the first several pages had me already suspicious that i’d missed the boat, but of course the boat was full anyway, as the american repatriation authority constantly reminds immigrants in the book and as its author is constantly intimating about the real life (as in outside his book) accessibility of lifestyle hub new york. all of the important media bits on super sad true love story (i.e. the ones that had any chance of getting noticed) went up or out last year (and the originators of the unnoticeable ones that circulated at the same time could console themselves that they’d been involved in the moment, if however insignificantly). but there are those people occupying [ref. my hesitation to put that in quotes] wall street and the streets of all those other cities in the states to protest the corporate ownership of the united states government; and maybe that means the beginning of a real life rupture, that we’re finally at a tipping point -- and maybe the spoils will topple down on the side of the low net worth individuals (unlike in the book), since (unlike in the book) they were the instigators of the conflict when things came to blows. dunno. i’m not there. for richer or poorer, i’ve put myself on another boat.
but, last week, super sad true love story was the only book left in the apartment in a language that i could read, in other words the last book immediately available to me that i wouldn’t have to pay for; the last book aside from that one on the development of the japanese new wave and the birth of the art theater guild by toshio matsumoto that i should have passed on to someone who would have read it after nearly a year of letting it sit face down, open to page three on the filing cabinet that was my nightstand at the apartment in the old country. the idea, however, of reading a book in japanese that described the histories of the french and italian new waves at a beach on the coast of spain -- and the idea of being able to talk about that idea -- was enough for me to accept the extra weight in my suitcase. it was enough, even for knowing beyond most foreseeable doubts that the book would probably stay unread, and that if the computer somehow found its way to the beach that there probably wouldn’t be a wireless signal for gloating. but i could still gloat at being in possession of such an erudite “media artifact” as the one(s) i had, and for that i could also sympathize with lenny abramov’s anachronistic fondness for his books in super sad true love story.
of course, super sad true love story, as a depiction of a near future (credit score and streaming media driven) dystopia, is supposed to make you smile and nod at how similar (if in some cases farcically so) the lives of its characters are to your own. (the copy i read went to italy early this morning, but i think i remember something on the jacket positioning the book as if nabokov had written 1984.) the problem is that the future gets old, or any one future does, as soon as the future comes to take its place, and once that happens (and i feared within the first several pages of super sad true love story that it might already have) a book like this one can’t hold on to its urgency and, without its timeliness, loses itself until the discussion on it is reopened a decade and a half later as a way of understanding the intellectual history of the past (which is actually how the unnecessarily sentimental epilogue to super sad true love story positions the story of the book). the future gets old, and the future gets old at the same speed as we canonize a fancifully nostalgic image of the past.
and so I put myself on that beach in hindsight, and it was a greater moment even that it ever could have been in anticipation. the protagonist of (the other) murakami’s almost transparent blue gets things on in that book with an american named lily, the woman who writes the protagonist the letter that comprises the final text of the novel. lily has gone off, and there’s something in her letter about a beach, or at least there’s something suggested in reference to something from earlier in the book, and that’s why murakami’s second novel is loosely considered a sequel to his first, because it begins with a description of a woman on a beach, a redhead like lily who’se thinking or reading or doing something pensive like lily would probably do (and i’m sure that there’s something more concrete to the connection, but neither of the books came with me, and we’re going to go with that there isn’t a wireless signal at the beach). but the exact connection isn’t all that important, because the woman at the beach isn’t all that important to the book except that hers is the perspective and imagination from which things start happening across the ocean in front of which she’s sitting. and there i was at the beach, a detached and pensive secondary character in my own story, reading my book on the japanese new wave and watching a war break out across the ocean (the title of murakami’s second book) just like lily had, in my case a rupture similar to the one in super sad true love story.
and from there? in murakami’s book, the perspective on the action jumps its way around to finally find lily back at the beach, which is where it finds us -- i suppose we never left me there -- still thinking about how to talk about a book that probably isn’t worth talking about anymore. except (except!) for about that yearning nostalgia for an intelligent america in which reading was valued and new york city was an unassailable beacon of honest ambition. even i shed a tear for that place i visited that one time only for how i imagine myself to have been feeling at the time that was that one only time. but who was i to judge, sitting on that spanish beach pondering the value of literary fiction for the here and now in the ugly -- and lengthening -- shadow of gertrude stein and ernest hemmingway.
