P�, looking gorgous as always

Plaza Mayor, Madrid

Diario de Madrid: Tomando el sol, Plaza Mayor: Julio 9, 2005

I will not begin this with comments on the heat. It is an all encompassing, overwhelming theme that drips into everyday thought and speech, impairing ability for action, work and sleep. The nights are oppressive, although lately the temperature drop of three degrees has allowed for a few consecutive hours of slumber…

So, no. I won’t write about the heat.

Actually, I wanted to write about my new situation: living in Lavapies. The immigrant district, renowned for troubles and skirmishes between its beautifully diverse populous. The architecture alone can blow you away, Moorish domes rising above terracotta slanting roofs, all at once dilapidated and sublime. The mixture of Moroccans, West Africans, Asians, guiris and Latinos form a complex society that I hope will one day change the whole city. Racism and xenophobia is a problem here if you pay heed to the papers. I just get my food from the shop two doors down while shooting the breeze with the gargantuan smiling African who refuses to stock alcohol. I nod to the dog walkers in the square, who sit and sweat, watching the canines snuffle. I avoid the hot pools of water left by the limpiezas overnight, shifting my flowing skirt high above the grey cobblestones that rumble downhill.

I still feel disconnected from this life. I came here to learn a language I love, one that I grasp ineffectually at, but one so far I have fallen dismally short of understanding. I have lived the life of a guiri, choosing to speak my own tongue for embarrassments sake, feeling shame rise into my cheeks every time I attempt a contorted sentence of sorts.

I now live with an Israeli Jew and a young German photographer. They both study the art, shooting constantly, seeing life through a different lens. Yesterday I awoke at midday to find a semi-nude woman slumped against the wall, touching her legs suggestively. Today she is covered in nothing but a type of gauze netting, drinking peach tea and pouting at the camera. I am trying not to look, which is just too ridiculous and British for words.

Diario de Madrid: Junio 2005: La mejor memoria

Anyway, I was going to write about the best day in recent memory. It was last Sunday, when Emelie woke me from some drunk haze, at one in the afteroon to demand my company. We met at Tirso de Molino metro and strolled by The Rastro flea market arm in arm, where the smell of rancid clothes and sweat and skin swayed up into the bright blue sky. We sat and drank canas and spoke about the world and all that we wish to do with it. Emelie made some great quotes, that I, like a fool, cannot remember now, then we walked some more and ate some tapas in the dry afternoon air. I took a picture of her by the new theatre sign in the dusty square. She told me about some of her old loves and we laughed about her debauchery and daring and living. No one we know does these kinds of things. Her friends think that she is enlightened. Some others may think that she is a nymphomaniac but I think she is just brilliant.

And so we went to the park and a load of people were there playing and pounding the drums and I felt free like I have never felt before and suddenly I had to go and I had drank far too much Pimms and the new guy from Rhode Island said that he would call me and I said hey do that and we all staggered out of the park, under the underpass, with my head so calm and clear and happy. I skimmed the low ceiling with my fingers and thought that I should remember that exact moment, that exact happiness.

Diario de Madrid: Junio 2005: El Bar Irlandes 3: los individuales

Some people just make you feel so helpless. There are a lot of these at my bar. The dull, the restless, the hoplessly useless, the undefined, the unrefined…..

The most interesting are the individuals. Nuria, the neurotic man-eater, who visits the bar on a nightly basis, always with a different guy on rotation. They dote on her slavishly, buy her gifts, paw over her warm, brown skin, then get rebuffed after they’ve paid for her entertainment. Mostly these poor creatures are so pathetic I have no sympathy whatsoever, but occasionally even my man-hating heart goes out to the wretches.

