10 July 2012, 0104
hrs., Madrid
The prelude tradition continues but I want to make this one
scant. I’m going to once again wallop you upside the head with a large amount
of backlogged material, some of which was composed on July 4. This follows what
has to be the weirdest set piece of them all, the critique of superficiality
disguised as praise for the majesty of bowel movements.
Today I finally got my afternoon down. I was able to enjoy
the entire day and fill it without coming back to my room till about 10. You
see, if I come in here during the day I am immediately exhausted. I did some
actual work (I am going to classes and will probably get around to devoting
some written attention to them soon), explored a lot of the city I hadn’t seen,
and watched some of the Tour de France. It was a time trial stage, which isn’t
my favorite, but I’ll take it. I had my first taste of the kalimotxo in homage to Las Fiestas de San Fermín, better known as
the Running of the Bulls. Actually, that is just one part, known as the encierro. The whole thing happens in the
Navarra community in the town of Pamplona. Still, here in Madrid you see people
dressed in white with the red scarf. I didn’t get it for that reason really,
but it was convenient. It is supposedly the signature Basque cocktail.
I have to say it is puzzling that such a proud people who
consistently invent some of the world’s most interesting cuisine (along with their neighbors the Catalans) could invent a
drink like this and allow it to survive, and even give it a proper Basque name
that is impossible to spell or pronounce. To me it seems like a drink you
invent before you know anything about alcoholic drinks, and either a.) Everything
tastes equally horrible to you and b.) All you’re doing is trying to get drunk
anyway. Basically, it is half Coke or a fake Coke, ice, and half mediocre red wine. (You
would be an idiot to waste good wine on one of these). The effect for me was initial
cloying sweetness with a painfully icy/brainfreeze Robitussin finish. The nose
reminds you of a subway terminal on New Year’s Eve- a great combination of
syrupy sugar and ensuing or recent vomit, plus some Basque country industrial
know-how! It is the sort of drink in which it is possible to feel like a
hangover is about to happen when you’re halfway through the first one, a la
Miller High Life.
The drink nomenclature here is deceptive. You order a red
wine at midday and often you are brought what is known as “tinto de verano,”
(summer red), which is just red wine, ice, a lemon (for King George III to
enjoy, as you’ll see below), and a topper of club soda. It is better than that
K…. drink but still puzzling and semi-pointless to me. I tried to order red
wine by itself around 2 today but the waitress (an older woman) refused since
she disagreed with the concept (that kind of thing can happen here, a very
traditional country in a lot of ways).
Speaking of tradition, it is impossible for me to get to bed at a decent hour here. I carry on
my exhaustion tradition proudly.
Enjoy the latest material. I have to say I seriously enjoy
composing this thing, even though everything is by no means “publishable,” as
those of us in the academics business say. You get the pleasure of reading
whether it is or not- sort of like when you buy an album of unreleased stuff
and you realize why. This happened to me with the Modern Lovers once. Live and
learn.
4 July, 2012, 1945
hrs., Madrid
Back here at the console on this historic day when our
forebears decided to tell George III to step off or we would be forced to get
medieval on his A, or something to that effect.
For no reason in particular, but perhaps because here this is just
another day, I am reminded that Jefferson composed the document in French, the
language of diplomacy of the time. Also, there was a clause included to
eliminate slavery at the inception of the American republic, although South
Carolina (and possibly Georgia?) refused to sign it with the abolition clause
included. Imagine the turmoil that that would have saved the United States, not
to mention to shame and a cycle of guilt/blame that continues to this day due
to the past. We wouldn’t have to learn about stuff like the 3/5 Compromise, or possibly, have movies
like “Driving Miss Daisy.”
I perhaps need to update you slightly about what has been
going on, although things are much more quotidian here than in Andalucía, and
the vibe is quite different. Los madrileños still party every night and if
you want to stay out all night you can any night of the week, not that I have.