so away from the beach. but there isn’t an open internet signal here at the metropol parasol in the plaza de la encarnacion either, and, as one of the self-inflicted casualties of the rupture in super sad true love story writes in his suicide note, without connectivity we’re stuck with just “walls and thoughts and faces.” lenny abramov tells his diary about the honest sympathy he felt for that sentiment, even as (or because of being?) a lover of introspection and media artifacts. too bad the feel good sentiments of the epilogue, which takes place after lenny’s diary has been published, have to rob that sympathy of its vulnerable dignity. or something like that, stark and poignant like the end of super sad true love story isn’t. but then who cares? that boat was already full, and i’d long since missed it anyway. better not to draw attention to my lateness in coming. better next time just to buy what i’d prefer to read, timely or not and shut up about it. so i take my headphones out of my ears to be able to put the computer in my bag with my notebooks and things (but not the copy of super sad true love story that i read, because it went to italy this morning). and i fucking shit you not: in the plaza, bruce springstein is singing “born in the u.s.a.”
Friday, October 7, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
(UNA SEMANA EN) MA VIE EN PISOS
inspirado en una historia verídica...
no recuerdo cuantos dueños yo llamé la semana pasada. demasiados. no recuerdo cuantos pisos yo fui a ver con mi compañera. no, sí Recuerdo, fueron siete. y había algo mal con todos. el primero piso era bonito y el precio por mes era más barato que la mayoría, pero cuando yo lo visité, el dueño dijo algo sobre una nómina. ¿qué fue? no entendí. despues de nuestra conversación, me preocupaba que mis documentos no fueran suficiente para ese dueño, y por eso yo no traté de alquilar su piso. (¡y qué pena! el dueño era guapo…) los otros pisos eran feos, o si eran bonitos no estaban amueblados, o en el caso de uno, estaba manejado por una mujer muy loca y glotona. y el vencimiento de mi arrendamiento se estaba acercando… Hasta con la ayuda de mi amiga – que llamaba a los dueños por teléfono y me servía de matona – no podía encontrar una situación ideal. en el fin, yo tomé el piso de algunos amigos de mi amiga. ellos pueden hablar inglés, y yo podría haber evitado todas las dificultades con los dueños y sus pisos si en el principio hubiese tomado ese piso. bueno. por lo menos, yo he podido practicar mi español. ¿dónde fue el dueño de ese primero piso?
no recuerdo cuantos dueños yo llamé la semana pasada. demasiados. no recuerdo cuantos pisos yo fui a ver con mi compañera. no, sí Recuerdo, fueron siete. y había algo mal con todos. el primero piso era bonito y el precio por mes era más barato que la mayoría, pero cuando yo lo visité, el dueño dijo algo sobre una nómina. ¿qué fue? no entendí. despues de nuestra conversación, me preocupaba que mis documentos no fueran suficiente para ese dueño, y por eso yo no traté de alquilar su piso. (¡y qué pena! el dueño era guapo…) los otros pisos eran feos, o si eran bonitos no estaban amueblados, o en el caso de uno, estaba manejado por una mujer muy loca y glotona. y el vencimiento de mi arrendamiento se estaba acercando… Hasta con la ayuda de mi amiga – que llamaba a los dueños por teléfono y me servía de matona – no podía encontrar una situación ideal. en el fin, yo tomé el piso de algunos amigos de mi amiga. ellos pueden hablar inglés, y yo podría haber evitado todas las dificultades con los dueños y sus pisos si en el principio hubiese tomado ese piso. bueno. por lo menos, yo he podido practicar mi español. ¿dónde fue el dueño de ese primero piso?
