Another weekend in Madrid, another batch of stories for home.
Unfortunately, my phone went missing in the metro at approximately 5:45 am. That's what happens when you try to go home early in Madrid. A friend called it today and someone answered with "Hola, Luz?" I haven't been lucky enough to get through, and now it has been turned off, surely forever. Thus ends the life of my first Spanish cell phone.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Where Has the Metro Lady Gone?
Here's a little sample of a typical morning for me here in Madrid.
7:30 - Phone alarm goes off.
7:35 - Phone alarm goes off again.
7:37 - "Tricky" phone alarm goes off, the one I set at an odd time the night before to remind me of the importance of things like showering before work and breakfast.
7:37 - Inner debate on the necessity of things like showering before my morning class and having breakfast.
7:42 - "Tricky" alarm goes off again. It's difficult to tell if it's getting lighter outside. Outside my window the light appears just as grey as before reflecting off the building opposite. In fact, no matter how much sun there is outside this is the same shade of grey it will be all day.
7:43 - Shower or breakfast. Never both.
8:05 - Proceed to metro station with a brisk pace. As the practice here seems to be to take up as much space in the sidewalk as possible, this requires a good amount of people dodging. A group of four in the appropriate formation is impassable.
8:10 - Arrive in metro.
Metro Madrid brags constantly about itself. There are still numerous posters up from its fall ad campaign, which shows among other things the Statue of Liberty on her knees staring, dumbfounded, at the metro entrance. There's also one with the Sphinx doing the same thing. I've never been in New York's or Cairo's subway-- I'm not sure if it's really furthers their cause by taking a jab at Egyptian infrastructure (no offense to Egypt, but the ad did come out just after the terrible rockslide)-- but it's true that Madrid system is pretty incredible. A three minute wait is rare in the morning.
One stop to Diego de Leon and then I switch trains, then go three more stops and I'm in Nuevos Ministerios. The trip takes almost exactly 25 minutes, during which I sometimes plan lessons, read, and of course listen to the variety of musicians performing in the halls and trains. Normally these musicians stick to one post, where they arrive punctually and leave at a set time, to be replaced by the next.
For the past 6 months I've listened to the woman sing in the hallway of Diego de Leon. I could hear her sad, droning voice as soon as I got off the train. She had four songs before Christmas, five after, two of which were Sinatra covers. One, my personal favorite and the one that just so happened to have the least amount of words could liven up my entire morning with its Eastern European beat, but unfortunately I only heard it once or twice a week out of the thirty others.
Last Monday she was gone, replaced by a young but scruffy violinist. I can't help but wonder what happened to her. It could be that she went to search for the missing verses of Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps-- she only had the chorus, some filler, and part of the intro-- or maybe she moved on to bigger and better things. I'm not saying that I didn't respect her efforts, but sometimes her voice in the morning made me want to throw something at her, just not enough to throw the only things available to me that she would have wanted: my phone and a few coins. Many people in Metro Madrid make a killing selling tissue paper; another friend of mine has talked excitingly about her plans to earn a living doing gymnastics (not stripteases, she insists) on the hand rails in the train.
She probably has it right. I've never seen a "gymnast" in the train, and the most original efforts seem to be worth as much as the most talented.
So like I said, I respect the metro lady for her efforts. It can't be easy being a semi-talented (talented in her punctuality and dedication, anyway, if such a thing is possible) metro performer doing unoriginal things at a generally unfriendly time of day. I hope things have gotten better for her. Maybe she's doing great, singing her heart out to appreciating passersby at a more appropriate time, like from 11pm to about 6am, when people in the metro are a little more primed for her performance.
7:30 - Phone alarm goes off.
7:35 - Phone alarm goes off again.
7:37 - "Tricky" phone alarm goes off, the one I set at an odd time the night before to remind me of the importance of things like showering before work and breakfast.
7:37 - Inner debate on the necessity of things like showering before my morning class and having breakfast.
7:42 - "Tricky" alarm goes off again. It's difficult to tell if it's getting lighter outside. Outside my window the light appears just as grey as before reflecting off the building opposite. In fact, no matter how much sun there is outside this is the same shade of grey it will be all day.
7:43 - Shower or breakfast. Never both.
8:05 - Proceed to metro station with a brisk pace. As the practice here seems to be to take up as much space in the sidewalk as possible, this requires a good amount of people dodging. A group of four in the appropriate formation is impassable.
8:10 - Arrive in metro.
Metro Madrid brags constantly about itself. There are still numerous posters up from its fall ad campaign, which shows among other things the Statue of Liberty on her knees staring, dumbfounded, at the metro entrance. There's also one with the Sphinx doing the same thing. I've never been in New York's or Cairo's subway-- I'm not sure if it's really furthers their cause by taking a jab at Egyptian infrastructure (no offense to Egypt, but the ad did come out just after the terrible rockslide)-- but it's true that Madrid system is pretty incredible. A three minute wait is rare in the morning.
