LIKE HUMMUS, fresh-squeezed orange juice, or skydiving. You can easily live your life without a daily dose of live music, but as soon as you get some you wonder how you ever went so long without it. The last city you lived in/visited seemed to be teeming with it. Moreover, the longer you stayed the more it seemed to beckon your attendance. Friends invited, hosted, even played shows. It was exhilarating. Then you landed in Spain and expected to find little else apart from flamenco. You heard they play techno on Ibiza...
Then one night wander over to Alonso Martinez because you're tired of Tribunal and everything southward, and you're looking for something to keep you from your bed. Not much to be seen, especially amid the cluttered disarray of construction paraphernalia, but across the plaza a name awakens latent, primal desires. El Junco emits a low-frequency wavelength across the urban morass and you descend into the sidewalk and pull the heavy iron door.
Funk in your face and you don't know what to do. Reach for your wallet? No need brothers, the door opens freely. A veteran brooklynite blows on the trombone, backed by african, carribbean, and european musicians and periodically breaks to unleash his bawdy roar into the p.a. Musicians come and go from the audience and the funkbluesjazz music flows like maple syrup on the pancakes of your youth. But watch yourself and that thirst of yours, because you pay for the music with each drink. Maybe your friend is clever enough to suggest going to the bar around the corner each time you want another sip. Or maybe you had a few before you came in and you're ready to dance in front of the band, who's playing on the floor over in the corner by the entrance. Maybe you even had more than a few and you cut the rug so well they offer you the mic. But hopefully you had enough to realize the deadly situation you now face, and you politely decline and go get some air.
El Junco (metroAlonso Martinez) on the weekends, doors open at 11. Sunday is the best, when most have decided to be sleeping by midnight when it gets going. Otherwise get there early...
5.26.2009
5.19.2009
WeekendConclusion: Domingo, 3 May
Time is running and I've fallen behind. My subject is the third day of the month after three such Sundays have passed. Recollections pile up like books without a librarian. Below me the same person who bangs on piano keys for hours each night is watching television with a megaphone attached to the speaker. Outside cars rush past like an irregular mechanical surf that occasionally whistles and growls. The bus lane makes the terrace door vibrate in its frame. The full foliage of the five-story maples lining the street provide shade without blocking the light. Like the view I took this afternoon gazing down Castellana toward Colón. A wide boulevard with raised grass paths on either side, partially arched over by maple trees the entire length of the stretch from my vantage point to the plaza. This grand corridor beneath such clear blue skies. My last student today, a lovely woman with an excellent command of English and a vibrant passion for Spanish culture, told me to pay more attention to the Spanish sky, especially over Madrid. She told me to look up the next time I find myself in Barcelona, where she said I would realize there are few skies as pure and blue as Madrid's.
...
I woke up around mid-day on the couch that has become my second mattress in this city, in a room awash in sunlight reflected off the white plaster wall only a dozen feet across the patio of my freinds' Tribunal apartment. Juan and Christine were down in Murcia for a music festival, but Natalia was about to wake up in the other room and offer to cook some breakfast. Slow eggs and chorizo went down well with toast after the long day before, and we slowly came back to life over dirty plates and cups of café - hers the full con leche, mine the less milky cortado - from the Café Cotidiano downstairs. A clean, well-lit cafe on a narrow but very busy street. They have wonderful pictures on the walls. Some are of Madrid but others are in Paris or elsewhere but all of them are lovely and I would like to take some of my own like them to have whenever I do leave this place.
After breakfast Natalia declared her intentions to remain indoors for the duration of the day, but having been outside already I was anxious to clean myself and feel satisfied by nightfall. I never feel satisfaction after an entire day indoors. Sometimes it feels necessary and sometimes it feels comfortable, but never satisfying. So I walked back through Malasaña, eyeing the tarnished streets of calle Palma and Noviciado and revisiting scenes of the merriment from the night before. You can always tell it's a weekend morning in that area by counting the plastic vasos tubos on the street that people buy for 25 centimos in the Chinos with their botellon supplies of rum, coke, wine, and beer and things. It had been a long night for some.
Back at the flat I just started to clean things up a bit when my phone rang with a strange number on the screen. It was Cam, a new friend from the first party on Friday.
"Hey man how was your night?
Oh yeah, that's cool man. Hey listen, what are you doing today?
Well how would you feel about going to see a bullfight?"
It was one of those times (which always seem to be on the rise along the course of Spring) when a fellow has to admit he's got no reason to say anything but yes. So long as it's not too expensive.
It was somewhere around 3 and the corrida wasn't until 6 so I had time to relax and have a quick shower before heading out toward Las Ventas up Northeast way. God, I'm telling you that TV is loud. But at least my casera and her daughter are still out and I can sit in the salon without our TV joining the chorus. Along the way on the 5 I got a message from Cam. He had bought the tickets already and was waiting beneath the bronze statue of glorified torreros out front. Apparently the price was right. So I found cam and with some time to spare we went over to TRu's flat around the corner from the Plaza de Toros, picking up some beer and candy along the way. There we sat and had a smoke while they recalled their bullfight and spun tittilating tales of pomp and ceremony. But we didn't want to miss the opening acts they told us, so we made our way back to get our seats.
