the buzzer -- a wait that stretched on and on -- I began to worry. I poked at the buzzer again, pondering how obnoxiously early the hour was to be calling at someone's door, beginning to feel a combination of blossoming guilt at the possibility that I might be dragging friends out of a comfortable, warm bed at an unkind hour and blossoming worry that they might not be home, might have forgotten entirely about my arrival. A sleepy voice finally spoke from the buzzer-box's tinny speaker. My friend, J. -- home, but yes, pulled out of bed at an unkind hour by some jackoff from overseas. Turned out that they had not understood exactly when I'd be arriving, had expected me the previous day, wondered if I'd missed my flight or what. They let me in, met me in bathrobes, looking sleepy but wearing kind smiles, adjusting quickly to the reality of having me there. They introduced me to my bedroom and to the two household cats (one went immediately into hiding). They pulled together a nice breakfast, we sat and spent a long time eating/talking. Despite a night entirely without sleep (screaming baby, seat in front of me all the way back [meaning practically in my lap -- note to airline economy travelers: when you put your seat all the way back, YOU ARE MAKING LIFE DIFFICULT FOR THE PERSON BEHIND YOU. GET A CLUE.], my bod unable to find the moment or position to snooze), I seemed to be functioning pretty well. Went out, picked up newspapers. J. went to work, leaving me with his sweetie, C. -- a psychiatrist, smart and capable -- who chatted with me, made things to eat, treated me well. [this entry in progress] España, te amo rws 7:30 AM [+]

BLATHERINGS

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