Books, Madrid and Spring

AOG, Madrid

Spring has arrived in Madrid. Or so it would appear. After many weeks of cold weather, and sunny skies (a local specialty), the past couple of days have been warmer. Last night I walked home from work with my sweater on and arrived blistering hot. I leave the office around 10:30 at night.

I started walking home about two weeks ago. I need the exercise but the walk allows me to gather my thoughts before getting home and it also shows me a different face of Madrid.

I work in a very elegant neighbourhood and I enjoy looking at all the architectural styles the Salamanca quarter of Madrid has to offer. It was built in the XIX century and from the start it has been where rich Spanish and foreign citizens liked to dwell.

Often I look up and see the beautiful juxtaposition of Art Deco, pre Civil War buildings standing next to turn-of-the-century French style buildings, the odd church, private school or Palace -like the amazing Italian embassy, probably Madrid’s most beautiful embassy building, also known as the Amboage palace.

Last night, as had happened all throughout the day, I could see pollen wafting around the air. I did not notice this last year. I’ve read is plantain pollen. It is fluffy and rather big.

The other sign that Spring has arrived is the opening of Madrid’s Old Books Fair, on Castellana Boulevard.

About 30 stands display their wares and I cant help myself from being naturally drawn to them.

I like to walk around and peruse the remnants of Spain’s literary past. But not only Spain. Often you can find American, French and British novels, Franco-era guides and political documents, old Spanish Stocks and bonds, German art tomes, modern reproductions of XVI century maps of Madrid, as well as a myriad of worn, heavy and probably priceless leather bound books. For me, the covers alone make would be reason enough to buy them.

The first time I went, (last week), there was a gentleman who went from stand to stand asking if they had anything on the Philippines. As long as he hovered around me, nobody did. I wanted to ask him if he was a historian, or, at least, why the interest in that country.

The Philippines, although a one-time colony of Spain, does not really get a lot of airtime in Spain these days. It could be the fact that, unlike the other colonies, it lost the ability to speak Spanish after it was lost to the US in 1898.

Last Sunday I went there again. I saw a book on the Canadian Perception of the American Civil War, written in the 1970s. It looked very interesting and thought about purchasing it. But I didn’t.

Today I had 30 minutes to kill, and couldn’t wait for the stands to open- which they do at 11 am. The book was still there. Four Euros later, it was mine. I find it fascinating. One never reads much on US-Canadian relations.

I also bought a couple of old National Geographics…three for five Euros. One of them had an article on Mexico; the other on the Panama Canal; and the last one on Rio de Janeiro. There was another on Air Safety and West Germany, but I went with a Hispanic theme.

I also saw a beautiful book on Mexico, printed by Mexico’s Italian Institute back in

the 1930s. The photographs were something else. As was the 200 Euros price. But there were more.

I love cartography and maps. I saw two gigantic Atlases of Spain circa 1980s, the price of which I was too afraid to ask. I also spotted art book after luxurious art book on Madrid’s Prado museum. About one per decade since 1900. At one point I was Prado’d out. There are other museums in Spain, though, true, none as important, invaluable or famous.

I will be leaving my desk in a little while. I look forward to seeing something new tonight as I stroll home.

Saint John's night

AOG, Madrid

I have just experienced a magical and pagan night, unexpected, but welcome.

Tonight was St. John's night- alias the Summer solstice- the shortest night of the year. In Spain, they like to celebrate this date by making bonfires and jumping over them. It has all sort of magical connotations to do so.

I have spent a couple of hours in Las Vistillas, a park behind the San Francisco el Grande Church, not too far from Madrid's royal Oriente Palace.

The church itself is famous because it is believed that St. Francis of Assisi once lived there inside a hut, back in the XIIth century on his way to Santiago de Compostela. It is a large building, neoclassical mostly, and it reminds me of a similar church in London's Knightsbridge- the Brompton Oratory.

Behind San Francisco's walls, perched as it is on the edge of a hill, there descends all the way down to the Manzanares river a park and garden called Las Vistillas.

It is there that the citizens of Madrid congregate to spend the shortest night of the year amidst a combination of Christian calendar date and profane ceremony.

So tonight was a special night. Pagan ritual aside- you must write a wish on a piece of paper, throw it in the fire, then jump over it- there was a great atmosphere.

People were playing drums, singing, laughing and drinking. Friends and strangers walked around from bonfire to bonfire, taking their turn to jump, or to throw something unto the fire, be it wishes or a piece of wood. Some where modest and some were a proper inferno! I suppose that if you are making a purifying bonfire, the bigger the better. One in particular, to my mind, was getting slightly out of hand, but it was a sight to behold. A large burning pyre with flames ever towering in size over people. Ritualistic and enthralling. Some people began to chant. At that point I had to smirk slightly. Here we were, almost all of us Western European, or at least, Western, and suddenly a dreadlocked girl, probably from Madrid, dressed in hippy garb which would not be out of place in Camden, starts to chant gibberish. Hala, ohelo, hala. Some of her friends did the same. I thought it was funny, but in the spirit of the evening, I moved on.

To top it all off, there was a thunderstorm in full swing. We arrived (my improv teacher, a classmate and I) just after it had stopped raining and the ground was very wet and sloshy.

