Saturday, July 30, 2011

On Every Corner

Every major city that I have visited has its charm and personality. Some are more endearing to me than others. What I’ve noticed is that the businesses that one finds on almost every corner of a major city can tell you what that city’s residents find most important.

The last time I visited London there were pubs on many of the corners that I walked passed on a daily basis. Londoners love to enjoy camaraderie and tension breaking over a pint. Parisians frequent patisseries where they pick up their bread or a nice tart or pastry on their way home. The smells that waft through so many of those wonderful bakeries make me wish I could transport myself there as I write. For the French a wonderful piece of food is the epitome of a life well-lived.

Romans enjoy going to their cafes. They sip their espressos while talking about politics or the most recent soccer games. Their need for coffee is more an excuse to catch up with their friends than to get a caffeine rush.

Starbucks and Duane Reades pop up every two seconds on the corners of New York City. This goes to show that New Yorkers need their caffeine to get their jobs done, to get moving in the speed and hustle of daily life in the Big Apple. They also meet their friends there as well. But mostly the patrons rush in and out of their local cafes to rush in and out on their way to work or on their way through their routines. Every Duane Reade shows that New Yorkers love their conveniences. They want a place to go to one place to get a bottle of water, a chocolate bar, shampoo, vitamins, etc, whatever they need to get through the day.

What I noticed in Madrid is that hair salons adorn most every corner. On some intersections all 4 points house a coiffeur. Madrilenos care very much about their appearance and every hair must be in its respective place. If the presence of all these hair salons doesn’t let you in on this secret, you just have to watch the natives to know that it is true. Women decked out with such hair dos that one wonders how long it took them to get ready in the morning. Men’s hair gelled or coiffed into positions that are higher than most skyscrapers. The shine on raven colored thread that could blind you if the sun hits it at a certain angle. The theory is solidified every night when the natives go out to dinner or a party. You know that ‘hair product’ doesn’t even begin to encompass what was used to get these city dwellers to look the way they do. They enjoy the spectacle and expect others to spend as much time on their appearance as they do.

When it comes down to it, I’d rather walk past a coffee bar or a patisserie on my daily treks in my city. Those little treats are so much more satisfying than any show I would put on with my hair.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Puppy # 7

As I walked to my local Starbucks this morning, I saw the most adorable little puppy. The pooch couldn’t have weighed more than 8 pounds. He was jumping up and down against a hydrant trying to bite and untie his leash which was linked to the hydrant. When I saw him, I couldn’t help but stop and say hello.

The doggie was very approachable and started hopping up and down my leg. He licked my hand and then proceeded to bite my shirt with his tiny teeth. I asked him if his friend was inside. He didn’t respond except to jump up and down more. By looking at this little fellow, I knew he was the same breed as one of my doggies.

I remember when I first got her. She was in a playpen with the rest of her litter but I didn’t actually see her. She was playing under a blanket while her brothers and sisters were rolling around on top of the blanket. 11 little spotted puppies frolicking in a playpen. It was a precious sight. Out of nowhere popped puppy #7 from under the blanket, which covered her head like a little bonnet. She had the smallest face but the biggest eyes – orbs that created a halo around her face. She walked her front paws up the playpen to greet me. She licked my hand when I greeted her and I was smitten.

She came home with me that night adorned in red bow around her neck. She was in a little carrying case and she whimpered the whole train ride home. When I bought her to my apartment, I cordoned her off to the kitchen with a wee wee pad and a little bowl of water.

As I tried to fall asleep, I could sense her looking at me. I turned myself to not face her. She then began to whimper which quickly turned to yelps. I decided that I couldn’t have her do this all night and wake my neighbors so I went to get her. She ended up sleeping on my chest that night and that was the first wrong parenting step I took.

She had so much energy back then. She would zoom around my apartment, jumping on my bed, jumping off, running into the kitchen and back, spinning around in circles for 20 to 30 minutes at a time – like whirling dervish. She was a ball of electricity! We’d go for long walks together and I’d occasionally put her in my purse for the longer distances. My little shadow accompanied everywhere I went until she could jump out of the purse and would run into the street to tell the oncoming traffic that she was the king of the world.

She has become a pal to my sister, a beggar/treasure to my mom, the tempest to my dad and a tv buddy to my husband. She often reminds me to quickly close the door to the bathroom. Otherwise, I’ll have a visitor. She often pretends to hate her sister, only to give her a big lick when she thinks no one is looking.

To think this little puppy outside of Starbucks was what my little pooch once looked like. It made me want to get another little terrier to add to my duo. But I know Bonnette won’t be too happy with another sibling.

Monday, July 25, 2011

On Hiatus

I was on vacation earlier this month. Since I've been back, I haven't felt like posting anything. I've been thinking about a lot of things and I'm working through them without the help of my blog.

I'll return soon enough. Just trying to figure out how to move forward from here.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

The Bullfight

How could I not go? It would be like going to Rome and not seeing the Coliseum or going to Paris and not seeing the Eiffel Tower. Despite my instinct, I wanted to see this cultural fanfare.

Every Sunday night the crowds gather at the Plaza de Toros. Some people sit in the sun (el sol) while others choose the shade (la sombra). We opted for the latter. Families come together to share this moment – much like fathers and sons watch baseball and football together in the States.
The floor of the stadium was covered in sand. As one of the administrators walked around with white paint creating two circles in the sand, the band tuned their instruments.

