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".

Finished "Seeing"

El mismísimo día que Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows salió a la venta (y se vendía por 28€ en Carrefour... si bien, curiosamente, no se veían demasiadas colas ni prisas por comprarlo, quizá, en primer lugar porque está en inglés, sin tratar de ser elitista, lo que equivaldría a despreciarme a mí mismo, en un centro comercial de un distrito del "segundo extrarradio" de Madrid adonde no parece que vaya a comprar gente que suela leer en ese idioma; en segundo lugar porque es razonablemente grueso, lo que produce, asimismo, un razonable repelús; y, en tercer lugar, porque se vendía a un precio desorbitado únicamente en la versión infantil, con su espantosa portada de colores chillones y figuras feas como ellas solas. Y a pesar de ello, todos los libros de la serie se han vendido como churros. Quizá haya sido por el boca a boca, que no requiere que el lector se ande con miramientos ni exige del dibujante ni una pizca de sentido estético (por aquello del márketing). Aun así, yo siempre compro la versión para adultos que, a igualdad de contenido que la infantil, viene con una portada en un tono invariablemente más tenebroso —o debería decir en un tono tenebroso, a secas, a diferencia de la anterior— en la que, de modo muy satisfactorio, nunca se representa a los personajes, no interfiriendo de esta forma con la imaginación. No creo que pudiese leer los libros tranquilo si cada vez que los cierro por la noche para dar por terminado el día, (bajar por la escalera de mano de la cama para depositar el libro en sitio seguro) e irme a dormir, tengo que ver esas desangeladas representaciones. Acabaría, más bien pronto que tarde, por forrarlos con forro opaco)... ese mismo día, terminé de leer "Ensayo sobre la lucidez" de José Saramago (que lleva el sugerente título "Seeing" en inglés, aunque el nuestro se parece más al original en portugués, "Ensaio sobre a Lucidez"). Aparte de la frase del mejillón que aparece en la página 286 de mi edición de 5€ comprada en el mismo Carrefour del extrarradio, me encantó el siguiente fragmento (absténgase de leerlo todo aquel que tenga interés en leer el libro. No lo digo porque crea que vaya a estropearle la lectura a nadie, sino porque está sacado de una parte un poco sensible de la novela): "Entonces un ciego preguntó, Has oído algo, Tres tiros, respondió el otro, Pero había también un perro dando aullidos, Ya se ha callado, habrá sido el tercer tiro, Menos mal, detesto oír los perros aullando." Lo terminé de vuelta del Carrefour, en casa, después de refrescarme y antes de tomarme unas natillas de vainilla que acababa de comprar. Como suele ocurrir últimamente, leo la mayor parte de los libros en el metro, menos el final, que es normalmente demasiado jugoso y apetecible como para dejarlo para el siguiente viaje, al día siguiente por lo general, y lo termino en casa.

Hoy volvía a casa por la tarde cuando me giré a ver el paso de peatones de la calle de Atocha, a la altura del número 49, ante el que nunca para ningún coche a menos que te detengas en medio de la calle, levantes los brazos y con cara de mala leche te pongas a agitarlos (quizá la cara de mala leche, de entre todas las cosas, sea lo menos necesario del proceso, no lo he experimentado todavía con cara sonriente). Los conductores suelen ser educados, sin embargo. Tras una frenada brusca, que consigue detener el coche después de haberse adentrado en el paso un tercio de su longitud, te piden perdón con la mano, y tú cruzas tranquilamente delante de ellos, por el sitio que te han dejado libre, siempre dentro del espacio delimitado por las líneas blancas, sin faltarles al respeto, pero con la cara de perro que se te queda a la fuerza al comprobar semana tras semana que todos los conductores de Madrid se saltan el mismo paso de peatones y no sabes por qué. Solía quedarme al borde de la acera mirando a ver si paraba alguno, lo que nunca ocurría; hacía ademán de cruzar, pero se me quedaba cara de bobo al ver que uno tras otro pasaba y nadie se detenía, como si fuera invisible. Al final, no me quedaba más remedio que echarle determinación y lanzarme a la calle, brazos en alto, para conseguir por fin cruzar. Ahora ya me dejo de historias: llego, levanto los brazos para indicarles a los cegatas conductores que estoy ahí, espero a que terminen la frenada, observo sus disculpas y cruzo.