The air was cool, and the breeze helped to blow away most of the smoke emanating from the bonfires which would have otherwise stayed with us. This is important since some of them were slightly toxic, given that you are also meant to symbolically and physically burn those things you no longer need. In many cases, plastic objects and old suitcases. Thus the toxicity of the affair and the need for a good wind.

Soon after we arrived, another group of friends of ours showed up. They too wanted to purify their soul.

After visiting and jumping over a few bonfires, it started to rain. Not a light rain. A rain of epic proportions reminiscent of the great flood. We went for cover under a tree but decided to leave. The rain only got worse. We decided to leave the bonfires and our friends.

When we got to the car we were soaked. We interpreted it all to be good omens. The fire purifies the soul and the rain cleanses it. All in all a good start to the year. I liked this alternative to the official calendar.

On the way home, for the first time in my life, I witnessed a blackout. I have lived through my fair share of these, but, for some reason, I've always been indoors. This time, however, I was driving through (or being driven through) a street when, suddenly, all lights went out. We drove through a dark avenue for a minute or so. It was very exciting. Something I've never experienced before. It happened again before I was dropped home.

I am feeling quite lucky to have experienced tonight. Next year I'm taking my camera with me. I missed it more than once tonight.

Rats!

Open Mic Madrid

AOG, Madrid

I remember reading a few years ago about Americans living in Prague during the 1990s. There was a small community of college kids (thought not only) living there who found the city fascinating and had created a small literary community. The only drawback, however, was that they cared little for Czech and spoke only English. Or so the author told us.

Yesterday I witnessed the Spanish equivalent of Prague's literary expat community. It was called "The first Mad open Mic" and was organised by Margie Kanter, an American writer who's lived in Spain for more than just a few years.

I have to say that, on my way there, I bumped into a new friend of mine named David. He was moving out of his apartment in central Madrid and moving in with a friend in north-central Madrid. He was letting out his apartment for 1,200 Euros per month and moving into a large spacious place where "We can entertain" with a girl who is a friend of his and was driving the car he had just popped out of as I was walking past.
Needless to say I swiftly invited myself to he up-and-coming entertaining soirées chez David.

Back to poetry.

The event in question was held at the Café Concierto La Fídula on Huertas street. Nice venue but pricey. I had to pay 2.70 Euros for a small bottle of sparkling (fizzy) water. Yes, it was Vichy Catalan, but still.

Aptly enough it is located in Madrid's famous literary neighborhood of "Las Letras"- literally 'The Letters', almost across the street from the Prado museum.

So, what did I see? What did I hear?

I think the person who stood out the most for me was the first reader, Nicholas Thran. Canadian and living in Toronto where he works at a bookshop, he finds the time to write and, even, publish his work. Something I've never been able to do.
He said he liked Roberto Bolaño and dedicated one of his readings to him. Does he know Mr. Bolaño is dead? As it happens, he does know (see replies). I was also surprised to hear he has not visited his mother in five years until now although, as I've been informed, she goes back to Canada once a year. She, by the way, is the one living in Spain. I am very curious as to why. Does she work at the Canadian Embassy in Madrid? When I saw her I certainly thought so; she looks the type.

Then there was Sue Sinclair. Beautiful reading voice. She said how "everything in Spain is more beautiful than back home". She too is Canadian and Mr. Thran's girlfriend.
She read a poem called "Sunburst". Of hers, I liked this line the best: "Seeing objects in their endless sleep" and "A tear in the foil that reflects the God's to themselves".

Then Sue Burke read. Her contribution was a succinct but very well written witty tale about a Spanish man learning English with two different tutors. It made me laugh to hear the short story. I know Sue. I read her blog. Her husband was there too.

After her, a supermodel-type girl named Maria Schock from Ohio went up. More than read, she performed "The memory of a girl". Hers was a poem which blurred the lines between formal poetry and urban rap. I was amazed she could remember her work and not have to read it. I think we all were.

Then a woman named Laura Ferguson read. Margie was playing MC last night, and when it was Laura's turn, she asked after saying her name if the pronunciation was right. I immediately asked myself "in how many different ways can you pronounce 'Laura' in English?" I only know of one.

So Laura read a poem about immigration. A hot topic in Spain. A hot topic in the US too. I thought it was cute that Ms. Ferguson had a slight lisp. I thought it was very interesting that she regaled us with a some personal information through her poetry. It appears she leaves home for work with a book and a pencil. The Spanish seem to find this very odd. She likes to underline her books to ensure the words stay with her for the day. "For life if possible".

Then a lady of unknown origin but very posh-sounding English (with the odd Spanish inference here and there- mostly her consonants) read a short-story in progress: "African love". I unfortunately did not pay enough attention to it since her accent fascinated me. It was slightly like what I remember Lady Bienvenida Buck's faux posh English accent (in the photograph) to be, only one million times better. Susana Aikin's speech certainly enthralled me.

Then Margie's husband read after Marjorie herself read a selection of short poems. The only Spanish artist present to do so. His poem "Stereotypes" stayed with me all night long:

"Women like money
Men like Sex
That is why money and sex
go so well together"

I loved it. We all did.