Monday, October 3, 2011
HOW TO GRIN AND BEER IT -- OR WINE; or, CRUZCAMPO IS ONLY GOOD FOR BAD PUNS
the beer in spain would be awful. we knew that. unfortunately, knowing wasn't much of the battle when it came to experiencing and accepting the reality of the situation. and the reality of the situation is that spain only seems to have one beer, a "premium lager" of the quality that you'd expect from a beer with that written on the label. the labels sometimes say cruzcampo, but they sometimes also say alhambra or estrella del sur. dia even sells bottles of its own brand for significantly cheaper than the rest, and you might as well get your liters of that if you're buying beer at dia, because all of the brands taste the same: not great. there's probably just the one big beer factory somewhere that makes bottles and bottles of all of spain's premium lager and then ships them to the different labeling factories. there's a place on feria that has a few taps of somethings german, but if glasses (glasses!) of cruzcampo are one euro fifty, who knows what a place would charge for a pint of premium lager imported from two countries away. anyway, you can get a glass of house wine for a euro ten. it isn't much against the heat, but it does some kind of job. maybe not the best for enjoying the thursday garbage picnic at midday, but there's a dia right near the picnickers, only then you still have to do the chilling yourself.
those glasses of house wine have heard more than their share of sighs. it's not even their fault. and of course the old country is completely out of mind when we're walking back to stick those warm bottles in the freezer. the old country was nothing but strife. this new world of unemployment has everything more exciting to offer in the way of bohemian vogue. but if someone wants to send a bottle of super dog, i wouldn't consider it a backward step to drink it. we're moving to calle becquer. you can have the address as soon as i have it exact.
those glasses of house wine have heard more than their share of sighs. it's not even their fault. and of course the old country is completely out of mind when we're walking back to stick those warm bottles in the freezer. the old country was nothing but strife. this new world of unemployment has everything more exciting to offer in the way of bohemian vogue. but if someone wants to send a bottle of super dog, i wouldn't consider it a backward step to drink it. we're moving to calle becquer. you can have the address as soon as i have it exact.
Friday, September 30, 2011
TALK TO HIM; or, HOW TO SPEAK SEVILLANO
never lapse from the imperative. and keep everyone involved in the conversation spitting your game. use: "mira!" "oye!" and make sure that everyone knows that what you're doing is for everyone's benefit (which, of course, includes yours, but don't say so in so many words). don't ask: tell. remind them that you're the cousin or the neighbor or the ex-lover of the niece's best friend's godmother's children's piano teacher and that you're more than entitled to a discount or an exclusion or just this little exception just this once. then reason if necessary: use "hombre" (if you haven't already and forgetting for once to pay attention to gender) to let whoever it is that might be doubting you know that you're on equal footing, that you're on the level -- and that you couldn't possibly get by with anything less than what you're asking. (just don't use it like "dude" unless that's what you're trying to mean.) and don't waste your time with pleasantries, because you'll just be wasting the time of the people who really just want to know what it is that you want. don't, that is, until you're saying goodbye, at which time spread those pleasantries thick like sobrasado. make your interlocutors hang up, leave you first. add another "ciao" or another double aspirated "adios." make them want it. and keep them wanting more. just don't forget the balance of accounts: that is, take care to keep that footing equal, on the level.
como yo: speak sevillano. or try, at least! sink or swim, chicas. go ahead. talk to him.
como yo: speak sevillano. or try, at least! sink or swim, chicas. go ahead. talk to him.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
SON LOS TOREROS, part 2
yesterday, the front page of el país (i inadvertently stole it -- it was inadvertent, i swear -- from the cafe when i thought that i was in fact helping the staff by removing for them some of the garbage left behind by another customer) featured an article on the end of the bullfighting season in catalonia, which this year also marked the death (as the paper put it, although i didn't get much further than the headline) of bullfighting in that autonomous community as a result of the catalonian parliament's having voted to ban it earlier this summer. the front page photo, which occupied most of the space on the page above the fold -- and relegated an article on the left taking the french senate for the first time since 1958 to a narrow column on the right -- showed a jubilant crowd carrying a smiling matador out of the bullring, behind him a large flag demanding (in catalan of course), "libertat per a la nostra cultura."