In through the massive iron gate and up up and up we went until someone finally gave an approving look and ushered us to our third tier bench. Travis had assured us that there was nowhere in the bullring, despite it's size, that was too far from the floor below to catch a good show. I doubted that very much, but he was right. The view was spectacular and so was the show. I'm not going to attempt an ernest description of such an event, but I will say that I left the ring satisfied. I left it feeling a little more aware of the traditions of this foreign land. And I left wanting to learn a lot more. 3 torreros, 6 toros. Some where not so well matched, and their intercourse was something more vulgar and forced. But others put on a visceral ballet, with at times terrifying grace that could leave you reeling. At the risk of being judged a bastard and a beast, I will say that I liked what I saw and I want to become more familiar with the deadly dance. The old woman behind me would call out cheers or jeers and I would wonder what it was that she was seeing that was lost on me. People would stand a clap, sometimes for obvious reasons but others for seemingly no reason at all. But it was not a thirst for blood as some might expect. It was an appreciation for spectacle. A romanesque gathering that brought on a newfound appreciation for the strange Spanish love of everything Toro.
After breakfast Natalia declared her intentions to remain indoors for the duration of the day, but having been outside already I was anxious to clean myself and feel satisfied by nightfall. I never feel satisfaction after an entire day indoors. Sometimes it feels necessary and sometimes it feels comfortable, but never satisfying. So I walked back through Malasaña, eyeing the tarnished streets of calle Palma and Noviciado and revisiting scenes of the merriment from the night before. You can always tell it's a weekend morning in that area by counting the plastic vasos tubos on the street that people buy for 25 centimos in the Chinos with their botellon supplies of rum, coke, wine, and beer and things. It had been a long night for some.
Back at the flat I just started to clean things up a bit when my phone rang with a strange number on the screen. It was Cam, a new friend from the first party on Friday.
"Hey man how was your night?
Oh yeah, that's cool man. Hey listen, what are you doing today?
Well how would you feel about going to see a bullfight?"
It was one of those times (which always seem to be on the rise along the course of Spring) when a fellow has to admit he's got no reason to say anything but yes. So long as it's not too expensive.
It was somewhere around 3 and the corrida wasn't until 6 so I had time to relax and have a quick shower before heading out toward Las Ventas up Northeast way. God, I'm telling you that TV is loud. But at least my casera and her daughter are still out and I can sit in the salon without our TV joining the chorus. Along the way on the 5 I got a message from Cam. He had bought the tickets already and was waiting beneath the bronze statue of glorified torreros out front. Apparently the price was right. So I found cam and with some time to spare we went over to TRu's flat around the corner from the Plaza de Toros, picking up some beer and candy along the way. There we sat and had a smoke while they recalled their bullfight and spun tittilating tales of pomp and ceremony. But we didn't want to miss the opening acts they told us, so we made our way back to get our seats.
In through the massive iron gate and up up and up we went until someone finally gave an approving look and ushered us to our third tier bench. Travis had assured us that there was nowhere in the bullring, despite it's size, that was too far from the floor below to catch a good show. I doubted that very much, but he was right. The view was spectacular and so was the show. I'm not going to attempt an ernest description of such an event, but I will say that I left the ring satisfied. I left it feeling a little more aware of the traditions of this foreign land. And I left wanting to learn a lot more. 3 torreros, 6 toros. Some where not so well matched, and their intercourse was something more vulgar and forced. But others put on a visceral ballet, with at times terrifying grace that could leave you reeling. At the risk of being judged a bastard and a beast, I will say that I liked what I saw and I want to become more familiar with the deadly dance. The old woman behind me would call out cheers or jeers and I would wonder what it was that she was seeing that was lost on me. People would stand a clap, sometimes for obvious reasons but others for seemingly no reason at all. But it was not a thirst for blood as some might expect. It was an appreciation for spectacle. A romanesque gathering that brought on a newfound appreciation for the strange Spanish love of everything Toro.
And this was just the first fin de...
5.13.2009
Increased Insight and Classes over Cañas...
MORE THAN SOBER and less than drunk, I stepped down into the toxic breath of Avenida de America's seething subterranean bus terminal. Mid commute, having just pulled in from my furthest, longest, and most profitable class I clutched my bag and my book to which I was eager to return. Stephen Fry chronicling the exploits of a young madman between public school (in the English sense) and Cambridge "turning tricks down the Dilly" as he eschews his inherited privelages. Enthralling material that allowed me to hold off analyzing the day's events and to enjoy myself in my native language once more.
In the recent reearrangements of my schedule, my hours have been temporarily reduced and today I had only four classes. There are changes going on all around, it seems, but in keeping to the point I'll say simply that attendance has dipped as well. Such was the case in the second lesson, where only two of my five alumnos showed up, one sporting a headache and the other aching for a holiday. Of course my only option was to take class to the nearest bar where we grabbed a sunny table on the empty terrace and spoke of weekends, holidays, and ways to say numbers. I sat for most of the hour listening with my water two my two lovely alumnas conversate over their cervezas. It was only toward the end, after a short tutorial on dates and large figures (numerically speaking) that I engaged with one of the topic of sending her two teenagers to England. Three weeks they wish to stay in the sunny city of Brighton but their mother worries both for their safety and her wallet. Well and good, I say to she, but I must confess that the four months I spent in London were both my most expensive and most treasured. There followed the predictable 'yes, but's, and I began to notice a reluctance that stemmed from something more than fiscal insecurity. I suggested putting them to work for the duration of their time in Spain and was met with the too-well-known mother protectiveness for her children. Well and good, I think to me, but there was a lack of enthusiasm for the general idea. Here, an opportunity of a lifetime for two teenage continentals and their mother was far from jumping. I recalled her previous refusals to take her children to American or British films in their original versions and listened to subtle facial and vocal clues that told me she would be much happier if they had asked for those same weeks in Mallorca, Alicante, or even the distant Canarias. Finally she said she had some friends here who had a house in the English countryside and expressed her desire to rent one of her own in the following summer for the whole family to live in together. We walked back to their office building and as they chatted about the tasks to come I considered my revulsion at what felt to be a definite xenophobia. 2009 and the world is getting smaller yet still so many resist the homogonizing blend. I couldn't understand it and still find myself struggling.