Then the biggest surprise of the night for me was a girl named Nasima Akaloo. She apologised for using a lot of Spanish words in her work. "Your English gets displaced by Spanish to the point where you don't want to translate any more".

Of herself she said she was "Muslim and more" but didn't speak "Al Arabiya" as her poem told us. I don't know where she was from. Perhaps Pakistan? Her English certainly was at times choppy and foreign throughout- I think her second language, not her first. Amazingly she writes in it. And she writes very well.

Her poem spoke about having to wait in line to sort out her residency papers. About how the Spanish don't understand that she wants to live in Spain and yet she can't abide pork or its derivatives, and I had to be brought down to Earth rather quickly by the fact that not all immigrants are hard working people who are willing to do menial jobs for whatever pay. Here was an artist. I wonder if her employer knows or even cares about this?

I also find it interesting that, whilst all expats there are immigrants, Ms. Akaloo was the only one who felt she was. She certainly was the only one to say so. I think it is to do with that odd trans-ethnic thing where, if you are white and Western, anywhere you live in the Western world is part of your culture, and so, even if you are a midwest farmer living in Portugal, life, though different, is still at its core, somehow familiar to your own culture.

Whereas if you come from the non-Western part of the globe, you will always be an immigrant, unless you, somehow, blend in to the point of "passing for a local". Anglo-Indians in London do it all the time, though I wonder if it works both ways. Do they go to India and blend in? Probably not at first.

Two of the readers failed to show up, although one did but 30 minutes after the affair had died down. British, he was surprised that the flier mentioned it lasted until 22:30 and he arrived around 22:00 or so. Just in time to listen to the person previous to him, and the one just after him. I thought it was a bit rude to show up so late, but he was mostly just upset that he didn't get to read. Was there an excuse? Perhaps, but I didn't hear it. Mostly I saw a man with a pony tail and a black leather jacket sulk. I would like to hear his work at the next open mic, whenever this may be.

All in all, the evening was a success. I was quite happy to have been a part of it. I do hope to take part next time it takes place.

Beggars, artists and Romanians

AOG, Madrid

Last Sunday, I went to a friend's birthday dinner. My improv teacher's boyfriend was hosting a dinner in honor of his turning 30. At least I think that's how old he was turning!

We ate Gnocchi with 2 sauces, and then played a few table games, not without absenting ourselves (Paula, Ana her friend and I) to buy some cigarettes and gossip a bit. Innocent gossip.

When we returned, after scouring the streets of northern Madrid in search of an open bar with a working cigarette machine, we got back to a group of men desiring to play Karaoke on the X-Box.

And so we did.

Afterwards, we did that very Spanish of things, we talked. For hours.

At one point we were discussing Madrid's beggars. How some of these people are part and parcel of the city, and how they have certain areas where they work.

The conversation was odd and peppered with strange protagonists. Some I had knowledge of; others, I had never seen. I had heard of the gypsy thalidomide woman with deformed arms and legs who sits on cardboard and displays herself in all her glory, expecting society to take pity on her.

Then there is the American black musician who plays the saxophone on Callao square, off Madrid's Gran Vía, and right in front of the FNAC store (famous for music, books, DVDs and electronic equipment). As you walk past, he will ask you for money, regardless of whether he is playing a tune or not. He just asks as you walk past. Odd I think.

Then there was the lady beggar who got up from her spot, started to walk up the street, then, stopped, shook her hips slightly, let drop a huge turd, then just continued on her way.

Her, I'd never seen. But I have encountered the small army of Romanian gypsies who pretend to be deaf mutes and walk around with a printed sheet of paper and ask (or rather gesture) for your money. They pretend to belong to an NGO.

They I find a little reprehensible since genuine NGOs carry out the same exercise and have to meet people who have already been fooled once. They have even been on the news a couple of times. And yet, you can see them in central Madrid daily. Pretending to suffer from a disability. Not nice. Not fair. But then, neither is their life probably...

So we continued to trade stories all night long, moving from people with mental problems, to those who hold no sway over the public´s minds.

Today, I was traveling home from giving a class, and saw a young guy doing some juggling at a traffic light. He didn't seem to be doing all that well. Perhaps drivers are not too keen to support struggling artists.

Last night, two of my dinner partners were discussing their life in Madrid. What they do on their spare time, and how spare time is of the necessity. One of them, the lead singer in the band, mentioned how he payed for singing lessons once a week- 38 Euros per hour.

He mentioned in passing that he was going to stop working at the hotel chain where he's been working as accountant for 2 years, and how he was entitled to 8 month's unemployment benefit. "And now, with more free time, I can concentrate more on my singing", he declared.

"If you are in Madrid, you always have to be doing something to further your career. You can't spend your life working in a bar. If you are going to do that, stay in your home town", said Ana- working actress.

I admired them both. I am always glad to be in the presence of talented people.

Then today, I was brought back down to earth when I saw the juggler. I wonder how many lawyers, or teachers or pilots have to moonlight to make their dreams come true?
Why is it that only artists are expected to do other jobs and work twice as hard as anyone else to carry out their vocation?