Sylvia, the woman of no particular origin, sits in the corner, writing her thesis on how to analyse history purely through photos. She has 169 images of the fall of the Russian Empire. She chain-smokes and drinks tea, but only up until 6 o clock. She has her own cushion that stays behind the upright bar-flap when she’s not here. She has numerous friends who come and sit and chat round the corner table, always in Spanish, although she’s lived in Paris, Dublin and a number of other European cities. She has never been to the Orient but she has used alternative medicine to cure back problems, induced from too much bad posture: sitting on the floor with her legs akimbo and writing her first thesis, 14 hrs every day for 4 months. She has a shock of curly blonde hair that frames her face and a contented-cat smile. Her voice is gravely, and rolls out of her mouth in a soft, indeterminate drawl. There is nothing silly about her – she’s solid and certain. And kind. Sure, sometimes her blue eyeshadow falls below where it should be and she entertains the company of pseudo-intellectuals, but she has a certain place in the world. Of that I am sure. She makes me feel safe when I sit next to her. There is nothing fripperous or extraneous about her person. She needs background noise to work but she doesn’t desperately seek the company of others by coming to the bar. She people-watches and lends a kind ear to those that seek it.

Malcolm makes me want to cry at times. He’s the type of person I would like to have shot at birth. Not for any malicious intent, just purely because it would have been an act of kindness. He has a toads face, with shallow muddy eyes that bulge glassily. If those are windows to some kind of soul I give up any faith in God, as I can see nothing there. He is the worst of Nuria’s fan club – and the most fervently hopeful. I don’t think he’s ever understood a single thing about the world or where his place in it should be, so, like the rest of the truly lost, he will sit at the end of the bar, supping his pint and laugh at jokes that were not meant for him to share.

Diario de Madrid: Junio 2005: El Bar Irlandes 2: los espanoles

Other types of drinkers here are Spanish pijos, snobs that like to feel international, drink interesting ‘black beer’, and patronise foreign bar staff. Many of the regulars are, however, very nice and polite, but a large office party may breeze in at 7, stay all night, demand table service, large rounds and a constant stream of free tapas, then will all pay separately and insist on ‘invitations’ (free drinks). I still have a lot to learn about Spanish culture…

Diario de Madrid: Junio 2005: El Bar Irlandes 1: los clientes habituales

I have started to really enjoy my job here. The actual work is mundane and boring in the extreme, but Irish bars are fascinating places for people-watching. I have seen the like of whom I never before presumed possible to exist – from the most painfully stupid and ignorant, to professors, artists, lawyers and every type in between.

You have the inevitable expat regulars, who like to sit and scratch their balls whilst drinking Guinness and watching cricket on the BBC. This type of clientele, by and large, speak very bad Spanish and work as English teachers. I have yet to divine exactly why they are here, as they complain about every aspect of Spanish life yet have no intention of returning to the Mother Land.

Diario de Madrid: Gente Maja: Junio 2005

Hot North African winds blew through Madrid this weekend, as workers celebrated the beginning of their holidays. Streets overflowed with a sweaty, noisy, excited human stream. The bustling traffic of bodies passing through dry heat swelled irregularly in knots, as friends met at metro stations, lovers pressed each other into doorways and tourists stood to stare at the street entertainers. Each road had its climax point, from Fuencarral, where a burgeoning crowd spilled out to meet the flow from Gran Via, all the way down to Plaza Mayor, as groups sat and drank in the night, chatting, all splayed out on the cobble stones. Their voices reached up past the muralled walls into the clear deep ocean of dark blue sky.

Primavera Sound 2005-06-05

Scorching heat and warm canned lager. The beat of sound systems competing in the warmth of an early morning in June. A sea of dancing figures waving and jumping to dj sets… the international arena… shameless fame spotting edith bowman… ridiculously small indoor arena… queues for tickets for food, queues for tickets for drinks… queues for drinks, queues for food…. Nouvelle vague roxked my world while iggy pop wailed at the rest... The Russian couldn’t stand it and pouted in hooded defiance for the duration of the fiesta. New Order failed to get my juices flowing, whereas live brass and balls made me fall in love with Broken Social’s Scene’s “Lover’s Spit”… Beautiful pink sea glinted as “Sells Like Teen Spirit” got mixed up, chopped up, fucked around and charged by the awesome Optimo dj’s…

Barcelona is beautiful. I had forgotten this simple fact.