At 18:00 that evening I strolled with my apple through the business park I visit twice a week in a wasteland place between Madrid and the city of Torrejon. The day had swam along thus far and I was well equipped for a lengthy lesson of speaking and grammar practice. But 20 minutes later when the lesson was to begin my first student, a man of a most erratic attendance record, stepped confidently in the room sporting slicked back hair and a shiny red and pink silk tie and announced to me his success in the struggle for an educational certificate. With more doors opened and a chic get-up to show it, Ricardo invited myself and his two other lesson-mates to take class to the bar. Porsupuesto Ricardo, que si.
We took a terrace table and I sipped my vino tinto while Ricardo elaborated on the process he had gone through. The topic of class experience and student interaction swiftly moved in the direction of recent changes in the country and the influx of immigrants from Morocco, Romania, and Latin America. A great deal of discussion and debate carried the topic from classroom communication to school quality to health care and all the while bounced between economics and the plus ultra. At one point the argument was raised that these foreign people have neither motivation nor desire to work and learn and I asked why it was they would ever want to leave their familiar homes for this foreign land in the first place. Hands went up and detestations were denied. So it's understood there's a problem with such general aversions but still they are harbored nonetheless. I sat in silence and let them talk things out with an English that at once increased in confidence and decreased in accuracy. We elected to enjoy the lesson for a full two hours and by the end we were discussing food and life in Iberia and I elaborated on my extraordinary weekend in an English that came out much more like Spanish than a profesor should allow.
With springy step I made my way to the bus stop across the concrete footbridge over the highway where I can never keep myself from checking the Madrid skyline like the face of a celebrity in the flesh. We had walked together from the bar discussing Spanish wines and locations in the city to find our favorite gems. At 20:20 the sun shown brightly and I looked at my city with love. Seven months I have been living here and if anything my feelings have only gotten stronger. But I still have so much to learn.
In the recent reearrangements of my schedule, my hours have been temporarily reduced and today I had only four classes. There are changes going on all around, it seems, but in keeping to the point I'll say simply that attendance has dipped as well. Such was the case in the second lesson, where only two of my five alumnos showed up, one sporting a headache and the other aching for a holiday. Of course my only option was to take class to the nearest bar where we grabbed a sunny table on the empty terrace and spoke of weekends, holidays, and ways to say numbers. I sat for most of the hour listening with my water two my two lovely alumnas conversate over their cervezas. It was only toward the end, after a short tutorial on dates and large figures (numerically speaking) that I engaged with one of the topic of sending her two teenagers to England. Three weeks they wish to stay in the sunny city of Brighton but their mother worries both for their safety and her wallet. Well and good, I say to she, but I must confess that the four months I spent in London were both my most expensive and most treasured. There followed the predictable 'yes, but's, and I began to notice a reluctance that stemmed from something more than fiscal insecurity. I suggested putting them to work for the duration of their time in Spain and was met with the too-well-known mother protectiveness for her children. Well and good, I think to me, but there was a lack of enthusiasm for the general idea. Here, an opportunity of a lifetime for two teenage continentals and their mother was far from jumping. I recalled her previous refusals to take her children to American or British films in their original versions and listened to subtle facial and vocal clues that told me she would be much happier if they had asked for those same weeks in Mallorca, Alicante, or even the distant Canarias. Finally she said she had some friends here who had a house in the English countryside and expressed her desire to rent one of her own in the following summer for the whole family to live in together. We walked back to their office building and as they chatted about the tasks to come I considered my revulsion at what felt to be a definite xenophobia. 2009 and the world is getting smaller yet still so many resist the homogonizing blend. I couldn't understand it and still find myself struggling.
At 18:00 that evening I strolled with my apple through the business park I visit twice a week in a wasteland place between Madrid and the city of Torrejon. The day had swam along thus far and I was well equipped for a lengthy lesson of speaking and grammar practice. But 20 minutes later when the lesson was to begin my first student, a man of a most erratic attendance record, stepped confidently in the room sporting slicked back hair and a shiny red and pink silk tie and announced to me his success in the struggle for an educational certificate. With more doors opened and a chic get-up to show it, Ricardo invited myself and his two other lesson-mates to take class to the bar. Porsupuesto Ricardo, que si.
We took a terrace table and I sipped my vino tinto while Ricardo elaborated on the process he had gone through. The topic of class experience and student interaction swiftly moved in the direction of recent changes in the country and the influx of immigrants from Morocco, Romania, and Latin America. A great deal of discussion and debate carried the topic from classroom communication to school quality to health care and all the while bounced between economics and the plus ultra. At one point the argument was raised that these foreign people have neither motivation nor desire to work and learn and I asked why it was they would ever want to leave their familiar homes for this foreign land in the first place. Hands went up and detestations were denied. So it's understood there's a problem with such general aversions but still they are harbored nonetheless. I sat in silence and let them talk things out with an English that at once increased in confidence and decreased in accuracy. We elected to enjoy the lesson for a full two hours and by the end we were discussing food and life in Iberia and I elaborated on my extraordinary weekend in an English that came out much more like Spanish than a profesor should allow.