There are more bars in this city than any other in the world, and that is a
fact. I may mention that more than once before it is all over since it is certainly noticeable. So it is still Spain, but people seem to go to work and have stricter
schedules than there seemed to be in the south. For the obvious, Madrid is a
large city and people are in a hurry, and running in the subway and impatient. That
said, it is much more relaxed than New York or something. The cultural
opportunities are legion, since there is constantly art and theater stuff going
on, not that I have even scratched the surface. Raphael, as in the Renaissance
master with sweet hair and not the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle who was “cool
but rude-” currently has a bunch of works at El Prado, in addition to the other
masterpieces that are there all time such as “Las meninas” by Diego Velázquez
and “Guernica” by Pablo Picasso. I like that Picasso had enough clout to
basically just command that Guernica end up in the Prado upon his death. All of
that French patronage and adoration during his lifetime, and then, tough loss
France- I’m taking the crown jewel back to the motherland.
Re: The subway, or “Metro:” One thing I have noticed about
public transportation in many cities in the world is that there are always ways
that people pass the time that also create isolation from strangers. Between
headphones and your own personal soundtrack, to match the mythology of your private
experience and your particular heart’s songs of mourning or joy or whatever
neutral emotional biorhythm on any given day, you add the cell phone,
essentially a modern cigarette a lot of the time that can be brandished to keep
your hands busy. (Spaniards still use the old cigarettes too, but thankfully it
is prohibited in the subway). Add to that the IPad/Iwhatever (an emblematic
branding for the age of the autonomous self if there ever was one), plus an
e-reader or nook or whatever or even an actual book/magazine, etc., and the
chances of any connection with a person in those environments is nil. In
cities, places where people interact all the time, without choice, there are
constant examples of people preferring to avert their eyes, not speak or look
at one another. Everyone builds a wall around themselves to avoid other people
or to avoid seeing them- especially when it comes to bums (Madrid’s bums lack
imagination and should learn from their countrymen in Granada). Now, I
certainly prefer everyone ignoring each other- and I certainly take advantage
of that supposition all the time, that it is better to be silent and cold, or
just neutral, to having to wear a name tag and shake everyone’s hand on the subway
(like the “Seinfeld” episode where Kramer proposes a bulletin board in the
lobby of the apartment building with everyone’s name, and Jerry complains that “I’m
like Richard Dawson down there.”). Public transportation is one of the easiest
places to observe regular people in isolation and many times, in what looks
plainly like sadness. So I have noticed it.
Since I have been in a level of isolation myself, although
one I am overall enjoying- being anonymous in a country and a continent where I
basically know zero people-, I guess I have noticed people who are alone and
who seem like they need people. (I am thankful that my temperament is solitary
in times like this, although of course there have been some moments of
loneliness). In Granada I remember passing a patio full of people having drinks
and tapas and there was one woman who was by herself, watching the street,
smoking with a beer in front of her. I remember thinking that she was participating
in a tradition of her country, possibly with reluctance, because it is natural,
as Spaniards constantly go out and the bars are full every night. Somehow I
could tell that she was alone and going to stay alone that night, that no one
was set to meet her, and it made me sad for her. I wanted to speak to her, but
of course I didn’t. I felt sorry for her because she was doing something that
her people love and she was excluded from the fullest expression of its
experience.
Now, for all I know, she is a misanthropic psychopath who
everyone hates, and sometimes dresses as a clown and sits in a box! But I doubt
it.
If you can bear this theme I will continue. No answer? Ok
bear it away then. Suckers. A similar thing has happened here with one boy who
is a student, and I always see him alone. He was watching Spain-Italy alone,
checking his cell phone. In a similar way I felt for him. I don’t know why this
happens, but it happens to me easily, that I see people who seem hurt or alone
and it makes me sad for them.
I’m not particularly sad right now myself- I try to follow
the rule of the Uruguayan writer Horacio Quiroga- who stole it from Edgar Allen
Poe- that if you feel melancholy or sadness (there is actually a difference)
than to wait until it magically passes before you compose anything, lest it be
shrouded in a boring and impenetrable layer of masturbatory doom. It is wise to
glean observations from your time with those passing emotions, which are usually
the most evocative, and usually create richer vignettes of the world. But, wait
until you don’t feel everything as strongly. Jack Kerouac would disagree, and
then publish whatever resulted, unedited, with nothing but the faith in his own
heart and the gallons of wine consumed while writing. Wait…is that John Phillip
Sousa rolling in his grave? Look out…
HAPPY 4TH OF JULY! TAKE A FIREWORK TO THE FACE GRILL
SOMETHING STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER
So enough of that. Independence! George III, suck a lemon!