it was clear from his fight with his first bull that josé maría manzanares wasn't likely to win the honor of being carried out of the real maestranza on sunday evening, be damned the expectations and excitement of the end of the season, even at this, the oldest ring in the country. although he was not to be outdone for style in his suit of maroon, manzanares almost completely missed his mark when he went in with his sword for the kill, and his adversary, though wounded, bucked the blade out of its back and stumbled pathetically toward another charge, its miserable condition a certain reflection of the matador's poor technique, which ultimately required that the bull be taken down unceremoniously with a stab to the head by an attendant. the bands didn't play nearly as triumphantly as they had after the first two fights, even for the three swords it took matador number one to finish his job (which, it seemed, we should have assumed to be done less spectacularly than those of the men with the better billings).
but there was certainly no love lost for manzanares over his initially poor showing. in definitely didn't keep us from leaving our seats in the alto sol section across from the royal box -- which we couldn't actually see from where we'd been sitting for the imposition of the pillars of the eave over our section -- to squeeze ourselves behind the security guards protecting one of the portals onto the lower, better seats in hopes of being able to better see his face as he faced off against his second bull.
by the time of that fight, at roughly eight, the sun had set to where it was just barely visible over the upper edge of the maestranza on the opposite side of the ring. we weren't able to see as much of the action at large as we had been from a higher vantage, and that was no doubt in large part due to our having to stretch up to grab the railings beside the the stairs of the portal to keep ourselves on tiptoe and as much of a head as possible above the other spectators crowded behind the guards. (graciously, when they realized it was for a photo opportunity, they did allow us momentary access onto the aisle to get a picture of the big hat under the waning sunlight, that hat that had been come by through so much difficulty only to find itself solidly in the shade when we found our seats.)
it seemed obvious that it should when presented with the reality -- they are, after all, called suits of lights -- but from closer on it was actually possible to see that maroon suit of manzanares' shine, its adornments of mirrored glass sparkling toward every direction even when the matador appeared to be completely still. and even if parts of that last fight were obscured (although probably no more than other parts would have been obscured by those pillars up in alto sol), our position for bull number six and for manzanares' redemption couldn't have been better, if only for understanding (or deciding to appreciate, maybe) the spectacularity of the spectacle of the bullfight. the sparkling matador as he struts around the ring, especially when with his back to the bull after having led it through a half dozen passes, the crowd having risen from its hush to clap and cheer only to be hushed again by an ardent insistence from within its ranks as the matador replaces his sword behind the muleta and stares down the bull for another go. and the bull seems then to be just a given in the setting of the scene, the setting for the real spectacle, which is played out between the matadors and the fans in the crowd. and there's a pun there, at least for talking about the bullring in sevilla where, shade or sun, at least half of the crowd seems to be fanning itself at all times, which is a sight to see in itself -- and perhaps one of the only things seen best, in wide angle panorama, from the cheap seats highest up. and at least in sevilla the popular claim by bullfighting opponents that the spectacle is favored principally by foreign tourists is proven entirely untrue. maybe it was just for manzanares and only for the social cachet of having seen him fight at the maestranza at the close of this historic season, but the identifiable tourists seemed all to have left the ring by bull number four, and that left the maestranza still looking completely full, full of fans with their fans, many of them dressed -- not to rival the matadors -- but still to kill; many of them minors, and all of them with rapt attention for their next cue of the show.
and we followed the most devoted (or maybe just the most enchanted) of them to the gate from which the matadors would leave after the sixth bull went down. manzanares wasn't going to be carried out, but he'd still have to leave, and we were there with the others pressing the shutter buttons of our digital cameras in rapid fire succession when he did. neither of us were so bold as to grab one of his arms to pull him into the frame of a photograph, or we didn't realize that we could have been so brazen until after the crowd had swelled around him and we were being pushed to its periphery as manzanares' entourage pushed him toward the mercedes van that was waiting to collect him at the end of the street, the van out of which one of the entourage was passing photographs of the matador staring down a bull, promotional materials for the new www.josemariamanzanares.com. we were among the devoted who pushed our way back to the center of the crowd and up to the window of the van to fight the flurry of hands to grab our trophies, which we then carried proudly through the crowded, twilit streets of santa cruz, the bars and restaurants of which, already dense with the impeccably groomed heirs to the sevillian upper crust (the ones who hadn't chased manzanares to his van had apparently gone ahead to save seats), seemed to be caught somewhere between the spanish versions of a derby party and the prom. it was lucky we had the hat.