Mientras miraba el paso con la cabeza girada hacia atrás, sin saber muy bien por qué lo miraba, un chico de estos que tu madre nunca querría que tuvieras entre tus amistades, les lanzaba, lata de cerveza en mano, unos piropos a unas señoras sentadas en un banco de la acera de los pares. A continuación se dirigió a mí, ¡Oye! Yo ni caso, seguía mirando el paso. Eh, tú. Dirigí la mirada hacia él. ¿Tienes un pitillo?, me preguntó educadamente mientras hacía el gesto de fumar con los dedos índice y corazón de la mano izquierda formando una V delante de su boca, un poco a la manera en que un inglés saludaría a un francés de antaño durante alguna batalla naval o del modo en que Verónica podría invitar a unos macarras londinenses a que le diesen una buena paliza. No, contesté. ¿No fumas?, susurró, como para que nadie lo oyese, y yo, no deseando desentonar con el sigilo de su pregunta, negué con la cabeza. ¡Qué envidia! Me quedé mirándolo mientras se me acercaba. Envidia sana... envidia yo. ¿Por qué no lo dejas?, le pregunté mientras pensaba en la historia que nos había contado Quique, el de la cafetería de la escuela, la semana anterior. Ah, no quiero dejarlo... bueno, si no fumase mejor, a ver si me entiendes. No fumo en los lugares donde no está permitido fumar, y no me cuesta nada no hacerlo.

De forma bastante incongruente, lo que me impide reflejar aquí la conversación, siguió contándome cosas sobre sí mientras caminábamos juntos calle abajo. En la plaza de Antón Martín me hablaba, utilizando palabras grandilocuentes, de la psicología, de la que por alguna razón estaba harto. En el punto en que se unen la calle de Santa Isabel con la calle de la Torrecilla del Leal me dijo, Yo me porto muy bien con Madrid pero Madrid no me respeta. Nos paramos y le pregunté, ¿por qué dices que no te respeta? No conseguí entender su respuesta, que vinculaba la Comunidad de Madrid con el hecho de que su padre le hubiera puesto un maestro para reforzar las matemáticas cuando era niño, y el presidio, y las drogas, y que hay cosas que no quiere dejar, y que él acepta las ayudas que le van dando (no sabía si ayudas de transeúntes o de las instituciones, así que, para no avergonzarlo, no me di por aludido), y que se ha pasado dos días bebiendo (al fin algo coherente). ¿Bajas por Santa Isabel?, preguntó. Sí. Seguimos caminando. Yo voy al mercadillo. ¿Al mercadillo?, repetí. Sí, por el Reina Sofía. No pregunté qué tipo de mercadillo era ese, pero un mercadillo a las ocho de la tarde un domingo no podía ser de muy buena cosa. Dejé el tema. Llegados al Cine Doré me contó que él no iba a Sevilla ni a Córdoba, que sí iba de vez en cuando a la filmoteca, que las películas son baratas, cuestan... 3 euros, dijo medio dubitativo, ponen películas antiguas, ciclos... ¿cuándo se construyó el Cine Doré?, reflexionó en voz alta, Ni idea, contesté (1923, aparentemente), y nos cruzamos con un grupo de chicas y él les dijo, Hola, guapas, y yo pensaba, Qué pareja más rimbombante debemos de hacer, cualquiera que nos vea lo pensará. No pegamos ni con cola. Unos metros más abajo alguien lo llamó desde atrás y él se detuvo y yo continué, mirándolo un poco de reojo mientras nos separábamos sin habernos dicho adiós. Continué andando y giré a la derecha. Abrí el portal de mi edificio, subí las escaleras y me paré delante de la ventana de mi "salita". Cogí el cuchillo del alféizar mientras preguntaba a "Radio Patio", como las llama Tania, si sabían quién lo había podido dejar ahí. Me contestaron, Esos de enfrente que ayer estuvieron intentando bajar un colchón por el balcón. Gracias.

¿Él o ella?

Encuentre las diferencias entre este artículo de 20minutos.es:

Descubren a una niña de dos años con un cociente intelectual de 152, el mismo que el físico Stephen Hawking
20MINUTOS.ES. 25.06.2007 - 13:30h

-Con cinco meses gateaba. A los nueve andaba. Y a los catorce ya se vestía sola.

-Su madre asegura que no se cree que sea más inteligente que los demás y dice que "es encantadora".

