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runswithscissors


Saturday, January 27, 2007

Saturday morning, streets slowly filling up with Spaniards out shopping, sidewalks crowded with people carrying bags, newspapers, the air alive with the sound of voices, footsteps on cement and asphalt. Me out in the middle of it, hands stuffed in pockets, the air genuinely cold for the first time all season, feeling just a bit like winter in Vermont.

I go in and out of stores and the nearest centro comercial (a nice walk of seven or eight minutes instead of the one or two minute walk it used to be, now that the doors at the closest mercado are shut and locked -- the building supposedly closed for rehabbing, but given the lack complete absence of activity it may be that place has simply given up the ghost, the stallkeepers ushered out to the street and left to find a new venue.

I visit a butcher, a bakery, a huge, beautiful produce stall run by a family who have gotten to know my face and just today began addressing me with the familiar tu instead of the more formal usted. When I step back into the cold air, I'm carrying several bags of purchases. The hike home takes me past a small neighborhood bar, one of the hundreds that abound in this part of the city. I decide to stop inside, take a breather. I enter, stand at the bar, drop my bags and ask for a caņ, a small pony glass of beer, maybe four or five ounces worth. The barkeep gets my order, sets it in front of me, then goes to get a small plate of food to go with it, the local equivalent of the popcorn, peanuts or corn nuts that joints in the States might toss in front of you. Here it could be some patatas bravas or some pieces of cooked ham mixed with a few small pieces of potato, or maybe some olives. Could be anything -- what you wind up with is the luck of the draw. The barkeep returns, sets a small white plate in front of me. A small white plate bearing a bunch of tiny breaded tentacles. Octopus tentacles? Could be -- grossly underfed octopus, maybe. Taken from a poor, baby octopus that should have been thrown back when he or she who caught it saw how diminutive and sad it was.

I ate one. Not bad. Tried a second. A little rubbery. My mouth didn't mind, but my brain began doing unpleasant things with the idea of what I was eating. I tried a third, managed to get it down, but could tell if I tried any more I might find myself experiencing a sudden bout of reverse parastalsis. Pushed the plate away, finished up my teensy glass of beer. Paid up, said so long, headed back out in midday Saturday, cold streets bright with sunlight and hopping with people out taking care of life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Overheard recently, from two different conversations:

1) During an exchange between two well-dressed thirty-something women:
"I just struggle with the idea of buying clothes from a supermarket."

2) Said by an attractive 30ish woman wearing goth/aspiring-vampire clothes and make-up, during a conversation about lifestyles as reflected in one's diet:
"I didn't sink to the underworld to become a vegetarian."


Espaņa, te quiero.

rws 7:06 AM [+]

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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
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


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

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


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

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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