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runswithscissors


Wednesday, April 02, 2003

Wednesday morning. Midweek in Madrid. A thin layer of overcast allows faint sunlight overhead. In the streets below, cars and trucks pass through the neighborhood, sounds of work come from all over. Someone walks by with a handtruck loaded with crates of produce, intermittent sounds of hammering, drilling, cutting rise from the construction site across the street.

Went down to the plaza to pick up a paper (trust me, you don't want to hear the headlines), sat down on a bench for a while. The plaza lay nearly empty, unusual for that time of day. No small groups of locals chatting, no dog owners with their charges, no parents with kids. Individuals passed through, heading in various directions; now and then folks would emerge from the Metro.

A couple of small trucks backed into the de facto driveway that runs along part of the plaza's west side, the drivers getting out, opening the back hatches to pull out flats of dairy goods or baked items which went to a few of the restaurants or tiendas that ring the plaza.

Two motorcycle cops pulled in from la Calle de Gravina, the street that borders the north side of the plaza, cruising slowly through the space to stop behind the stairway down to the Metro, where they dismounted, removed their helmets. One went into a small neighborhood-grocery type of tienda for a couple of drinks, the other waited outside, standing in relaxed fashion by the top of the stairs. When his companion emerged, they spent five or ten minutes there sipping at their sodas, chatting with whomever passed by to say hello.

Pedestrian traffic slowly picked up, some folks stopping at the news kiosk to pick up papers or magazines. Pairs of 20-something wearing daypacks began drifting by. At the north end of the plaza, a 30-something woman stood at the public telephone, talking loudly, clearly frustrated about something, saying, "Entendiendo, pero ¿cuándo? Sigue diciendolo y quiero saber ¿cuándo? ("I understand, but when? You keep saying that, but I want to know when!")

The sound of hammering started up in a shuttered storefront behind me, sounds of rehab and construction being one of the constants around here. A 50-something fella in a sport coat, balding, close to 6 foot tall, stopped not far from my bench to write down the telephone numbers printed on a couple of signs posted on first-floor balcones behind me ("SE AQUILA PISO" y "DISPONIBLE" -- "APT. FOR RENT" and "AVAILABLE"). (A first-floor apt. here is located on what would be called the second-floor in the States, BTW.) I hope whoever he's writing those numbers down for checks out the place later in the day, because come the afternoon and evening, the plaza is not the quiet, sedate spot it was right at that moment. Thus the periodic explosion of for-rent and for-sale signs that appear on balcones around the space, signifying neighbors who have had enough. (Signs which blend in festively with the numerous "NO A LA GUERRA" banners and the several yellow banners declaring "PELIGRO -- ZONE CONTAMINADA POR RUIDOS" (DANGER -- ZONE POLLUTED BY NOISE), that last the lingering legacy of a couple of night-long occasions of outrageous partying in the plaza a year or two ago.)

More people appeared from the Metro station. One tired-looking 50-something gent, a bit paunchy, wearing a coat so tight he appeared to have been stuffed into it, reached the top of the stairs lugging a wheeled suitcase. He paused, maybe catching his breath, then slowly proceeded straight ahead, the suitcase wheels making a loud, constant, grating sound against the pavement. He reached the north edge of the plaza and continued straight ahead, crossing la Calle de Gravina to disappear up a street that extends to the north from there.

A 40ish man, looking weathered and worn in the way of someone who's spent some nights on the street, walked slowly by. Another male, weathered in the same way, passed along the northern edge of the plaza, pulling a two-wheeled luggage caddy to which was strapped a small suitcase and a small pack, both of which had seen better days, though clearly being cared for as best as their current owner could manage. Their owner's steps appeared lighter than the previous gentleman's, his posture more erect, head held higher.

A 20-something woman emerged with another group from the Metro station and walked by me -- Converse sneakers, flared blue jeans, black sweater, with a dark violet shawl wrapped around her upper body, applying lip balm from a small container she carried in one palm. Frowning with ill humor or preoccupation.

I got to my feet and headed out of the plaza down la Calle de Gravina to a local bakery for a baguette and a bocadillo. Along the way, I passed a young 20-something woman standing in a doorway, looking out at the street, face impassive, meeting no one's eyes, though passing males checked her out with sideways glances. When I returned from the bakery, she was still there, staring up the street.

I stopped at the local market, el centro commercial, for one or two items. A row of small trucks and vans stood parked diagonally along the curb in front of the building -- from the rear of one, a guy in work clothes and a white apron hopped out with four dead, skinned pigs slung across his shoulder. He disappeared into the building ahead of me, heading to off to a stall to deliver the, er, bodies.

The market was quiet, merchants working away in their stalls, one or two small groups of workpeople standing talking quietly, the occasional sound of laughter resonating in the space.

The stairs up to the second level had two bulletin boards hanging on the wall at the midpoint landing, one of which belonged to ‘la Asociación De Vecinos "Chueca"' (The Association of Chueca Neighbors). Two copies of an association newsletter had been tacked to the board, spread open so that all its pages were readable. The other bulletin board contained ads of all sorts -- one for a haircutter who makes house calls, one for a dog walker, one for a cook (with "larga experiencia en hoteles de cocina internacional y Español -- se ofrece para trabajo en restaurantes o hoteles en Madrid"). One ad announced a Jeep Cherokee for sale (12,000 euros, with "todos los extras"). There were business cards (a general repairman, an electrician) along with two ads for English teachers, one of which was nicely machine-printed ("¿Hablas Inglés?"), with many of its telephone-number tabs already taken; the other, hand-written ("¿Quieres Aprender Inglés?"), still retained all its tabs. A large ad from a woman qualified to teach primary and secondary-school age children in-home, also nicely machine-printed, had picked up an additional line of handwritten text across its top -- "Por favor, los anuncios más pequeños. Gracias" (Please, make your ads smaller. Thank you).

When I headed back through the plaza, en route to home, activity had picked up, the noise level had risen a bit. A dog or two trotted around, sniffing at various spots, now and then pausing to lift a leg.

Wednesday morning. Midweek in Madrid.

rws 11:06 AM [+]
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BLATHERINGS

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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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