i didn't get far enough into that article in el país to find out if the air around the ring in barcelona was so rarified, but it probably didn't say. no doubt there were confrontations between the saddened supporters of that last fight and their detractors outside of the ring. ironically, had they all been in sevilla, where the bullfight seems to be entirely safe from assault, there would have been shit aplenty for them to hurl at each other, even on the streets of santa cruz. in that front page photo, the matador being carried out of the ring in barcelona is smiling, but his smile seems already tinged with nostalgia, even if he still has the chance to be carried out of other fights during other seasons at other rings. and the sevillanos will be happy to do the carrying. that's the feeling that the price of admission to the plaza de los toros la maestranza bought us, anyway. or maybe we'd just been blinded by the brilliance of the light from those suits. son los toreros. looking damn fine in those pants.
it was clear from his fight with his first bull that josé maría manzanares wasn't likely to win the honor of being carried out of the real maestranza on sunday evening, be damned the expectations and excitement of the end of the season, even at this, the oldest ring in the country. although he was not to be outdone for style in his suit of maroon, manzanares almost completely missed his mark when he went in with his sword for the kill, and his adversary, though wounded, bucked the blade out of its back and stumbled pathetically toward another charge, its miserable condition a certain reflection of the matador's poor technique, which ultimately required that the bull be taken down unceremoniously with a stab to the head by an attendant. the bands didn't play nearly as triumphantly as they had after the first two fights, even for the three swords it took matador number one to finish his job (which, it seemed, we should have assumed to be done less spectacularly than those of the men with the better billings).
but there was certainly no love lost for manzanares over his initially poor showing. in definitely didn't keep us from leaving our seats in the alto sol section across from the royal box -- which we couldn't actually see from where we'd been sitting for the imposition of the pillars of the eave over our section -- to squeeze ourselves behind the security guards protecting one of the portals onto the lower, better seats in hopes of being able to better see his face as he faced off against his second bull.
by the time of that fight, at roughly eight, the sun had set to where it was just barely visible over the upper edge of the maestranza on the opposite side of the ring. we weren't able to see as much of the action at large as we had been from a higher vantage, and that was no doubt in large part due to our having to stretch up to grab the railings beside the the stairs of the portal to keep ourselves on tiptoe and as much of a head as possible above the other spectators crowded behind the guards. (graciously, when they realized it was for a photo opportunity, they did allow us momentary access onto the aisle to get a picture of the big hat under the waning sunlight, that hat that had been come by through so much difficulty only to find itself solidly in the shade when we found our seats.)
it seemed obvious that it should when presented with the reality -- they are, after all, called suits of lights -- but from closer on it was actually possible to see that maroon suit of manzanares' shine, its adornments of mirrored glass sparkling toward every direction even when the matador appeared to be completely still. and even if parts of that last fight were obscured (although probably no more than other parts would have been obscured by those pillars up in alto sol), our position for bull number six and for manzanares' redemption couldn't have been better, if only for understanding (or deciding to appreciate, maybe) the spectacularity of the spectacle of the bullfight. the sparkling matador as he struts around the ring, especially when with his back to the bull after having led it through a half dozen passes, the crowd having risen from its hush to clap and cheer only to be hushed again by an ardent insistence from within its ranks as the matador replaces his sword behind the muleta and stares down the bull for another go. and the bull seems then to be just a given in the setting of the scene, the setting for the real spectacle, which is played out between the matadors and the fans in the crowd. and there's a pun there, at least for talking about the bullring in sevilla where, shade or sun, at least half of the crowd seems to be fanning itself at all times, which is a sight to see in itself -- and perhaps one of the only things seen best, in wide angle panorama, from the cheap seats highest up. and at least in sevilla the popular claim by bullfighting opponents that the spectacle is favored principally by foreign tourists is proven entirely untrue. maybe it was just for manzanares and only for the social cachet of having seen him fight at the maestranza at the close of this historic season, but the identifiable tourists seemed all to have left the ring by bull number four, and that left the maestranza still looking completely full, full of fans with their fans, many of them dressed -- not to rival the matadors -- but still to kill; many of them minors, and all of them with rapt attention for their next cue of the show.