With springy step I made my way to the bus stop across the concrete footbridge over the highway where I can never keep myself from checking the Madrid skyline like the face of a celebrity in the flesh. We had walked together from the bar discussing Spanish wines and locations in the city to find our favorite gems. At 20:20 the sun shown brightly and I looked at my city with love. Seven months I have been living here and if anything my feelings have only gotten stronger. But I still have so much to learn.
Today was a new day for me.
I gained further insight into these people with whom I share the venue of my life. First of all, women drink beer. If asked I could have testified long ago, but it still strikes me. Business women in dresses and suits eat ham and cheese finger sandwiches with goblettes of beer at 11:00am. They deshell nuts and slowly devour small jars of olives and pickels over multiple rounds at 19:00. It's miles from strange here but I never lose a vestige of childlike excitement bearing witness. But more importantly I am continuously reminded that no matter how many hours I spend with new people, walking new streets until they are no longer new, consuming their food and drink, visiting their cities and towns, and adopting their hours, I still have so much to learn about the people of this world. Twice today I found myself incredulously listening to what sounded little more than absurd distrust in things for which I feel only curiousity and desire. How little, I thought. How small. But maybe it's the opposite. I cannot avoid thinking of my own country and the call still sounding there for some barbarous wall to be erected high enough to stave off the slings and grappels of animals beyond. And my mind travels back to things I've read like holy men of Islam denouncing the idea that NATO and The West have any right telling theologistic experts how to craft their own laws. I once read an essay that challenged the view that the world was on a logical path toward rationalistic and enlightened atheism that so many like myself held to be self-evident. Many good points which I cannot regurgitate here were put forth and I have since been wary of rigid certainty in my ideals, when I'm able to remember.
And so today was a reminder. Perhaps the world is not continually shrinking just because we can access self-published videos and DIY guides in our palms on faraway beaches. Maybe there are limits and they're determined by the very people who are set to go beyond them. Either way I was taught today to avoid assuredniss and always consider revision. For instance my erroneous declaration that I am no longer a student. For now it's back to Stephen Fry and that most peculiar British...
I gained further insight into these people with whom I share the venue of my life. First of all, women drink beer. If asked I could have testified long ago, but it still strikes me. Business women in dresses and suits eat ham and cheese finger sandwiches with goblettes of beer at 11:00am. They deshell nuts and slowly devour small jars of olives and pickels over multiple rounds at 19:00. It's miles from strange here but I never lose a vestige of childlike excitement bearing witness. But more importantly I am continuously reminded that no matter how many hours I spend with new people, walking new streets until they are no longer new, consuming their food and drink, visiting their cities and towns, and adopting their hours, I still have so much to learn about the people of this world. Twice today I found myself incredulously listening to what sounded little more than absurd distrust in things for which I feel only curiousity and desire. How little, I thought. How small. But maybe it's the opposite. I cannot avoid thinking of my own country and the call still sounding there for some barbarous wall to be erected high enough to stave off the slings and grappels of animals beyond. And my mind travels back to things I've read like holy men of Islam denouncing the idea that NATO and The West have any right telling theologistic experts how to craft their own laws. I once read an essay that challenged the view that the world was on a logical path toward rationalistic and enlightened atheism that so many like myself held to be self-evident. Many good points which I cannot regurgitate here were put forth and I have since been wary of rigid certainty in my ideals, when I'm able to remember.
And so today was a reminder. Perhaps the world is not continually shrinking just because we can access self-published videos and DIY guides in our palms on faraway beaches. Maybe there are limits and they're determined by the very people who are set to go beyond them. Either way I was taught today to avoid assuredniss and always consider revision. For instance my erroneous declaration that I am no longer a student. For now it's back to Stephen Fry and that most peculiar British...
5.11.2009
Dos de Mayo
The day happened in the sun. Lazily I rose and took my time slicing the golden apples I get for next to nothing at the market and took my bowl of fruit and yogurt to the porch. The view is obscured through the foliage of the tall trees sprouting from the street below which I used to discuss jumping out to with my other aviationally-inclined bretheren. The international traveler's forum otherwise known as skype carried news of the seeking of a get-together and within a short hour there was just that in Parque de la Montana. Your Humble and the old Team sat circular in the shade of palms alongside the Egyptian Templo de Debod, flown in brick by brick some years ago in gratiuitous thanks for assistance during the Aswan affair. 
Gentle breezes ruffled boughs overhead as runners strode by and muffled chatter comingled with avain chirps and all other pips and squeaks brought along with verdant warmth. With little spoken we three enjoyed the ante meridian peace and bright light among sunbathers gossipers and would-be Woodie Guthries.
Then the mobile sounded the call of afternoon happenings and the trio lazily rose to stroll sunny palace promenade on our way back to the callejones of La Latina.