As the clock approached 8:30 pm, we could see the matadors convening on the opposite side of the arena from us. The band played music you expected to hear at a bullfight – heroic and patriotic pumping and pounding with drums. The matadors finally entered the arena and the crowd went wild.
The tension in the stadium began to build as the matadors prepared their capes and decided where they would stand. A man stood in the middle of the stadium and presented a sign that I thought was the name of the first bull - Zacarias. It said 502 on it. 502 kilograms? Over a thousand pounds? Was this right?

One of the side doors that radiated from 10 o’clock opened and out races the bull - a chestnut colored, muscular and branded steer with a green and red string falling off its shoulders.

The matadors enticed the bull towards them by waving their pink capes. The bull charged. The matador would hide behind wooden barriers to escape getting gored. Then matadors from another area of the stadium would come out and tempt the bull in their direction with their capes. This continued for a while - each matador saving himself from the bull’s horns behind the wooden barriers.

I connected with my Taurean soulmate. I tried to make eye contact with the bull; trying cosmically to tell him to kill the matador some how.
Out came the picadors – the men holding long sticks with sharp points on them. These men rode atop horses covered on all sides with padding. The picador’s job is to stab the bull between the shoulder blades to weaken the bovine. The matadors tantalize the bull with their capes. As the matadors pull away, the picadors stab their steel pointed javelins into the bull’s body.

As I turned my eyes away, I could sense the commotion that was happening around the bull. Bother bull charged into the horse with his horns but he was lured away by the matadors. One of the picadors pierced the bull one more time with his spear and then all the picadors left the arena; their jobs done.

The next part was just as disturbing. A number of matadors entered the arena with long pointy sticks in each hand. One by one they would call and tease the bull. As the bull charged, the matador would jump in the air and come down into the bulls shoulder with the two points. The bull moved away from the human, injured with blood streaming down its trunk and front legs. Another two matadors succeeded in penetrating the bulls flesh. The colorful sticks moving around the body of the bull with no way for the poor bull to remove them on its own. Oh how I wanted the battled bull to bust lose and lance through the flesh of the matadors with his horns.

My wishes wouldn’t come true on this night. The bull was breathing desperately. The main matador approached the bull with a red fabric behind which hid a sword. His purpose was to tire out the bull and then stab him with that sword. Within a few moments, this happened and another matador stabbed the bull in the neck with a dagger.

The crowd cheered for the matador while the ‘cleaners’ came to take the bull’s fresh carcass away. The cleaners tied a rope around the bull’s horns and their group of horses dragged the dead body along the sandy arena floor. This gave new meaning to the saying ‘dragging the bull by its horn’.

We saw another round with a far more spirited black bull. He gave chase and was angrier. I sincerely hoped he’d hurt one of the matadors. But alas, this match ended exactly the same as the first.

For all its majesty and tradition, I was very angry by this spectacle. I did not think it was a fair fight. Of course the matador with his long sword would be seen as courageous. If only the bull had wounded the matador with his sharp horns, then I would have seen this as a fight among equals. Hand-to-horn combat would have been more appropriate – the only weapons being the ones on the body of the animals themselves.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Flamenco

Spanish guitars -- battling between strings trying to tell two or three opposing stories that converge into one harmony, one novel.

Gypsies join in and wail their laments into the hollow wood -- echoing the sadness of their plight. Occasionally their cries create the same pain in the audience. The spectator feels uncomfortable listening to the sounds and sobs of the singers. One wonders if they aren't really in physical pain during their performance, so visceral.

One by one dancers come out and their shoes clap the wooden floors beneath their feet. Twists and turns of the body - hand gestures followed by finger snaps or hand clapping to accompany the competing guitars.

Serious faces on the dancers. Hair slicked into chignons held tight with small sparkly brushes. Fake flowers embrace their heads either beneath, below or to the sides of the bases of their skulls.

Tight topped blouses or dresses, some enhanced with fringe. Skirts that are equally tight but that flow out on the bottom so that the dancers can pick them up while they pound the floor boards like pistons on a steam train.

When they let their skirts down, tiers of asymmetrical ruffles brush the stage as they exit. Only to return to blasting applause and thundering bravos.

Monday, July 11, 2011

All Over the World

What I've noticed in many of my travels is that not matter where you are or where you go, some things are the same.

*The purest and most adorable form of any language comes from children between the ages of 3 and 7. It sounds so sweet with few, if any, slang words, mumblings or cut off endings. Case in point at the airport in Madrid, I heard a French speaking brother and sister discussing the fabulousness of an ice popsicle in the heat. I also overheard a Spanish speaking boy beg his mother endearingly to get him some candy because it would make him feel special.

*Beggars always feel like getting in your face or interrupting your personal space is the best way to get your charity. I am not sure where this habit was learned. Needless to say, I find it annoying when they do this and I am far less likely to give them any money whatsoever.

*At airport boarding gates, regardless of what instructions are given, people line up and crowd to get into the plane. If the crew tells them to wait for a certain group or or row number, somehow people who have no seat anywhere near that section line up to get on the place. This delays the boarding process yet it happens all the same.

*Trinket and souvenir shops in other countries are intriguing beyond belief. Even when you think they are ridiculous and wasteful things in your own country, Somehow if they are in another country, they are exotic and cool. Despite my saying this, I still come home with so many of these things!