I'm trying to figure out why there is such a distinct feeling of having an extreme number of holidays here. 'Cause it sometimes feels like that, and I hear people from out of country marvel at how many days off the Spaniards seem to take, days in which large portions of the city shut down and folks bolt in hordes fleeing vehicles for long weekends away, causing truly impressive traffic jams. I suspect it's actually not the case that the locals observe more holidays than, for instance, people back in the States, but there somehow is a sense of more.

Maybe it has to do with the long summer vacations, the way Madrid quiets down -- truly quiets down, transforming its basic character -- beginning in July, rising through that month to August's long sustained peak, where it remains until the beginning of September. Similar to August in New York, when the outflow of people empties the streets to a remarkable degree through Labor Day, quieting the activity level.

Or maybe it has more to do with the Spaniards' manner of passing the holidays -- sleeping in, emerging slowly during the course of the afternoon until the early evening's streets are filled with people and remain so until the wee hours (the madrugada, as they refer to that time of the night that is both very late and very early) as people eat, drink, go to films, walk around, attend late concerts, hang out in plazas until one, two, three in the morning. Or go clubbing until, er, whenever. Four, five, six, seven a.m.

Yesterday morning, the first morning of this long weekend, I stepped outside around 10:30 to find the streets nicely tranquil. Not exactly empty the way they are Sunday mornings, but extremely quiet. Most commercial concerns were closed, but most news kiosks remained open, a couple of bakeries did business, a very small neighborhood grocery tiendas had their doors open. Though the streets were not completely absent of people, next to no traffic could be seen and parking spaces abounded, drastically different from the barrio's normal state.

I walked the two or three sedate blocks to la Cafetería Vivares, stepping in the door there to a contrast so sharp it felt a bit startling. The street: peaceful, few individuals around, little noise. Inside Vivares: bright lights, a counter lined with people drinking café, tables crowded with groups of younger folk in loud conversation, the sound of the television. Most of the customers looked to be in the last phase of a long night out, tossing down espresso or hot chocolate, appearing a little haggard in the wake of long hours of activity, but not low on energy. Animated, loud, voices raised in caffeine-boosted chat and laughter.

The entrance vestibule channels customers in so that they make a 90° turn and enter facing the bar, situated along the right-side of the space. Three people sat together at the counter by the doorway, including a bleached blonde transvestite, planted so that his/her appraising eyes were the first things to meet whomever happened in from the street. Combined with the rest of the input -- the burst of sound, the smells of café/baked goods being consumed -- it was a moment, causing an immediate adjustment as I moved from the outside environment to the inside one.

I write about mornings a lot here, maybe to excess, about things similar to those I've described here. Probably in part because much of the writing for this journal happens early to mid-afternoon, so that the mornings are fresh in my mind. But also because the mornings here seem so distinct to me -- different from the mornings I've been used to back in the States in ways that reflect certain aspects of the local life (and local characters) vividly. Folks in their 70s and beyond, walking quietly, slowly along, sometimes dressed in black, usually unaccompanied -- the women often rocking slightly side to side as they go, the men often with hands clasped behind their back. Individuals out walking leashed dogs, mostly little ones, happy to be out with their person and absorbed in their present moment, investigating the multitude of odors on sidewalk and walls, leaving their signature in different places unless their human pulls them along too quickly to do so. For some reason, I've been seeing a fair number of transvestites in recent mornings, mostly walking in two or threes. Not very convincing, most of them, I'm afraid. Looking like chunky, thick-bodied, heavily made-up males. The bleached blonde I described earlier was an exception -- svelte, make-up artfully applied. Convincing, at first glance.

The mornings of these holiday weekends pass gently into the early afternoons, the number of people in the streets remaining low, though the plazas become collecting points as tables and chairs appear outside of cafes and bars. Down the street here in la Plaza de Chueca, there are two areas of tables/chairs that materialize after midday, each attended by waitpeople from nearby establishments, two for each collection of tables. The area in the plaza's northwest corner gets a strong, sustained dose of morning/early afternoon sunlight, attracting the most customers to start with. With the sun's drift into the western sky, the shadows from the buildings around the plaza gradually cover that first area -- the tables on the plaza's eastern side then become the focal point, the number of customers there swelling as the number at the other tables drops. The murmur of voices swells between midday and 2 p.m., reaching a point where it becomes a steady kind of ambient backdrop, sometimes coming and going with the breeze, the way surf at a beach sounds from a distance. Early evening brings an influx of people, the noise in the plaza increasing until it reaches the level it will remain at until late, late, late.

Sometimes I wake up in the early hours, as I did this morning, around 5:30 -- in time to hear my upstairs neighbor's footsteps as she returned from a night out. Her steps ranged around her space, distinct but not obtrusive, until she hit the sack between 6:30 and 7. It's now 2:30 p.m. Her footsteps just re-commenced, abruptly, heading in what I think is the direction of her bathroom. Outside, I can hear the hum of voices from the plaza, a bit louder now than they were an hour ago. The sun is at its high point in the sky, the light outside has taken on the flat, full quality that the warm season's sunshine has here.

It's Friday, the second day of May. The city seems to have found its feet after a long night.

Time to drift in the direction of an unhurried meal. Then on to the evening.

6:21:40 PM    comment []