One stop to Diego de Leon and then I switch trains, then go three more stops and I'm in Nuevos Ministerios. The trip takes almost exactly 25 minutes, during which I sometimes plan lessons, read, and of course listen to the variety of musicians performing in the halls and trains. Normally these musicians stick to one post, where they arrive punctually and leave at a set time, to be replaced by the next.
For the past 6 months I've listened to the woman sing in the hallway of Diego de Leon. I could hear her sad, droning voice as soon as I got off the train. She had four songs before Christmas, five after, two of which were Sinatra covers. One, my personal favorite and the one that just so happened to have the least amount of words could liven up my entire morning with its Eastern European beat, but unfortunately I only heard it once or twice a week out of the thirty others.
Last Monday she was gone, replaced by a young but scruffy violinist. I can't help but wonder what happened to her. It could be that she went to search for the missing verses of Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps-- she only had the chorus, some filler, and part of the intro-- or maybe she moved on to bigger and better things. I'm not saying that I didn't respect her efforts, but sometimes her voice in the morning made me want to throw something at her, just not enough to throw the only things available to me that she would have wanted: my phone and a few coins. Many people in Metro Madrid make a killing selling tissue paper; another friend of mine has talked excitingly about her plans to earn a living doing gymnastics (not stripteases, she insists) on the hand rails in the train.
She probably has it right. I've never seen a "gymnast" in the train, and the most original efforts seem to be worth as much as the most talented.
So like I said, I respect the metro lady for her efforts. It can't be easy being a semi-talented (talented in her punctuality and dedication, anyway, if such a thing is possible) metro performer doing unoriginal things at a generally unfriendly time of day. I hope things have gotten better for her. Maybe she's doing great, singing her heart out to appreciating passersby at a more appropriate time, like from 11pm to about 6am, when people in the metro are a little more primed for her performance.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Re-Snow Day
It snowed again here today. This is super rare for Madrid to have more than one snow in a year, apparently, though I don't know first hand. The madrilenos didn't seem to know what to do. The expressions on their faces varied from utterly distraught to absolutely ecstactic, this of course from what I could see from under their umbrellas, which once again everyone except me carried.
In fact, the only two people I saw without umbrellas were television reporters interviewing passersby outside of my metro station. I remember when I first came here noticing how beautiful the women are who have this job in Spain, and how awesome it would be to have to talk about whatever subject with them. This of course would be on my way to or from work, or out at night, or coming back from an outing in some other city, and certainly not on a Sunday morning, with my hair matted down like a wet carpet and my jacket smelling like a cigarette factory on fire. That was how I was today, but fortunately or unfortunately, the two reporters who interviewed me were some of the only non-comedian males behind a camera in the whole city. It only quickly flashed through my mind that really, with the camera there, it was like talking to all of those pretty reporter women all at once, or at least to all of them who watch the morning news. Maybe it was a little different.
After discussing the weather in front of the camera-- always everyone's favorite activity-- I decided to join in the snow frenzy. Still about half a mile from my apartment I broke into a run. Plenty of other people had been running as well that I had seen, and besides my lack of umbrella required me to take some action according to the Madrid Laws of Appropriateness. In reality I was just really thirsty and the fat, wet drops of snow melting on my face weren't helping me ignore it. They could have seen the desire in my face, I'm sure, except of course that all the sane people were inside or with their eyes hidden by their tightly held, slightly forward slanted umbrellas.
In fact, the only two people I saw without umbrellas were television reporters interviewing passersby outside of my metro station. I remember when I first came here noticing how beautiful the women are who have this job in Spain, and how awesome it would be to have to talk about whatever subject with them. This of course would be on my way to or from work, or out at night, or coming back from an outing in some other city, and certainly not on a Sunday morning, with my hair matted down like a wet carpet and my jacket smelling like a cigarette factory on fire. That was how I was today, but fortunately or unfortunately, the two reporters who interviewed me were some of the only non-comedian males behind a camera in the whole city. It only quickly flashed through my mind that really, with the camera there, it was like talking to all of those pretty reporter women all at once, or at least to all of them who watch the morning news. Maybe it was a little different.
After discussing the weather in front of the camera-- always everyone's favorite activity-- I decided to join in the snow frenzy. Still about half a mile from my apartment I broke into a run. Plenty of other people had been running as well that I had seen, and besides my lack of umbrella required me to take some action according to the Madrid Laws of Appropriateness. In reality I was just really thirsty and the fat, wet drops of snow melting on my face weren't helping me ignore it. They could have seen the desire in my face, I'm sure, except of course that all the sane people were inside or with their eyes hidden by their tightly held, slightly forward slanted umbrellas.
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