I have gotten to know
my ‘hood a little better, and it is very quiet. A little too quiet. It’s mainly
residential, although you don’t need to take the subway to get anywhere if you
just want a basic shop or café. There is a lot of shade and several nice parks.
Unfortunately the people here don’t seem to play as much soccer as I was hoping
for, at least in this area. I have gone to parks hoping for a game and not
found one. Maybe it is better on the weekends, and I keep comparing this to
Buenos Aires, which it resembles even as the cities are very different. My neighborhood
is also in an affluent area (I have seen a Maserati) and all of the cafes seem
higher priced than other parts of the city. Today after my siesta in the sauna
(I was out fairly late because I finally had my first Madrid night out, which
of course makes American night life look insipid) I tried to remedy some of my
technological hurdles with are still too boring to enumerate. I will just say
that for those of you that I haven’t called, since I’ve called no one- I’m on
the case and will phone bomb you ASAP. By
the time you read this, I’ll have cracked the case. Anyway, so I went to a
camera shop to try to find a part for my camera, he directed me somewhere else,
which I couldn’t find, and then I gave up and killed some time in a bookstore.
Naturally there were a lot of books talking about the LIES AND DECEPTION of the
Catholic Church, as well as some great Latin American and Spanish fiction. I
bought nothing, however. I am still reading Thomas Pynchon’s latest, “Inherent
Vice,” and I have two books on the syllabus that I bought at the Alhambra and
the Real Alcázar in Sevilla. I will probably get some Julio Cortázar before I
leave though. I passed by the restaurant I went to after the convinced
Catholics directed me to my dorm the first day, where they were playing a
female lounge singer’s version of David Bowie’s “Lady Grinning Soul,” the last
track off of the “Aladdin Sane” album. The music here is funny, since they mix
in what I would consider worthwhile English-language artists with some real
pap. Last night I heard the Seal song “Kiss From a Rose” FOUR times in the SAME
place. I wanted to shoot the speaker. I am unable to ignore music when I hear
it. So after that I went to a supermarket- lower end than the Corte Inglés-
called “Día.” I got some very basic stuff since I have no fridge or utensils. I
bought some pineapple juice, peaches, bananas, that Murcian fruit- las ciruelas, and in the unnecessary
column, a bottle of wine (decent 2007 Rioja for 2.80 euros), and some artisanal
potato chips. (Not an oxymoron!)
So about last night- “We,” the motley crew of Canadians and
Americans who are here on the noble mission of perfecting our craft, had an
excursion with one of the teachers to see some basic sights in Madrid, like the
Royal Palace, Plaza Mayor, etc. In the Royal Gardens, which used to be part of
the palace but now are public, they have statues of Roman Emperors born in
Iberia, what is now Spain, as well as Visigoth rulers and other important
figures from antiquity. (I also found out that the King and Queen of Spain
sleep in separate bedrooms, like Bill and Hillary Clinton). It was fun but took
forever and I forgot to wear sunglasses. By now the whole class (some of whom
are women twice my age or more) know about my sunburn and comment on it, since
one of the Spanish women who are organizing the whole gambit commented on it
the first day. So it’s out there, my sunburn, and it’s public domain for
discussion. They tell me helpful things like, “Have you put cream on?” Anyway
so since the tour of the major sites took forever, we were all ready to go out
and do something fun afterwards, such as imbibe/enjoy some tapas, but there are
12 people and it’s impossible to decide. Next a bad experiment in starving group
dynamics ensued. I wanted to go somewhere to get something like octopus, squid,
or mussels. I am not kidding. Some people (mainly philistine Canadians) looked
at me like I was crazy or said nothing. So that was shot down, and we tried to
find a quiet street we had seen but since the tour took two hours we were
disoriented and exhausted. One person said F this and split. Who knows, maybe
she ate at McDonald’s. It made me feel better because for once it was an
example of someone else’s hunger anger/hunger pangs being more evident than
mine. Finally several coups erupted and people went to different places.
Unfortunately my particular group, which was 5 people, or four, I can’t
remember, chose poorly. It is customary in Spain that you order a drink and a
tapa is included, although it isn’t true everywhere, such as the place we went.
We also went somewhere quite expensive based on the other chalkboards on the
street I had seen. After that I ended up very hungry and having spent a lot of
money on one beer (stupid San Miguel…eh) and a plate of cheese. The olives that
came with it were spectacular though. I really wish there were a kitchen here in
the dorm since there are great butcher shops and fish markets I have seen
around, utterly wasted for me.