and we followed the most devoted (or maybe just the most enchanted) of them to the gate from which the matadors would leave after the sixth bull went down. manzanares wasn't going to be carried out, but he'd still have to leave, and we were there with the others pressing the shutter buttons of our digital cameras in rapid fire succession when he did. neither of us were so bold as to grab one of his arms to pull him into the frame of a photograph, or we didn't realize that we could have been so brazen until after the crowd had swelled around him and we were being pushed to its periphery as manzanares' entourage pushed him toward the mercedes van that was waiting to collect him at the end of the street, the van out of which one of the entourage was passing photographs of the matador staring down a bull, promotional materials for the new www.josemariamanzanares.com. we were among the devoted who pushed our way back to the center of the crowd and up to the window of the van to fight the flurry of hands to grab our trophies, which we then carried proudly through the crowded, twilit streets of santa cruz, the bars and restaurants of which, already dense with the impeccably groomed heirs to the sevillian upper crust (the ones who hadn't chased manzanares to his van had apparently gone ahead to save seats), seemed to be caught somewhere between the spanish versions of a derby party and the prom. it was lucky we had the hat.
i didn't get far enough into that article in el país to find out if the air around the ring in barcelona was so rarified, but it probably didn't say. no doubt there were confrontations between the saddened supporters of that last fight and their detractors outside of the ring. ironically, had they all been in sevilla, where the bullfight seems to be entirely safe from assault, there would have been shit aplenty for them to hurl at each other, even on the streets of santa cruz. in that front page photo, the matador being carried out of the ring in barcelona is smiling, but his smile seems already tinged with nostalgia, even if he still has the chance to be carried out of other fights during other seasons at other rings. and the sevillanos will be happy to do the carrying. that's the feeling that the price of admission to the plaza de los toros la maestranza bought us, anyway. or maybe we'd just been blinded by the brilliance of the light from those suits. son los toreros. looking damn fine in those pants.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
LA GASEOSA
the streets were particularly shitty this morning -- littered with specimens of all varieties -- but people would have been understandably tired this morning as most of the city seemed to have been out last night. not that the heat has ever seemed to keep people inside after nightfall, but the overtones of fall that were everywhere in the air yesterday evening did seem to have ignited something in the sevillian populace. maybe it was just the incitement to dress for fall. and maybe it was the cooler air that made this morning's first-step-onto-the-street blast of crap-fresh air so assaulting, though it's also true that there's no reason to think that the sidewalks would have been any cleaner had the city retired early. had i not been on the other side of the street from him i would have asked the man i saw picking up after his dog the other day if he didn't realize that he didn't have to.
but who could have been upset with this easy sunday morning, which has now given itself over to an equally mild afternoon. it's probably still too early in late summer for it not to be oppressive under the direct sun at one, but hopefully that will have changed by six for the start of the bullfight (manzanares or not, the tickets in the shaded sections are expensive). granted, after two consectutive nights of trying (with middling success) to find a spanish social life, the morning could have gone either way, regardless of how permissive the climate (social or meteorological). in attempts not to repeat the failures of the two previous weekends, which saw us heading home tired just when the action on the streets was picking up, the last two nights we've committed ourselves to bed at nine p.m. so that we could head out after midnight and rested. but getting up from a late evening nap isn't the easiest thing to do if you're not used to it, particularly if what's waiting for you outside of bed is...well, you don't know what's waiting for you, and so maybe you should stay in bed, even if so far your nights out have been encouragingly informative and inexpensive despite their early termination. but you get yourself out of bed and shower with the slightly stomach sick and drowsy foreboding of having to catch an early flight before which you'd decided not to sleep but then couldn't imagine having to face without a little rest for your eyes. having to look good in pants all day (which in late summer still chafes under the midday sun) and then doing it all night knowing that it's going to be expected of you tomorrow is hard work.
