PlazaWatch; P. España

FIRST time I viewed Plaza de España was late October 08 betwixt 5 and 6am, after watching the lights go on at a friend's university-servicing nightclub out near Moncloa. I looked down the mild sloping gap in the buildings to my right and thought, "Shit, that's a lot of space. How did they manage that? How do I manage that?"
Twas to big to my fresh eye nerves to understand. I'd seen Sol, Mayor, Santa Ana, Santo Domingo and a few other major ones. All contained, all comprehensible in a sweeping glance. The size and topography of Plaza España mixed with the surrounding architecturescape and in the darkness it all comingled with my less than eagle eyes. I was momentarily stunned before heading past to the former La Latina digs. What's that massive plot doing in the middle of the capital? And what's going on beyond, it's like the city drops off to wilderness? It's no bigger than Copley in Boston but its that slope to the frontier that distinguishes this from the plain, tame lawn calmly sitting level in Boston and all the other walled and measurable plazas in Madrid.

Some time later I saw P. España again in the day and thought, "That's it? A bit busted, I'd say."

So that's it. Here I sit, in busted frontier country, scratching my lunacy in zeroes and ones.

But of course, that's not it.

A crossroads. confluence of 6 lane Princesa and Gran Via (heart of the center, massive boulevard carved out of 300+ preexisting edifi in 30s jazz age idolation). Site of Edificio and Torre España. Big streets with inadequate sidewalks, big buildings with inadequate architects. I remember looking at the obelisk in the middle of this grand plot and laughing. All that Spain was and wishes it still could be, and they put a chode with a ball on top in the center of the nation's plaza.


But it grew. What may be lacking in motorways and erections it makes up for in plaza and those houses that take a minute to see beyond the behemoths in the way.


Take a minute to sit, or lay on the grass, in the sun with the denizens who know that in the end Santa Ana and Mayor are for the tourists while, of course, tourists by the dozens stroll by here as well snapping shots of Don Quixote and his chubby pal behind aforementioned chode. Come through at night and look at all the spiked-hair purple black and white leather punks drinking kalimotxo and have a sip or two yourself before the everpresent fuzz clears it all out. Olive trees surround the obelisk and structural gems hold down the rear corners.


A michelin star restaurant lurks to the far right. In the side streets you can pay a euro and a half for a tomato, or nothing for one of the best fresh dates in the country. You can find yourself in one of my favorite cafes wondering why the floor is so clean or you can access a newly renovated Dia, which will be explained in the market blog. Around the corner begins Ferraz, another hefty ave, loaded with restaurantes, manoletes (again, later), and specialty shops like stationary. And before I forget, in the opposite direction stroll along the grasslined walkpath to feel some unmerited but real fulfillment in approaching the continent's largest royal palace, which I will share with you from my terrace.

It's not as stunning, especially now with the metric tonnes of unused scaffolding, as the other plazas in the city but give it some time and it grows to become your favorite, your home. Cheesy as it may sound, that's Madrid for you. A friend put it this way: Barcelona and Madrid are like two sisters. One is hot and you like her the moment you lay eyes. But the others got the personality to keep you loving her for life. Of course you like Barcelona, you have eyes. Yeah Plaza Mayor is beautiful and I'm sure you'll be telling yourself this is Spain after being there for a night. But Madrid is the treasure, and beer is a lot cheaper at Plaza de España.

Cambio del Aire!

A CHANGE in the weather looms large in the closing week of fine and holy April. Sol watches me again as I walk briskly from palatial place to metro mouth, to be spat out on the other side of central Spain among the business elite and all others suited to sweat off the sweetness of precrisis prosperity. Vegetation multiplies and expands its fingertips into vision's scope so that even when ruffled with fluctuating temps and angry winds, one senses the gentler side of Primavera the Conqueror. In fact, in certain hours on certain days it takes no imagination when the sun burns down on black-jacketed back walking through one of the city's thousand and three plazas. And, oh yes, the celebrations of coming seasonal salubrity

...

Even now with concrete, tempered glass, and a warm stove, there is cause for celebration when the world turns its other cheek and life begins again. Spring festivals may be considered among the world's most passionate. More research must be done on that... Now, of course, our venue is Spain, the world's most festive peopled pais (more research can't hurt...). Combine that with such anniversaries as the 201st year since the Spanish, or to be exact, the Madrileños said vehemently (and ultimately martyrously) "F*ck that!" to both their own governors and the French occupiers to whom said government was hewing, and the life/death of Madrid's patron peasant saint San Isidro, and you have yourself a month set to alter the Earth's rotation. Friends, lovers, compatriates of old and new, heed the call and make your way by hook or by crook to the land where the sun also rises, because things may never be the same.