**(above fotos were taken days later in the latter half of the day. same setting, much different radiance)
At Plaza Tirso where Natalia patiently waitied, Travis and Ruwan turned back to their northern territory and left lady and I to make our way provision-laden way to join the Aussies for their barbie and the sweetest part of the day. Behind heavy peeled-paint doors the cool dark lobbies of the old city apartment blocks make great refuges from the bright heat of the spring afternoon. Up the open steel grille elevator shaft and Talhie the Aussiette greets us in her doorway. A lovely sunny flat with hardwood floors and high ceilings before stepping out onto a grand rooftop terrace larger than my current salon. I need to find new digs. Anyway, Kyle stood tending the coals while we sat drinking Mahou cervezas, Kalimotxo, and Tinto de Verano in the sun. Talhie slowly stuck plants and meats on sticks and I recalled a time in my life when kebab did not refer to the 2lb meat pocket peddled as Turkish food throughout Europe's metropoli. Our gathering swelled before our bellies with the addition of an Austrian whose name escapes me despite his agreeable manners and Santiago, who helped regale the group with descriptions of feasting and nocturnal goings-on as Kyle cooked merry goodthings and we cajoled our jowls with delightful drink.
The afternoon passed easily con comidas y bebidas and much discussion of things that flowed smoothly from one to another like courses in a well-planned meal. The sun slowly travelled its arc while electropop evaporated out of a stereo and we shifted places to avoid melting into our chairs. In the thickening light the golden sun told us it was time to begin thinking about eveningtime. At some point in the previous weeks the powers that were decided to schedule the most important match of the Primera Division football season for that night. Madrid was set to reclaim their shot at winning La Liga from rivals Barcelona for a second year in a row after a season racked with pitfalls and blunders. The last matchup in the fall left Madrid reeling on their return journey from the Catalan camp but was also the last defeat Los Blancos experienced. Now at home the papers touted the partida, known as El Clasico, as the most crucial in the past 31 seasons. Hardly hyperbolic. So logically we lethargically left our tabletop and shuffled back out into the street toward the plethora of flat-screen and projector packed sports bars in good old Sol..
Unfortunately anyone who follows football knows what happened for the next two hours as afternoon bliss devolved into evening anguish. After the fourth Barcelona goal the screams and cheers of fans in the underground theatre that had been set up for the event were beyond tiresome and we skulked out after the final whistle with a craving for hearty food and drink. We shot over the Las Bravas, a brightly lit bar chain that claims to specialise in patatas bravas, small friend potato chunks in a wonderful secret semi spicy red sauce that differs from place to place, as well as several other standard tapas. Twas my first foray into the place and it shall remain my last. Those bravas are nothing to write home about, and when there are plenty of places that well give them to you for free with a round of beers, I was hardly satisfied. So Santi and I crossed the street for some croquetas that were better than expected and we headed over to another bar to wait for some people. There we drank and demanded some free cheese and waited as my spoiled mood simply worsened for having to remain in Sol. I dread the place on a normal night, as it is full of overpriced bars and guiri - the Spanish version of gringo, but on the anniversary of the great Madrileño rebellion which takes place every year in Malasaña further north I was decidedly unhappy. Eventually we did make our way out there and the crowds filling the 1am streets were a cause for elation.
Santi and Natalia were still hungry and we made straight for a pizza place in Plaza Dos de Mayo to devour a fantastic pie of cheese and gambas (small shrimp). At that point our energy levels were all pretty well spent and we decided to scrap the street scene and head to the flat for to end the night.
SO the day was much more tranquilo than we had anticipated, but then again that just left us more human the next morning. With a beautiful day and excellent afternoon, a less than lustrous evening can be forgiven, especially when another city like Barcelona comes to spoil all the fun. On top of that, a new place to go in Sol for croquetas if one finds oneself to be stranded with an apetite(Cervezeria La Abuela, c/ Espoz y Mina), and a great place to get your own pie down in Malasaña where you can wait at the bar with a caña or two and watch the solitary teen pizza wolf pump out visual appetizers every minute(Pizzeria Sandos, NE corner of Plz Dos de Mayo). I'd say we finished in the green. And of course, it was only Saturday...
Gentle breezes ruffled boughs overhead as runners strode by and muffled chatter comingled with avain chirps and all other pips and squeaks brought along with verdant warmth. With little spoken we three enjoyed the ante meridian peace and bright light among sunbathers gossipers and would-be Woodie Guthries.
Then the mobile sounded the call of afternoon happenings and the trio lazily rose to stroll sunny palace promenade on our way back to the callejones of La Latina.**(above fotos were taken days later in the latter half of the day. same setting, much different radiance)
At Plaza Tirso where Natalia patiently waitied, Travis and Ruwan turned back to their northern territory and left lady and I to make our way provision-laden way to join the Aussies for their barbie and the sweetest part of the day. Behind heavy peeled-paint doors the cool dark lobbies of the old city apartment blocks make great refuges from the bright heat of the spring afternoon. Up the open steel grille elevator shaft and Talhie the Aussiette greets us in her doorway. A lovely sunny flat with hardwood floors and high ceilings before stepping out onto a grand rooftop terrace larger than my current salon. I need to find new digs. Anyway, Kyle stood tending the coals while we sat drinking Mahou cervezas, Kalimotxo, and Tinto de Verano in the sun. Talhie slowly stuck plants and meats on sticks and I recalled a time in my life when kebab did not refer to the 2lb meat pocket peddled as Turkish food throughout Europe's metropoli. Our gathering swelled before our bellies with the addition of an Austrian whose name escapes me despite his agreeable manners and Santiago, who helped regale the group with descriptions of feasting and nocturnal goings-on as Kyle cooked merry goodthings and we cajoled our jowls with delightful drink.