of course, there are ways to make it easier. working harder and smarter, although it's still up in the air as to whether the nine to eleven second siestas are very smart, especially since the hard part of making things easier is downing the first couple of rounds at home after that shower (or maybe during if you're short on time). you don't get away with having a full night out on a handful of coins by paying for a bunch of drinks at the bars. luckily, there's a dia right down the street from the apartment. it doesn't seem possible to get a complete haul of groceries from any of the stores of that particular chain supermarkets (or even the makings of a complete meal), but most people do seem just to use them to get what they forgot at the fresher markets. i thought that perhaps that the staff was looking down on me for only ever buying cartons of orange juice and two liter green plastic jugs of tinto (and tinto now refers not to red wine in general but to the stuff that comes in those jugs) until i saw a man whose complete purchase consisted of six forties, a bag of dog food and an economy sized package of toilet paper. (i nearly lost my dia privileges when i burst into unsuppressible laughter at seeing him unload his basket, but really, imagine how much he must shit after chasing all that dog food with all of that beer!)
my standard order increased by one item last night when i found the shelf of dia brand sparkling water at the end of the dairy aisle. one euro seventy-eight is a steal for two liters of tinto, but twenty-eight cents for one and a half of bubbly mixer isn't too shabby either. and you'll probably have to see it yourself to believe that it's called gaseosa. and that's appropriate, probably, because after a couple of mugs of it mixed with that orange juice and that tinto, the gaseosa will be moving in you too. maybe that's what they're giving to the dogs. (w)oof. it did the trick, even if last night didn't end any later than any of the others. we've got dancing we can do on our own, anyway, and at least some new inspiration. la gaseosa. alone in front of the mirror in between third siesta and the coming morning, i think i'd found my flamenco name.
but who could have been upset with this easy sunday morning, which has now given itself over to an equally mild afternoon. it's probably still too early in late summer for it not to be oppressive under the direct sun at one, but hopefully that will have changed by six for the start of the bullfight (manzanares or not, the tickets in the shaded sections are expensive). granted, after two consectutive nights of trying (with middling success) to find a spanish social life, the morning could have gone either way, regardless of how permissive the climate (social or meteorological). in attempts not to repeat the failures of the two previous weekends, which saw us heading home tired just when the action on the streets was picking up, the last two nights we've committed ourselves to bed at nine p.m. so that we could head out after midnight and rested. but getting up from a late evening nap isn't the easiest thing to do if you're not used to it, particularly if what's waiting for you outside of bed is...well, you don't know what's waiting for you, and so maybe you should stay in bed, even if so far your nights out have been encouragingly informative and inexpensive despite their early termination. but you get yourself out of bed and shower with the slightly stomach sick and drowsy foreboding of having to catch an early flight before which you'd decided not to sleep but then couldn't imagine having to face without a little rest for your eyes. having to look good in pants all day (which in late summer still chafes under the midday sun) and then doing it all night knowing that it's going to be expected of you tomorrow is hard work.
of course, there are ways to make it easier. working harder and smarter, although it's still up in the air as to whether the nine to eleven second siestas are very smart, especially since the hard part of making things easier is downing the first couple of rounds at home after that shower (or maybe during if you're short on time). you don't get away with having a full night out on a handful of coins by paying for a bunch of drinks at the bars. luckily, there's a dia right down the street from the apartment. it doesn't seem possible to get a complete haul of groceries from any of the stores of that particular chain supermarkets (or even the makings of a complete meal), but most people do seem just to use them to get what they forgot at the fresher markets. i thought that perhaps that the staff was looking down on me for only ever buying cartons of orange juice and two liter green plastic jugs of tinto (and tinto now refers not to red wine in general but to the stuff that comes in those jugs) until i saw a man whose complete purchase consisted of six forties, a bag of dog food and an economy sized package of toilet paper. (i nearly lost my dia privileges when i burst into unsuppressible laughter at seeing him unload his basket, but really, imagine how much he must shit after chasing all that dog food with all of that beer!)
