far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Monday, January 06, 2003

Quiet. Man, it's quiet out there, at least in this corner of the neighborhood. And cold. Which may account in part for the quiet. Cold enough to discourage anyone from hanging out in the plaza. I hope los Reyes Magos brought winter gear 'cause this is the single briskest day I've experienced since getting back here five weeks ago tomorrow. (Hmmm. Briskest? Most brisk? Most briskest?)

A gray, chilly morn, still bearing damp traces of overnight rain. When I stepped out of the building around 11:15, it looked for a moment like a scene from a 50's Fellini film. Everything gray and hushed. Four people visible, all middle-aged men in dark clothes/dark hats, all walking away from me at varying distances. Completely silent, as if someone in the projection booth had neglected to turn on the sound.

Turning the corner onto la Calle de Pelayo revealed signs of life up ahead -– people walking in groups, talking quietly; two city street cleaners sweeping up trash. Out on la Calle de Hortaleza, the main drag hereabouts, more people, all silent. Passing buses produced the only noise, slipping by in a rush of sound and exhaust, fading with distance. More silence.

And then I opened the door to the Cafetería Vivares and crossed into sudden technicolor. Conversation, lights, colors, laughter, sounds of activity in the kitchen, the clink of coffee cups against saucers, noise from the TV over the doorway (first ads then a cartoon: voices, music, sound effects). Like stepping from a vacuum into a greenhouse, from somewhere airless into an atmosphere rich with oxygen. Talk about a contrast.

Unlike the café/bakery near my current language school where they know me and get a cup of café cortado going as soon as I step in the door, the man behind the counter at Vivares knows me, smiles, says hello, but never presumes, always waits for me to say what I want. Sometimes it's high-test, sometimes descafeinado (decaf), sometimes with churros, sometimes without. Usually, there are two or three trays on the counter heaped with sweet rolls, croissants, churros. None of that this morning. The traditional a.m. fare on el Día de los Reyes Magos is a sweetbread baked in a circle maybe a foot in diameter or an oval, maybe 18 inches long. Baked to a rich, dark color, topped with sugar, candied nuts, jellied fruits colored bright red or dark green. Hugely popular. Bakeries (pastelerías) have been cranking the suckers out for the last couple of weeks, and this morning they ruled. People on the streets carried them in square bakery boxes or in bags, they filled the front windows of the couple of bakeries that were open, lines of people waiting inside to pick one up.

My café arrived, I worked my way through it. The owner of the joint appeared to my left, talking to someone to his other side, a tall, meaty gent nursing a brandy over an open newspaper. At some point, the proprietor looked over at me, we said, "Hola." He asked me how I was ("¿Qué tal?"), I answered, "Bien." A moment passed. I must have looked a bit blearier than I felt because he looked at me more closely, with just the slightest concern, and said, "¿Bien?" "Sí, sí," I assured him.

Back out on the quiet street, I headed down to Gran Vía, picked up a copy of today's El País. (Let's see: bad news, bad news, bad news. Right, where's the sport section? Ahhh, the Lakers aren't doing well? That's better.) More people were about, hands in pockets, collars up against the cold or wrapped in puffy coats, carrying plastic bags filled with gift-wrapped presents. Back here in the neighborhood, activity had picked up, a few small tiendas had opened their doors, some restaurants had menus for the day's meals posted out front. Still quiet, but waking up.

Holiday dinners were being prepared –- cooking odors wafted from one or two buildings as I walked past. A canary sang its heart out from a piso three stories up, the French doors facing out toward the piso's balcón open just the tiniest bit, allowing the intensely sweet melody to float clearly over the narrow street.

A short time ago, the gray sky gave way to radiant sunshine, a few white tattered clouds drifting from west to east beneath a canopy of blue.

January 6, 2003. Madrid.

rws 1:11 PM [+]

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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
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April 2003
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July 2003
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January 2004
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October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

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MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

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OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

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ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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