The afternoon passed easily con comidas y bebidas and much discussion of things that flowed smoothly from one to another like courses in a well-planned meal. The sun slowly travelled its arc while electropop evaporated out of a stereo and we shifted places to avoid melting into our chairs. In the thickening light the golden sun told us it was time to begin thinking about eveningtime. At some point in the previous weeks the powers that were decided to schedule the most important match of the Primera Division football season for that night. Madrid was set to reclaim their shot at winning La Liga from rivals Barcelona for a second year in a row after a season racked with pitfalls and blunders. The last matchup in the fall left Madrid reeling on their return journey from the Catalan camp but was also the last defeat Los Blancos experienced. Now at home the papers touted the partida, known as El Clasico, as the most crucial in the past 31 seasons. Hardly hyperbolic. So logically we lethargically left our tabletop and shuffled back out into the street toward the plethora of flat-screen and projector packed sports bars in good old Sol..
Unfortunately anyone who follows football knows what happened for the next two hours as afternoon bliss devolved into evening anguish. After the fourth Barcelona goal the screams and cheers of fans in the underground theatre that had been set up for the event were beyond tiresome and we skulked out after the final whistle with a craving for hearty food and drink. We shot over the Las Bravas, a brightly lit bar chain that claims to specialise in patatas bravas, small friend potato chunks in a wonderful secret semi spicy red sauce that differs from place to place, as well as several other standard tapas. Twas my first foray into the place and it shall remain my last. Those bravas are nothing to write home about, and when there are plenty of places that well give them to you for free with a round of beers, I was hardly satisfied. So Santi and I crossed the street for some croquetas that were better than expected and we headed over to another bar to wait for some people. There we drank and demanded some free cheese and waited as my spoiled mood simply worsened for having to remain in Sol. I dread the place on a normal night, as it is full of overpriced bars and guiri - the Spanish version of gringo, but on the anniversary of the great Madrileño rebellion which takes place every year in Malasaña further north I was decidedly unhappy. Eventually we did make our way out there and the crowds filling the 1am streets were a cause for elation.
Santi and Natalia were still hungry and we made straight for a pizza place in Plaza Dos de Mayo to devour a fantastic pie of cheese and gambas (small shrimp). At that point our energy levels were all pretty well spent and we decided to scrap the street scene and head to the flat for to end the night.SO the day was much more tranquilo than we had anticipated, but then again that just left us more human the next morning. With a beautiful day and excellent afternoon, a less than lustrous evening can be forgiven, especially when another city like Barcelona comes to spoil all the fun. On top of that, a new place to go in Sol for croquetas if one finds oneself to be stranded with an apetite(Cervezeria La Abuela, c/ Espoz y Mina), and a great place to get your own pie down in Malasaña where you can wait at the bar with a caña or two and watch the solitary teen pizza wolf pump out visual appetizers every minute(Pizzeria Sandos, NE corner of Plz Dos de Mayo). I'd say we finished in the green. And of course, it was only Saturday...
5.05.2009
InPictures: Street Seen...LaLatina, Lavapies
IN THE OLD CITY, as with most of central Madrid, the streets confound a a natural sense of direction. Little turns and not quite right angles lead into strange corridors and unknown quarters. Here and there a space opens up to reveal a vast stone pond-like plaza or a building site left on pause and forgotten. Don't pay attention to the clicks, hisses, and whistles you hear from the streets, and watch those short metal posts lining the sides; we call them knee-knockers. A false step ensures their spot in the memory.
MAYhemMadrid: Opening Weekend cont'd...
BACK up on the street at Metro Alonso Martinez, where barrios Malasaña, Chueca, and Salamanca muddle together and dress the land with disparate notes of high heels, jazz/funk bars, and stonebench perching 40oz clutching leather jackets. Suits breeze by scuffling chinos (this is not derogatory, but the Spanish word for chinese, which they are) and loud preoccupied girls while your three musketeers tap their phones and internalized maps to obtain the evening's provisions and participants.
Cross and cover calles and it's Tribunal, ground zero on any other weekend night that doesn't anticipate the city-only festivo for the uprising of Dos de Mayo. On this night, you head to the eponymous plaza, deeper in the heart of Malasaña. Here the twin Madrid commanders Velarde and Daoíz lead the insurrection against French occupiers from inside the armory. Armory is gone but the brick portal remains, arched above a statue of the heroes that takes up the center of the commemorative plaza. In 1976, Madrid's liberal La Movida reaction to the death of Franco began with a public striptease in the center. Now the plaza houses weekend nocturn botellons and hash circles and terrace meals all around the edges. And once a year people gather to celebrate the rebelliousness of this otherwise centralist capital. And the police come out to meet them.
Present our heroes, living presently among the stages of the past, looking past the crowds at the police presence, with hightened anxiety. Though many weeks of anticipation for the date had slowly passed, twas only in the last few days that we began to hear murmurs of the darker side of this particular festivo. Be careful, they said. Watch out for fights, they said. Watch out for police. Watch out for fights with police. Two years back the conflicts got out of hand and people were battered. Police have responded accordingly, tacking 2 bodies on every corner of every street. Our excitement for cheap collective revelry wheezed out of us like a circus balloon while we shuffled past dozens of navy blue neon yellow sentinels toward the amazing pizza place that occupies the NE corner of plaza dos de mayo. Rendezvouzed with many we did not know and marched through the one-lane cobbled calles of hardrock Malasaña filling with bodies bustling and streetlights buzzing. Through heavy Spanish doors and up creaky madrid stairs through darkened passage and file into remarkably well-furnished flat on planta uno (floor two for americans - our 1st is their baja or zero) where the party began (we had wine beer and blackberries looking up margarita recipes).