my standard order increased by one item last night when i found the shelf of dia brand sparkling water at the end of the dairy aisle. one euro seventy-eight is a steal for two liters of tinto, but twenty-eight cents for one and a half of bubbly mixer isn't too shabby either. and you'll probably have to see it yourself to believe that it's called gaseosa. and that's appropriate, probably, because after a couple of mugs of it mixed with that orange juice and that tinto, the gaseosa will be moving in you too. maybe that's what they're giving to the dogs. (w)oof. it did the trick, even if last night didn't end any later than any of the others. we've got dancing we can do on our own, anyway, and at least some new inspiration. la gaseosa. alone in front of the mirror in between third siesta and the coming morning, i think i'd found my flamenco name.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
GARBAGE PICNIC ESPAÑOLA
although its posted hours do include thursday mornings after ten, the bicicleteria wasn’t open this morning when i went with hopes of getting a coffee and the low down on the wi-fi situation for club members -- and also maybe on the situation with the apartment upstairs. then again, neither had either of the bars that we wanted to check out been open when we visited them last night, so i’d already decided to expect a shuttered entryway. what was this, though, that was blocking traffic up and down three blocks of calle feria and into the plaza next to the dia supermarket?!? no! could it possibly…?
a huge neighborhood yarsel! complete with old typewriters and televisions, vhs camcorders and cassettes, and furniture and glassware that surely looked better inside of whatever apartment it came from than it did out on the street next to all the piles of trash. oh the irony of having given all of ours away that we couldn’t sell at our own garbage picnic just to have enough to scrape by, to look at all of the wonderful things on offer at this new world yarsel but not to buy.
and what a land of plenty. every rusticated iron key and pre-euro coin on the continent must have been on those tables and blankets, just waiting for the right aspiring jeweler to remove them to brooklyn. and you know that you’ve wanted a gaudy wooden crucifix ever since you saw the robin williams version of “the bird cage.” well you’d have had your pick of dozens. and novelty key rings, vintage photographs and sun faded posters announcing bygone bullfights and ferias. no, i don’t have forty-five euro to pay for that poster if it isn’t sold. but how am i supposed to look at them if i can’t leaf through them? i was, however, respectful of the event and just waved my hand not with a dumb, happy grin.
the stuff was good but not necessarily cheap. still, i managed to find a rusted old key for just a euro, which was three or five times less than most of them were going for (the yarselers here seem know their business and their customers well). i can only imagine what the key was for, but i did appreciate imagining as i handed over my one euro coin to the man behind the table: it would be the first key i’d have of my own since leaving those to the old apartment and my bike lock back west and selling nearly everything else. and i let myself entertain the thought that the man had given me a special price so that he could make this one special sale that would let him share in a special moment with a hopeful stranger. then i took my key and walked away down the block and stepped in some shit.
if the man with the posters could have seen, i’ll bet he was laughing.
a huge neighborhood yarsel! complete with old typewriters and televisions, vhs camcorders and cassettes, and furniture and glassware that surely looked better inside of whatever apartment it came from than it did out on the street next to all the piles of trash. oh the irony of having given all of ours away that we couldn’t sell at our own garbage picnic just to have enough to scrape by, to look at all of the wonderful things on offer at this new world yarsel but not to buy.
and what a land of plenty. every rusticated iron key and pre-euro coin on the continent must have been on those tables and blankets, just waiting for the right aspiring jeweler to remove them to brooklyn. and you know that you’ve wanted a gaudy wooden crucifix ever since you saw the robin williams version of “the bird cage.” well you’d have had your pick of dozens. and novelty key rings, vintage photographs and sun faded posters announcing bygone bullfights and ferias. no, i don’t have forty-five euro to pay for that poster if it isn’t sold. but how am i supposed to look at them if i can’t leaf through them? i was, however, respectful of the event and just waved my hand not with a dumb, happy grin.
the stuff was good but not necessarily cheap. still, i managed to find a rusted old key for just a euro, which was three or five times less than most of them were going for (the yarselers here seem know their business and their customers well). i can only imagine what the key was for, but i did appreciate imagining as i handed over my one euro coin to the man behind the table: it would be the first key i’d have of my own since leaving those to the old apartment and my bike lock back west and selling nearly everything else. and i let myself entertain the thought that the man had given me a special price so that he could make this one special sale that would let him share in a special moment with a hopeful stranger. then i took my key and walked away down the block and stepped in some shit.
if the man with the posters could have seen, i’ll bet he was laughing.
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