Boxes, Bags, Time On My Hands

July draws near. It brings with it many changes, including the end of employment. As such, it's time to get out of this landlocked sunbake and head for shores. That means the end of housing and it's these combined ends that will shape the coming months. No income. No shelter.
On the personal level, the Spanish economy can be imagined as a jellyfish. One graceful plunging motion and a motionless forward surge until the next plunge. These are the monthly redistributions of capital among the fortunate 80% employed. One month, one paycheck. It doesn't take long to learn to budget accordingly, but in my case it doesn't arrive until the 5th working day of the month. That was fun when I first arrived and began to pay rent. Ask about it sometime. So I've got to stick around, even after I am to leave my current home, until perhaps the 6th of July. A fortnight. A quincena, as the Spanish call it. All the things yet to see or see again condensed into two weeks. This is made easier by the liberation of my days, as I've already finished some classes. Now the work ends on Monday and Wednesday at noon, and Tuesday and Thursday at 16:00. Though none of that matters after this week. Permanent alarm deactivation in just seven days.

I've gone through lovable barrios that I didn't visit enough when I went out with my uptown friends and hit cafés, libraries, galleries and museums. Walking through the streets with a camera a book and a bag of cherries (so cheap here - 2e will get enough to make you sick) and thinking about the time. Time spent, time left, time to go. I know this city better than many natives, but I'm not ready to leave for good. No way. Places like the Prado and Thyssen museums that open my mind with every visit - the Matisse exhibit at the Thyssen going from June to September redefined my image of the artist. The Schizos exhibit at the Reina Sofia just yesterday gave a visual perspective to the creative explosion that defined Madrid after el Generalísimo's death, known as La Movida. The cafés that hide among the small streets of the Barrio of letters or the old Moorish quarter serve espresso with cups of ice while I read the books sent to free my mind (by an angel in East London!) to music from all over the planet. And Terrazas in Madrid are a way of life when the work is done. There's no expectation to leave, no wild stares for guffaws and crude jokes. Hours on end sitting out in a plaza, watching the city transform for the night. Septuagenarians shuffle along, arm in arm. Girls stroll by smiling. Jazz concerts in palace gardens and photography light shows on theatre walls. It all makes packing a bit daunting.

But it must be done as the time to leave this place gushes forth. First to Barcelona, after a wine-induced sleep on a 28e bus (not including wine). A few days depending on the flavor before heading back inland: Pamplona, San Sebastián, Bilbao and away to the green hills and little fishing villages along Asuturias and Galicia. A pilgrimage on foot to soul search with believers and discover the pulse of the land. All before 6 Aug, when Madrid and I part ways for a 3-week return to the land of my fathers to overdose on family, friends, dogs, and American beer.

Then it's back in September for ronda dos...