Expect many more fotosandposts, as I try to track down whatever it is that makes Madrid so Madrid before the turning of another moon and the fortutious series of successive weekend visits from the best of all corners of this world bring mayhem on a Pantagruelian scale...

First days of SemanaSanta and bumbling into Paris...

HOLYWEEK (or Semana Santa in the language of those who truly celebrate it) is, for the fortunate, the entire week leading up to Easter. Such was my fortune that my holiday began postmeridian Thursday, the week before SS. The plan was thus: wrap up a few cosas around madrid after work then fly to Paris predawn Friday morning (this is 03abril) and spend the day kicking it in the city of lights with my coevals before the rentfolks arrive the following morning. Such was the plan.

Things went a bit more smoothly than predicted that Thursday after, and the kid got it in his head to have a little faux despedida. Chance obliged and some friends and friends-to-be had arranged a gathering at one fine Brazilian bar in Malasaña (Kabokla, which deserves a short approbative post of its own). Live music, cocktails, beer and introductions left one having to finally withdraw just before 2 in the am. Bags were packed, clothes were donned, and alarm was set, all so as to make for fast escape. Hours later I woke up with a yawn, just as the plane was taking off.

In the end the daylight hours were lost but I was able to make it to Paris by nightfall. There I made the fatal mistake of buying a simcard with too much haste from a company never before heard of, only to read in the fine print that all credit on said simcard would expire within 5days of the first call unless it was continually topped up with 10e or more. When I turned on my phone to start writing down contacts for payphone use, I found that my simcard had swtiched automatically to France, removing the need to buy a French card. Lesson: forget airport tellers and clerks, unless its a drink you need, wait until you reach the city. 30e down the drain before I even see a metro.
(Also, lesson: with early flights either stay up all night or sleep before 11. but does anyone really need to be told that?)

This that and the other, I did do one intelligent thing before leaving. I wasn't ready to completely surrender my day of parisian exploration, so I spent a few hours on google streetview, taking a good look at the neighborhoods where the hotel was, where my friend lived, and especially the routes to take on foot from metromouth to doorstep. I emerged on Avenue Victor Hugo feeling like I'd already been there, and walked right up to my friend's place, hoping the directions he sent me were legit. (By the way, this was arranged less than 12 hours before my late arrival. I went to bed the night before with no place to stay in Paris. Only once in my life have I done that, and that was the last time I went to paris. I'm not so sure we are creatures of will. At least, I dont think I am) Well, my brothers, they were fenomenal, and Chance continued to be my mischevious guide and led me to his door literally as he was turning things off to leave.

So we had a shot of the spanish brandy I brought along, caught up on the metro, and headed out to the Latin Quartier for my first bagless and stressless taste of Paris in 3 years. The beauty was palpable yet indescribable, and eluded any pinpointing. Maybe it was coming from the same scenery every day, maybe it was the subliminal measurements of city planning, who can say. The night was a blast as we partied in a masomenos irish bar with the rest of his cordon bleu classmates before heading to a different bar off the champs elysee, 5 minutes from the flat. Many rounds and attempts at french later and it was definitely time to head back. We crashed sometime around 4 after cabbing it round the massive feet of l'Arc, and again I slept with clothes on and bags packed. Just not on purpose this time.

The next morning I woke with a yawn and wondered, for just an instant, what the situation was. Then I recalled that my parents were to have landed sometime around dawn and expected me at the hotel to greet them. It was not quite 11. I rushed to the window dormer (top floor flat) in the kitchen to let out a stream of interjections and dial the hotel number without waking the household, and I beheld before me a sea of beautiful parisien rooftops, all with cream concrete vertical walls producing short irregular terracotta chimney tops, sprouting out of slate mansard rooves. I rubbed the cold from my eye and went for my camera as I shouldered the phone and squinted in the morning light. This was to be the beginning of a beautiful album. Interestingly, the camera would not turn on and I deduced that after taking the foto above, I left the camera on all night and drained the battery.

All this to explain, partly, why my Paris pictures will be so scant. You tell me the lessons here. Much more in the days to come...

He vuelto a Madrid...

OCHO DIAS en Francia and I'm back. Semana Santa could scarcely have been more action-packed, and there is much much much to report( including Valencia and other wanderings before the trip). Unfortunately, the return to the capital coincides with the return to work, but I'll be back at the keys in due time...