Georgia Brown, una niña de dos años, es la pequeña más brillante que ha conocido en su vida un experto en este tipo de niños que destacan por algún don, tal y como informa este lunes el Daily Mail.

Empezó a gatear a los cinco meses y a los nueve ya andaba. A los catorce meses, ya se vestía sola.

A una edad muy temprana ya podía contar hasta diez, reconocer colores y empezar a interesarse por el Francés.

"Empezó a hablar muy pronto. Con 18 meses ya mantenía una conversación", asegura su madre, la señora Brown.

Con un año, se presentaba de esta guisa: "Hola soy Georgia, tengo un año". A esa edad "ya se sabía poner los zapatos y en el lugar correcto, correspondiendo el pie con el zapato".

Incluso cuando fueron a ver La bella y la bestia dijo a sus padres que "no me gustó Gastón (el villano). Era arrogante".

Test de inteligencia

Al ver su capacidad intelectual, la madre de Georgia empezó a preocuparse por su educación.

Se puso en contacto con el profesor Joan Freeman, un psicólogo especializado en la educación, para que le aconsejase. Éste sometió a la niña a un test para ver el cociente intelectual que tenía y la sorpresa fue cuando descubrió el dato: un IQ de 152, muy por encima de lo normal (en un adulto son 100 puntos).

Con estos resultados, Mensa, una organización para personas con elevado cociente intelectual , invitó a Georgia a unirse a ellos.

Además, su madre asegura que "no se cree que es mejor y más lista que cualquiera. Es una niña encantadora".

http://www.20minutos.es/noticia/251784/0/nina/cociente/intelectual/


y este otro del Daily Mail:


Two-year-old 'Matilda' becomes youngest ever girl in Mensa
By DUNCAN ROBERTSON

Last updated at 23:01pm on 21st June 2007

Her parents knew Georgia Brown was bright. After all, she could count to ten, recognised her colours and was even starting to dabble with French.

But it was only when their bubbly little two-year-old took an IQ test that her towering intellect was confirmed.

Georgia has become the youngest female member of Mensa after scoring a genius-rated IQ of 152.

This puts her in the same intellectual league, proportionate to her age, as physicist Stephen Hawking.

According to an expert in gifted children, Georgia is the brightest two-year-old she has ever met.

Parents Martin and Lucy Brown have always regarded their youngest child as a remarkably quick learner.

She was crawling at five months and walking at nine months.

By 14 months, she was getting herself dressed.

"She spoke really early - by 18 months she was having proper conversations," Mrs Brown said.

"She would say, 'Hello I'm Georgia, I'm one'. She was also putting her shoes on and putting them on the right feet."

Georgia was so perceptive that after one outing to the theatre to see Beauty and the Beast she solemnly informed her parents: "I didn't like Gaston (the villain). He was mean and arrogant."

Struck by the similarities between her daughter and Matilda, the title character in the Roald Dahl story about a gifted child, Mrs Brown began to worry about Georgia's future education.

She contacted Professor Joan Freeman, a specialist educational psychologist, for advice.

Professor Freeman applied the standard Stamford-Binet Intelligence Scale test to Georgia and was amazed to find this was too limited to map her creative abilities.

She said: "Even at two she was very thoughtful.

"What Georgia did on some questions was of a higher quality than that which was necessary to gain a mark.

"She swept right through it like a hot knife through butter.

"I would ask her things like 'give me two blocks or give me ten blocks' and she would manage it as easily as you would expect a five-year-old.

"In one test I asked her to draw a circle and she did it so perfectly.

"Most adults would struggle to do that. Her circle was near to being perfect.

"It shows she can physically hold a pen well but also that she understands the concept of a circle."

Georgia, who is at nursery school, was also able to tell the difference between pink and purple - a skill which most children learn at primary school age.

Professor Freeman said: "I said to her, 'What a pretty pink skirt, and you have tights and shoes to match'.

"She said, 'They're not pink, they're purple'. Most children go to school aged five and start to learn colours, let alone knowing the difference between pink and purple.

"I have to keep reminding myself that she is only two."

To the amazement of the family, who live in Aldershot, Hampshire, Georgia scored 152 points on the IQ test, putting her in the top 0.2 per cent of the population. Those with an average IQ would score around 100 points in the same test.

