Clean and orange

The house is spotless... immaculate.

Ever since I found out that there was a river in Madrid (of course I knew about the Manzanares, but I never thought it would pass through the capital - they used to have it so well hidden!), I've been obsessed with it. I first saw it on a November evening a few years ago. I had come to Madrid to spend a weekend with Chris, who was herself in the city only temporarily, conducting voice recordings among voluntary panellists for a speech-recognition software some Australian company was developing. Quite annoyingly, I was always like, I want to see the river, when are we going to the river? Truth is it didn't have much water. Yet I loved it. It was a cold autumn evening. I remember us saying our neurons had frozen. We could hardly speak, our teeth were chattering and words wouldn't come out. Come to think of it, my brain was kind of doped up and I doubt there were any thoughts in there I could put into words. The city was beautiful. We mentioned it as we walked down Calle Alcalá towards Plaza de Cibeles.

Today I've walked from home to the Almudena cathedral. I took the shortest way. I didn't choose it previously for its sights. Still, I thought it was beautiful. I've felt very disappointed the last few days. Al showed no interest at all when he was here and was eager to go back home. He didn't like the city. He wasn't even impressed by the four towers. On my way to the cathedral, I wondered why I hadn't taken him that way, instead of taking him to the river. He might have changed his mind.

... Perhaps.

I also have a feeling that, for some reason, he wasn't willing to like it, so there was nothing I could do.

A nun was sitting on the pew in front of mine in the cathedral today. She looked bored. She prayed quietly and didn't sing. I thought it weird. I dozed off several times during the homily. When I finally managed to wake up, I noticed she was sleeping. She woke up when the priest finished his sermon and people started to stand up to pray the Creed. At the time of the collection, she fumbled about in her handbag, but she didn't give any money when the collector passed. After she'd passed back to the altar, the nun closed her handbag and continued to look expressionless to the front.

I wonder what caused her lack of interest in the Eucarist. After all, nuns are said to be married to God and that's precisely the time when they can meet Him more intimately through the transfiguration of bread and wine. I guess there's always a time when we feel unmotivated and just want to say, I'm fed up. Let the world do without me for one day.

I went down Cuesta de la Vega to the river when the mass had ended. Next to the Puente del Rey there are several boards that inform about the project MADRID RÍO, which will make the banks of the river a park. There was one that read:

Ríos de tinta

Los escritores del siglo de Oro dedicaron numerosos textos satíricos al río de Madrid. Así dice la primera estrofa del soneto de Góngora titulado A una crecida del río Manzanares:

"Duélete de esa puente,
Manzanares, mira que dice
por ahí la gente que no eres
río para media puente
y que ella es puente
para treinta mares."

Another one said that the banks of the river will have special areas for bathing and fishing, and those keen on rowing will be able to do it on the Manzanares. We'll see. It doesn't seem to have enough water for any of those activities yet.

I like the orange colour. It's been very fashionable for some time now, but I never managed to find any orange clothes that looked good on me. As my sister put it last August when we were in a shop trying to buy some white shirts for myself, "I like the shirt. I just don't like it on you". Even so, I bought it. So when last February I saw some orange underwear at Alcampo in Santiago, I couldn't help buying it (it didn't matter whether it looked good or bad and it would be my first orange garment after so many failed attempts). Since then, I've bought orange pyjamas and a towel.

I'm writing this because tonight I'm wearing the orange pyjamas for the first time. They don't look so good, but who cares, I'm dazzling :)

Cold

Blurred photograph of 'elusive' Alastair's arrival at Barcelona 'El Prat' airport, Terminal A, on 15 September:


Barcelona's "cucumber". Doesn't need to be pickled to match up to the more popular and taller "Gherkin". It's just wonderful!! (16/09)


Looking east from Parc Güell (17/09):


Parc de Collserola from Parc Güell (17/09):


A view of Seville's cathedral from the dining terrace at the rooftop of "El Faro de Triana" on the west bank of the river Guadalquivir ('The Big River'), next to the Puente de San Telmo (19/09):


East bank (19/09):

"Deteneos, hombres y mujeres que pasáis, deteneos y escuchad.

Escuchad la voz de Sevilla, voz herida y melodiosa. La de su memoria, que es también la vuestra, es judía y cristiana, musulmana y laica, joven y antigua: la humanidad entera entre sus sobresaltos de luz y sombras, se recoge en esa voz para extraer del pasado fundamentos de esperanza.

Aquí como en otros sitios, se amaba y se odiaba por razones oscuras y sin razón alguna; se hacían rogativas por el sol y por la lluvia, se interpretaba la vida dando muerte, se creía ser fuerte por perseguir a los débiles, se afirmaba el honor de Dios, pero también la deshonra de los hombres.
Aquí como en otros sitios, la tolerancia se impone. Y lo sabéis bien vosotros, hombres y mujeres que escucháis esta voz de Sevilla. Sabéis bien que, cara al destino que os es común, nada os separa. Puesto que Dios es Dios, todos sois sus hijos. A sus ojos, todos los seres valen lo mismo. La verdad que invocan no es válida si a todos no los convierte en soberanos.

Ciertamente toda la vida termina en la noche, pero iluminarla es vuestra misión.

Por la tolerancia

Elie Wiesel, Sevilla, abril MCMXCII"

City of Toledo, surrounded by the river Tagus, from the south (24/09):


'El Greco'-esque elongated shadows on the pavement of Toledo's ring road, south of the city (24/09):


Al left just before the dying summer'd taken its last breath. Autumn's become all pervasive. I stand stock-still in the middle of the warm lounge and look around. Al's gone, his things are gone. Only black balls of fluff from his socks are left scattered across the lounge wooden floor. From where I stand, I can even make out a couple of black dots at the foot of the open bathroom door on the cream-coloured tiles. Bed linen and a towel await washing. All evidence of the presence of another human being living in my flat will be wiped out over the weekend.

Chris has given me shocking news.

---
Credits: Photographs 1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 were taken by Alastair.

A mis quince

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction. You change direction, but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing you eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverised bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine".

Haruki Murakami, "Kafka on the Shore".