selfportrait on my new terrace (notice the palatial view reflected)
(plaza de espana) arial view of the new HQ - my flat is just off the lower left cornerLong march of lugubrious days gives way and the sun has made what feels like his first appearance this month. I take the opportunity to spend time on my new terrace before taking a stroll around the neighborhood going down every street that pulls and snapping fotos as the colors madden. I had to leave La Latina in a flash when things bordered on violent with my landlady after I demanded that she return at least a portion of my deposit money. That, of course, came to naught, but civil lawyer and bromantic buddy Juan is determined to fight on my behalf, especially as we have agreed on a percentage. The four-day weekend thus went on with diurnal crises and nocturnal revelries. The loss of money and phone offset by long nights with friends and charming new acquaintances. Travis, Ru, and myself sat up laughing and toasting to destruction as we summarily drank upwards of 30 shots together before meeting other gang members and spreading ourselves across malasana. In a bar near c/ espiritu santo we discussed the points of alcohol abuse and the related disease until I caught a pair of eyes and took my leave.
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The next day I rued the greyness with which the coming work week made its dismal approach while lamenting the loss of my phone somewhere along the way during the previous night. Little was accomplished and before long it was evening again and time to go get lost in the satisfactory comfort of friends. Meeting in Sol we strolled through Huertas and had a cana in an Irish Pub before meeting with my long lost ladies from Boston, Megan and Emma, in Sol. They had gotten in two days before but due to infirmity, weather, and holiday, had not done much before meeting me. I deemed that more than reason enough to have a ball and as one large group we headed to Rio Xallas on c/ chinchilla, where the eternal barman stands short but erect and smiles with narrow slits of glossy eyes from behind a massive conquistadorial moustache. He embraces all who enter, awards all women with dos besos, and gives the men of comparable magnaminity hearty embraces. There we cought up over pitchers of sangria and cerveza while the conquistador delivers plates of tapas until we decide to leave. The girls tell me things in Dublin and London, their respective homes for the season, are deplorable. Young people refusing to go out and experience the finer points of those great towns, difficult transportation, and the removal of some of our favorite spots. I tell them first the background of my training and adopted life here before taking them on a verbal tour through my typical week. A couple of hours later we were far too full to remain in that bar and, parting with the rest of my madrileno friends, headed into chueca with the hopes of finding some vestiges of a good time. Luckily we were greeted by a young promoter who spoke comprehendible spanish with a sing-song accent that lead me to assume he was brazilian and who gave us tickets for free drinks and free entry at a disco down the street, which was empty. Drink we did, and then off to buy some cervezas from an outdoor chino on the corner. We walked around but there was nothing doing, so I took them back to Sol with the half-assed intention of walking them to the hostel. But our true selves took hold and we found ourselves in, I hate to say it, Dubliners. It was the only open bar, and we actually got 4 free beers on top of the bucket of 6 we had already purchased so the night was by no means disasterous. Embracing at their hostel I was struck by a feeling that I can not yet explain or understand. They had been regular fixtures in my life for 2 years, and seeing them again was like picking up the beat of a jam. Things felt much like they had before, albeit in a different setting. Now we were saying goodbye for what could be a long time. I still wonder about what I have left behind, as it moves away in the rearview. I imagine things change in life and in our minds, but never in syncronized fashion. What will happen when beats are picked up or venues revisited? Can life be accurately shown by a continuous line? I doubt the level of control we have over when it deviates, curves, or severs. I contemplate the time I have and the time I have spent when I realize the time is now and my lessons need planning. At least I have a phone again.
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