Good people and bottles later, we had developed the international test for relative urban importance (the ETT, otherwise known as the ID4 Test: would aliens come to your city in the first round of earth visits?), found out all about Korean ginseng remedies, and made some healthy new connections. Cocktails got sloppier and funny smells filled the air and it was time for our heroes to move on to bigger things. But amid the confusion one man fell behind and we had to bid Erok sweet dreams as another, Jose, took his place in the quest. A few detours and we found ourselves buzzing apartment 4c on c/ Dos Hermanos in Lavapies, itching to get up to American friend mike's springtime blowout.
Hosting with hospitality, Mike directs attention to the beverage buffet in the kitchen and then to bodies in the immediate vicinty before leaving one to ones own devices and tending stereo. Quite the multinational affair, Mike and his Italian flatmates have people all over the map and Your Humble finds himself unable to decide whether to speak English, Spanish, or the 5 things he knows in French to a friendly Parisienette. Give each a shot and decide things aren't sustainable in this place, and begin antics with sunglasses and introductions before having a smoke and shuffling out the door to sway in the cool breeze of the early AM air blowing through the narrow streets Lavapies.
Cross and cover calles and it's Tribunal, ground zero on any other weekend night that doesn't anticipate the city-only festivo for the uprising of Dos de Mayo. On this night, you head to the eponymous plaza, deeper in the heart of Malasaña. Here the twin Madrid commanders Velarde and Daoíz lead the insurrection against French occupiers from inside the armory. Armory is gone but the brick portal remains, arched above a statue of the heroes that takes up the center of the commemorative plaza. In 1976, Madrid's liberal La Movida reaction to the death of Franco began with a public striptease in the center. Now the plaza houses weekend nocturn botellons and hash circles and terrace meals all around the edges. And once a year people gather to celebrate the rebelliousness of this otherwise centralist capital. And the police come out to meet them.
Present our heroes, living presently among the stages of the past, looking past the crowds at the police presence, with hightened anxiety. Though many weeks of anticipation for the date had slowly passed, twas only in the last few days that we began to hear murmurs of the darker side of this particular festivo. Be careful, they said. Watch out for fights, they said. Watch out for police. Watch out for fights with police. Two years back the conflicts got out of hand and people were battered. Police have responded accordingly, tacking 2 bodies on every corner of every street. Our excitement for cheap collective revelry wheezed out of us like a circus balloon while we shuffled past dozens of navy blue neon yellow sentinels toward the amazing pizza place that occupies the NE corner of plaza dos de mayo. Rendezvouzed with many we did not know and marched through the one-lane cobbled calles of hardrock Malasaña filling with bodies bustling and streetlights buzzing. Through heavy Spanish doors and up creaky madrid stairs through darkened passage and file into remarkably well-furnished flat on planta uno (floor two for americans - our 1st is their baja or zero) where the party began (we had wine beer and blackberries looking up margarita recipes).
Good people and bottles later, we had developed the international test for relative urban importance (the ETT, otherwise known as the ID4 Test: would aliens come to your city in the first round of earth visits?), found out all about Korean ginseng remedies, and made some healthy new connections. Cocktails got sloppier and funny smells filled the air and it was time for our heroes to move on to bigger things. But amid the confusion one man fell behind and we had to bid Erok sweet dreams as another, Jose, took his place in the quest. A few detours and we found ourselves buzzing apartment 4c on c/ Dos Hermanos in Lavapies, itching to get up to American friend mike's springtime blowout.
Hosting with hospitality, Mike directs attention to the beverage buffet in the kitchen and then to bodies in the immediate vicinty before leaving one to ones own devices and tending stereo. Quite the multinational affair, Mike and his Italian flatmates have people all over the map and Your Humble finds himself unable to decide whether to speak English, Spanish, or the 5 things he knows in French to a friendly Parisienette. Give each a shot and decide things aren't sustainable in this place, and begin antics with sunglasses and introductions before having a smoke and shuffling out the door to sway in the cool breeze of the early AM air blowing through the narrow streets Lavapies.
Here some vestige of sense takes what hold it can and tells Your Humble to seek refuge from the Friday night demons of serpentine Spanish streets that hide in the shadows behind grinning faces. Au Revoir amigos, 'sta logo mes amis; must rest these bones before the sun breaks loose and sees you still out from the previous eve...
5.04.2009
MAYhemMadrid: fiesta comida Gallega
KICK OFF the festive month in high fashion when upon Friday lands the initial day. May 1st carried sun, blue skies and a temperate breeze that staved off ill-famed Spanish heat for all but a few mid-afternoon hours. AM walk with E-rok through chairoscuro Malasaña streets included a better than average café cortado (Spanish macchiato) at a sun-filled corner café I'd been eyeing for some weeks for the chalkboard wine list and consistent local clientele; discovery of an innocuous artisinal panaderia; and the impression that after the 6am closing call of the downtown party crowd the night before, most madrileños had headed south for Sevillas Feria de Abril or at least somewhere afuera de la capital. Should we have peaced tambien?