Georgia was then invited to join Mensa, the High IQ society whose members have IQs in the top 2 per cent of the population. Georgia is one of only 30 Mensa members under the age of ten.

Mrs Brown, chief executive of a charity, believes Georgia has benefited by growing up as the youngest of five children.

She has been absorbing information from her older brothers and sisters and father, a self-employed carpenter, while not receiving any special treatment.

"There is always someone around to offer her something," her mother said.

"But she still has temper tantrums, like you wouldn't believe, throwing herself on the floor.

"She doesn't think she's better and cleverer than everyone else. She is a very kind and loving child."

Georgia, who has a "wicked sense of humour" is as busy as any toddler, enjoying a schedule of ballet classes, listening to stories, dancing, singing, sport and even watching the TV.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=463539&in_page_id=1770

Hair

On Saturday afternoon I went to the hairdresser's and had a short haircut. I knew the salon was there but I had never looked inside. Three female employees stood next to the till. I was standing at the door, then stepped sideways on the pavement and looked through the window. Some women were having their hair washed. My reflection on the glass was making me nervous. Fearing someone may notice me and thought I was a pervert, I walked past and carried on walking unhurriedly for about fifty metres pondering what to do. I made up my mind momentarily. I stopped, turned around and walked decidedly back to the shop before I could back out.

I didn't ask for such short hair; it was the hairdresser's decision, as I had given her freedom of action. After all, my experience is you don't need to describe to them in detail what you want because they usually follow their own instincts, and, to be honest, it's hard to know what exactly you want. I prefer to delegate such vital judgments to a professional. When I'm asked, I always hear myself saying quietly, Cut it shorter than it is. But everyone interprets my words in a different manner. Even when I've been forced to be more specific, the end-result has always been a surprise. Is that what I asked for? I'm a genius! —on those occasions I liked it—, or I must measure my words next time, when it was not so satisfying. I am quite happy I got rid of that dishevelled mop of hair, in any case. It's getting increasingly hot and I am cooler now (not as in ¡qué guay!). Even so, I would suggest banks in general, and Carrefour in particular, turn up the air conditioning. I was dying in the queue in all three banks I went to this morning.

So, please, don't say anything, ignore me, don't embarrass me more. You can smirk at me, bent double with laughter or writhe around on the ground for all I care, but if you have nothing else to say, keep quiet!

By the way, a weird thought has been tormenting me all along: I didn't see a single (or married:) man in there. Could it be a women's hairdresser's, by any chance? That might help explain the bewildered look on the hairdresser's face when I asked her whether I could have a haircut. Ahem... let's not make it more difficult. I don't want to know.

LXD70

Soy un coñazo, me pongo (a mí mismo) enfermo. ¡Pero vamos a ver!, ¿quién en este mundo se preocupa porque su nueva televisión hace un ruidito de nada cuando está apagada y se desespera cuando va a la tienda y le dicen que no hay problema, que se le cambia, que lo único que tiene que hacer es llevarla ahí y se le dará otra? Creo que nadie y, sin embargo, estoy escribiendo aquí porque estoy tan nervioso que no soy capaz de ponerme a hacer nada. Lo máximo que he llegado a hacer esta mañana es disponer todos los papeles sobre la mesa y abrir los programas que necesito en el ordenador con el deseo de que esto se me vaya de la cabeza en algún momento y pueda ponerme a trabajar. Bueno... me parece que estoy sacando las cosas de quicio para variar. Afortunadamente ya me empiezo a relajar. No hay motivo para preocuparse: la tele puede salir buena y durar muchos años o puede que se me estropee mañana, tanto si la cambio como si no. ¿Cuál es la mejor opción? ¡Quién sabe! Como diría Alastair, "decisions, decisions..."

La primavera la sangre altera

Hundreds of people queueing up to see the Escher exhibition. I was in the queue at the point from which I took this picture. I still had a long way to go.

So I got to Plaza de Castilla at past ten with a twenty-euro note in my pocket to see the Maurits Cornelis Escher exhibition at the Fundación Canal. The ticket clerk asked me, somewhat complainingly, whether I didn't have two euros to pay for the reduced ('student':) entrance fee. I apologetically said no, that that was the smallest note I could get, but didn't go into more detail. I could have related to her how I had tried to withdraw some money from the ATM on Atocha 75 but it had no cash; how I had walked to the cash machine on Carrera de San Jerónimo 14 with the same result and from there to Virgen de los Peligros 3, where at long last I got my hands on that precious twenty-euro note. I was thankful and relieved.

