PULSE... (Or, What's Ha'nin)

If you live here it's a truism that requires no mention. But for the audience abroad I begin by saying at this time of year Madrid gets positively hot. Since frozen winter botellons I have ceased thinking in farenheit, so trust me when I say that when afternoon temps reach 38, it's time to seek shelter. The long time Madrid tradition in this situation is to seek it at an aluminum table on a spacious sidewalk or, better yet, in one of the hundreds of "plathas" populating the cityscape. The "terrathas" have been unfurled and on a bright blue day like this, they are packed. A Sunday in La Latina will seem a sea of tables topped with goblets of golden beer, small plates of olives, chips, and patatas, and surrounded by hairdos with sunglasses light scarves and colorful patterned shirts. It fills the air like an orchestra that never stops warming up. It makes you want to sit and drink and chat forever. Or maybe that's just me.

Vino tinto is being usurped by blanco, rosado, and tinto de verano (red wine mixed with a soda similar to fresca, in a tall glass with lemon and ice), and cafés are being ordered con hielo (glasses with ice), which is reassuring. I wasn't sure about the protocol for summer cafination. Menus boast tés frio as well, and mojitos, caipirinhas, and daiquiris are rising to their proper summer prominence. Salad options are blooming.

A short siesta, the need for which felt physically in the late afternoon heat during digestion, sees a lull in calle attendance but as the sun begins to droop the outdoor spirit quickens and enflames the night. In the right barrio you can look down a street and count a hundred heads in a hundred feet. And the tarrathas are just as the were at lunchtime, to the brim with revelry and hedonism. Madrileños are particularly loath to take of their carefully selected jackets and scarves but more and more one sees the legs and shoulders and arms and necks that hid for so long. One observational result: many more tatoos than I initally gave this city credit for. Sleeves, shoulders, calves and ankles. Beautiful colors and designs and curves and patterns. Very few tribals or other hideous mistakes. And, as always, magnificent array of sunglasses intermingled with those Ray Ban NWA throwbacks that have taken over our cities and towns. But the colors are striking.
File that under "summer: always".

More specifically regarding now, the first half of this month sees Madrid's 68th annual book fair (not sure how many years the tapas fair has run) which includes a cool kilometer of book stalls selling new editions, trade books, children's books (I bought a copy of El Principito to work on mi Español), libros de bosillo (cheap paperback versions "of the pocket") and special books to commemorate the event. Author signings or centennial celebrations - this year it's French and Darwin.

It wouldn't be Madrid if the book fair didn't come with a terrace bar

Outside the city a bit there is a gardened palace which they tell me is a small scale replica of Versailles. That alone warrants visitation, but this saturday an international jazz quintette pays tribute to the founders of the style in which they specialize - early swing jazz in the guise of Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli's Quintette du Hot Club du France. Two musicians touched by God and who are best characterized by the following: "when you hear them play, if you don't smile it's because you're dead." A free concert all afternoon in the palace gardens.

The weekend begins tonight, with yet another of Spain's many puentes- "bridges" which are formed when the single working day between the standard weekend and the Tuesday or Thursday holiday is taken as well, making the weekend a full four days.
Ample time to feel the pulse.