Back at the flat poached eggs slathered in paprika and herb tomato sauce slid around atop fresh toasted integral (whole-grain) from above panaderia out on the terrace dappled in sun when Santiago the saint called on us to make a move. To Alcobendas, said he, for Gallician food fest of mythic delights! 30 minutes of tea and sobremesa (during/post meal conversation "overtable") and 50 more north on linea 10 (Alcobendas is not in Madrid) and we were set to begin feeding again. We made our way to the white-tented paradise where we were to start with awkwardly watching a Gallego folk band play the tambourine/bagpipe traditional tunes of the region surrounded by albariño drinking friends casting us uneasy glances. Onward and out we marched to pass innumerable pastries and cakes along our b-line to the sidra booth.
I remember the first taste of Spanish cider bringing a bitter revulsion but by the end of that first bottle I had begun the comaround. By now I'm deeply enamored with it's sour bitterness and short-term long-pour produced carbonation. We began, renewed, and ended our tenure at the food fair in the trusted hands of this charming beverage mistress you see pouring, without looking, my drink from a bottle held too high to capture in one image.
Other highlights were mejillones al albariño (mussels in Galician white wine sauce) which was slaved over for an embarassingly long time in attempt to savor the onion, pepper, and wine sauce with only the toothpicks provided,
Pulpo Gallego, an octopus dish so titillatingly delectable that Your Humble completely forgot to fotolyze. We walked by the booth and keen salesman with an eye for hunger offered your young heroes a sample. Why not? A young man grabs a tentacle lying on a board and slices off a few bits, upon which we approvingly chew and agree to a full ración. This time a full 'pus gets pulled out of the steaming 100 gallon cauldron, red as a lobster, and after a scissor flurry that would make Johnny Dep proud, salesman takes the wooden tray and dresses it with extra virgin Spanish (read:best) olive oil from a gas can, rock salt from the sea, and paprika and slides it over to your three trembling heroes. Not rubbery, not fishy, just hot salty and rich. Nary a meal so good to be had that day, not in all the mundo.
After a less than appointing tarta de queso, which is anything but the cheesecake of my youth, we three opted for consolatory sidra and found it no less than necessary to order the 10e tabla de quesos, with the famous Madonna-breast shaped smoked Galician cow's milk cheese, Tetilla (itself Spanish for "small breast"), Cabrales, the strongest blueest cheese I've ever tasted that's usually cow but sometimes blended with goat and sheep and more than sublty sweet, a soft cheese creamier and subtler than most bries I've known, and a fourth lesser known varietal that got our pick for planetary top 10. All quesos deemed worthy of bloodshed in their honor. But that would come later in the weekend...
And with that we strolled just short of achingly full back toward the city center for the beginnings of the evening goings-on. 45 minutes back underground and we emerged with the city still yet to have darkened. But this fin de proves more than a single post and must be continuted in time. Is postponed too obvious?
Back at the flat poached eggs slathered in paprika and herb tomato sauce slid around atop fresh toasted integral (whole-grain) from above panaderia out on the terrace dappled in sun when Santiago the saint called on us to make a move. To Alcobendas, said he, for Gallician food fest of mythic delights! 30 minutes of tea and sobremesa (during/post meal conversation "overtable") and 50 more north on linea 10 (Alcobendas is not in Madrid) and we were set to begin feeding again. We made our way to the white-tented paradise where we were to start with awkwardly watching a Gallego folk band play the tambourine/bagpipe traditional tunes of the region surrounded by albariño drinking friends casting us uneasy glances. Onward and out we marched to pass innumerable pastries and cakes along our b-line to the sidra booth.
I remember the first taste of Spanish cider bringing a bitter revulsion but by the end of that first bottle I had begun the comaround. By now I'm deeply enamored with it's sour bitterness and short-term long-pour produced carbonation. We began, renewed, and ended our tenure at the food fair in the trusted hands of this charming beverage mistress you see pouring, without looking, my drink from a bottle held too high to capture in one image.
Other highlights were mejillones al albariño (mussels in Galician white wine sauce) which was slaved over for an embarassingly long time in attempt to savor the onion, pepper, and wine sauce with only the toothpicks provided,
Pulpo Gallego, an octopus dish so titillatingly delectable that Your Humble completely forgot to fotolyze. We walked by the booth and keen salesman with an eye for hunger offered your young heroes a sample. Why not? A young man grabs a tentacle lying on a board and slices off a few bits, upon which we approvingly chew and agree to a full ración. This time a full 'pus gets pulled out of the steaming 100 gallon cauldron, red as a lobster, and after a scissor flurry that would make Johnny Dep proud, salesman takes the wooden tray and dresses it with extra virgin Spanish (read:best) olive oil from a gas can, rock salt from the sea, and paprika and slides it over to your three trembling heroes. Not rubbery, not fishy, just hot salty and rich. Nary a meal so good to be had that day, not in all the mundo.
After a less than appointing tarta de queso, which is anything but the cheesecake of my youth, we three opted for consolatory sidra and found it no less than necessary to order the 10e tabla de quesos, with the famous Madonna-breast shaped smoked Galician cow's milk cheese, Tetilla (itself Spanish for "small breast"), Cabrales, the strongest blueest cheese I've ever tasted that's usually cow but sometimes blended with goat and sheep and more than sublty sweet, a soft cheese creamier and subtler than most bries I've known, and a fourth lesser known varietal that got our pick for planetary top 10. All quesos deemed worthy of bloodshed in their honor. But that would come later in the weekend...
And with that we strolled just short of achingly full back toward the city center for the beginnings of the evening goings-on. 45 minutes back underground and we emerged with the city still yet to have darkened. But this fin de proves more than a single post and must be continuted in time. Is postponed too obvious?
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