I was also late, and judging by the length of the queue, my getting up early that Sunday morning had been in vain. I had at least five hundred people before me and the sun was already starting to feel too strong (it would get stronger as hours passed). Mateo and his three wards kept me company; so did the blonde woman reading Newsweek just in front of me, my camera, with which I took some pictures of the Puerta de Europa Towers, and the book by D. Brown I sometimes read and sometimes used for covering my head with when it got too hot and I thought my integrity was at stake. Time flew away and in a bit more than two hours I was inside. I found it very interesting to try and make sense of Escher's works, especially his later ones. There were three that for different reasons caught my attention and impressed me more than any other in those dark, labyrinthine rooms: Eye, Night and Day and Print Gallery.

Eye

Night and Day

Print Gallery

There were actually four that stood out above the rest. I must include Belvedere if I want to be true to the facts. I think couples should be banned from exhibitions —from exhibitions and overcrowded supermarkets at peak hours.

Belvedere

So this couple was in front of the lithograph print and I was next to them waiting for them to finish their thorough analysis, despairingly tapping my foot. "So he made this cube by rotating the lower side against the upper side like this", and the girl mimicked the turning movement with her hands. "No, what he did was to rotate the lower side like this", and also showed the rotation by rotating one hand with respect to the other. "But that's what I said!!". "No, look! What he did was this", and repeated the movement. "But...". "Doesn't matter!, I'll explain it to you when we get home", and kissed her on the forehead. He went on, "You understand how he got the rotating effect between the ground and first floors, don't you?". "Yes, he got it by linking the columns with the wrong corners of the upper floor". "Yes, that's right. Very well", and kissed her again. I was looking at them in disbelief with my lips parted. I struggled to control the retching spasms and wished they had given out puke bags at the scanning stage at the entrance of the building. An interpretation of their actual words will help understand my reaction:

"So he made this cube by rotating the lower side against the upper side like this", said the girl. "No, what he did was to rotate the lower side like this". The girl was like, "But that's what I said!!". And the boy replied, "How stupid can you get! I wonder how you could graduate from secondary school. Look, I'll do it again more slowly so that you don't get lost", and repeated the movement. "But...". "It's too intellectually demanding for your small brain, love!, I'll explain it to you when we get home". He went on in his condescending tone, "You understand how he got the rotating effect between the ground and first floors, don't you?". "Yes, he got it by linking the columns with the wrong corners of the upper floor". "Yes, that's a good girl!"

I cringed when I saw them again in the ninth room. That was the last room and there wasn't much to see, so I got out of the exhibition and breathed in some fresh air. I was hungry.

Torres Puerta de Europa (or Torres Kio)

I didn't eat anything though. I had seen a Subway (the sandwich restaurant) up Paseo de la Castellana and a Rodilla (another sandwich restaurant) on the other side of the boulevard, but I didn't feel much like having a sandwich. Instead, I walked on to the CTBA (Cuatro Torres Business Area). I had wanted to attend the "Madrid is Science" fair at Ifema, but I was too tired and didn't have much time left before it closed.

CTBA

Clouds had been dirtying the clean blue canvas that the sky had been before I entered the exhibition and it threatened rain.

Torre de Cristal and Torre Espacio

I walked from Begoña station to Chamartín station instead of taking the metro, I had some food when I got there and took Line 1 to Pinar the Chamartín. I wanted to see the new stations on lines 1 and 4. Pinar the Chamartín station exhibits the restored tram 477, which used to go from Serrano to Puerta del Sol between 1908 and 1917. A panel next to it informs that this tram was featured in films like "Doctor Zhivago" (1965) and "Las bicicletas son para el verano" (1984).


People gathered around the tram and took pictures of themselves with the vehicle. An old man said he could remember it, but it used to be yellow, not blue. I reckon it was a good idea to show that tram at this particular station, as this is the station from which the first light-rail line within the boundaries of the city will depart since the tram closed in Madrid in 1972. Tarik has told me another tram is being exhibited at Alto del Arenal station.

I ended my journey at Atocha station. I took a picture of some turtles in the tropical garden (what are those two doing one on top of the other?) and read in the Mail on Sunday that Prince William had split up with his long-term girlfriend Kate. Shit happens.