The French woman (who another girl in the class referred to
as Cleopatra today, a name that seems like it will stick) was in my particular
party. I was patient with her. I will add to my description that she also
reminds me of Mia Farrow for some reason, even though she has dark hair. I
think it’s her voice. She didn’t drink or eat anything, not even water, and she
had a map she was silently studying while we were there. Another lady came
dressed in a black smock and massive hat to avoid sunburn. It was kind of a nun’s
habit/Halloween costume look. I asked her if she was “de luto,” the traditional
Spanish period of mourning after a funeral. She didn’t seem to hear me. She
must have read what I mentioned about my experience on the beach in Alicante
and Isla de Tabarca. So we have an interesting mix of people. In addition to
that it was me and a guy from Ohio, a woman from Texas, and a girl from
Venezuela who also teaches in Texas. So I guess we were five. After the tapas
round one we joined again with a different group, and again made a tourist
mistake. A guy in the street solicited us to come to a place that looked ok,
but when we got in there they put us in the basement. So obvious- never go to
the place the guy is soliciting you to go to. That is always true, similar to
how meandering aimlessly puts you in a tourist trap or the wrong part of town,
unless you are in New Orleans. These aren’t very scientific rules.
I will say that the whole purpose of tapas is that you have
one in one place, visible to the world, and then you go to another. This is
what I did in Granada and it worked great. For one, the tradition of the
included tapa with the first drink makes this logical, and the whole point in a
way is to see and be seen, not have a secret meeting in a basement. Strike two.
The good news is that it gave people in the group a chance
to get to know one another better, and it was very funny since we were sent to
the servant’s quarters and had to listen to the same 30 minutes of music over
and over. Another song was something along the lines of “Lady in Red,” but it
wasn’t. It may as well have been that song. You get the picture.
All right. That’s it for the update for now. I’m going to
Toledo on Friday and need to figure out what to do with the weekend. There is
still a lot of Madrid I haven’t seen so I may just lay low and stay here.
Enjoy your slave-free independence, and continue to exude an
attitude that portends 'vain the scimitar.'
7 July, 2012, 1640
hrs., Madrid
I just got back to Madrid from El Escorial, a 50 km bus trip
to the northwest. (Sorry I don't know how long that is in miles; I'm not a Communist). It was once a massive convent as well as the palace of
Phillip II, or more like his Camp David. It was interesting and had the usual
museum quality artwork inside it, including some work by El Greco, Hieronymus
Bosch, and Velázquez. By now, it is pretty normal to stumble upon masterworks
in any building that I go into that is a tourist attraction (There are no Goyas
at Starbucks, for example). It was decent- but I have to say that after seeing
the gems of Islamic architecture in Andalucía, a lot of what I am seeing
further north doesn’t look as ornate or magnificent. Still, most of these
buildings make modern architecture look like it’s designed for inmates.
Naturally there was an ancient king who was burned to death by the Romans once
he adopted Christianity, and there are restaurants in his honor, like “El
Asador del Rey.” (The King’s Grill…very appetizing). Inside the main nave of
the cathedral (there’s always a cathedral nearby- this is Spain!) there is a
picture of the king being grilled. He looks pretty nonplussed which is supposedly
accurate since he reportedly told his Roman grilling enthusiasts that we was
done on the first side and needed to be turned over. That might win the gallows
humor gold medal. The building itself has roofs that appear like a grill, in
memory of his grilling martyrdom. Inside there are frescoes all over the place
that tell the story of the New Testament, and some of the old.
Yesterday I went to Toledo, the original capital of Spain
and its most powerful city until the 16th century. I saw the temple
of the Sephardic Jews in Spain, who were exiled in 1492 and whose descendants
still make pilgrimages to Toledo. The building was a temple that looks like a
mosque since it was made by Arab artisans, done in a typical Arab style with
lettering all around the ceiling borders, except the writing is in Hebrew. They
even allowed a place for some writing in Arabic dedicated to Allah, inside the
temple. The ceiling is made of wood and another example of the mudéjar style which I have seen all
over, a combination of Roman technique with Arab artistry and materials. After
the Christian Re-Conquest the building was converted into a church, although
curiously no vestiges remain of that time, which would be the most modern. I
also saw the Jewish Quarter where yet again there were a few people tortured to
death and the like. In the morning we inexplicably were supposed to watch a
Pedro Almódovar movie called “Tender Flesh” which of course presented his usual
thesis of the aftereffects of Francoism and Catholic repression resulting in
Spaniards reveling in a new found freedom free of guilt, best personified through
adultery and despair. Strangely, the protagonist of the film, who is born under
clear symbolism of the star of Bethlehem, is a sort of Christ figure in that he
is condemned wrongly and takes the punishment for something that he did not do.
The Christ figure analysis falls apart when he agrees to commit adultery with
the wife of the man who he incidentally put in a wheelchair. Anyway who cares
about that. Toledo is a nice town but it feels like you are in the Middle Ages
since they sell swords everywhere as well as medieval garb. Try getting that
stuff through airport security: “You see, I am actually from the 15th
century and am a wandering knight on a quest to make my connection in Newark on
time…”
The dorm situation continues to be puzzling, but
interesting. It’s not what I expected. The people in wheelchairs are all very
nice, and you can’t help but have some level of compassion for them and want to
be nice to them, unless you are soulless, which I am not. The other night at
dinner “we,” the loose group of people who seem to like to eat earlier than me,
(dinner here is between 9-10:15; I usually go at 9:30) spoke with some of the
wheelchair population or whatever the right term is for people in wheelchairs.
When I get down there they are usually wrapping up which means I have 50-75% of
my meal alone most nights. When everyone vacated I ended up spending time with
a student here, in a wheelchair who is studying Arab Philology, and guess what
came up in the conversation? Eczema, which of course is a defining theme in
Arab literature. She was very nice and wanted to lend me some cream, so I let
her, even though what she gave me may as well have been St. Ives. As an eczema enthusiast
I am adept in the unguent (a common word in Spanish, which exists in English. I
learned it via Captain Beefheart’s vocals on “Sam With the Showing Scalp Flat
Top” on Zappa’s “Bongo Fury”) business and have seen them all. So there are
moments like that, that aren’t “what I’m here for,” that feel valuable and can’t
help but lend a sense of sweetness to what seems like a quotidian evening. She
was reading Thomas Mann’s “Magic Mountain” for pleasure and seems very
intelligent. It’s hard when you speak to someone in that position, and feel for
them since some people probably only see a wheelchair and not a person. So it
has been rewarding to be able to spend time with the wheelchair populace (still
struggling for whatever term you’re supposed to use).
On the other hand there are these rowdy teenagers who are
here for some sort of summer camp, or maybe summer classes, I don’t know, and eat dinner at top volume. They also like
to scream down the hall as a result of video game outcomes. Hookahs seem to be
popular (Arab legacies in Spain still exist). Last night at the table they broke
into a version of the Aretha Franklin song “Say a Little Prayer For You.” Of
course it’s an R &B classic, although I’m not sure why it’s on their radar since
the song is probably 50 years old. I think they enjoyed the backing vocals earnestly
singing lyrics like “make-up.” (Kind of like the Pips singing “super star but
he didn’t get far.”) So that is different than I expected and it makes the
scene a little more mixed, age and background wise. The food is usually good
and sumptuous minus breakfast, which is a non event in Spain. I have bought
fruit and I take it with me in the morning since they have a curious
combination of tendencies- breakfast is light, and lunch is usually at 3. So
you eat a light breakfast and have a late lunch. Lunch is also the heaviest
meal of the day, which isn’t my cup of tea, although I am adapting to the
custom. I’m usually adapting to it by eating a heavy lunch and a heavy dinner. The
problem with it is that it really encourages the siesta, especially when it is
hot, which it always is.
I know it is unbearably hot in Virginia right now and all I
can say is I feel your pain, rendered in the best Bill Clinton vapid statement
of empathy style. No, seriously, I have been thinking about how hellish it must
be to have to go outside in those temperatures. So Godspeed and drink lots of
water. Better yet, adapt a water IV regimen.
Madrid on the day I publish this very late at a time with one digit and something
I lied about the phone. It appears I am banned and locked out of my account and I can't use it unless I just get raped by the international roaming charges. So I am sorry. Skype may be the best option for real time conversations.
Goodnight. I say a little prayer for you.
No comments:
Post a Comment