I realize that I've been trying to write in the present tense because I think it makes travel stories more compelling, but today I have a predicament--can I write in the present tense about yesterday? I am now concerned that as my Spanish improves, my English declines!
Anyway, when I left off I was off to find ice cream--not hard to do. The trick is to choose a place that isn't supplied by some monster company like Haagen Daaz or Ben & Jerry's (those Vermont hippies are everywhere!), where they also offer the good flavors. I remember eating pounds of manzana verde (green apple) ice cream every day when I was in Malaga eight years ago. I can't find manzana verde in Madrid, so perhaps it is special to Andalucia. Instead I choose mango, which to my delight has huge chunks of mango in it. I find an open bench in front of a gaping hole where a building used to be. The exposed socket of the foundation is actually very curious to look at, and reminds me of the conversation about economic growth that I had with Javier, the information man at the airport. Apparently Spain has enjoyed great economic growth of late because of a booming construction market. The problem with construction as your economic stimulus is that it cannot sustain itself. As it declines, the Spanish people have become frustrated with the return to a slower growth rate as they mistake it for decline. I allow myself to be distracted by thoughts of how to save the not-actually-failing Spanish economy before deciding to venture off into new neighborhoods.
The grafitti is a problem all over the city, but not in the same way it is at home on the Ave. I think the grafitti in Spain is, for the most part, beautiful. I find myself stopping to take photos of it as I drift past shops and restaurants. I stop to read passages from famous Spanish authors that have been laid in pewter in the pedestrian routes, and puzzle over some of the words. An old man in a fedora with a bright purple ribbon and coke-bottle glasses stops and stands next to me, peering at the text. He looks up at me and winks, asking me in Spanish if I need help with the words. I ask him to explain a few of them and he lights up as he gestures madly, explaining to me in the most poetic of simple terms what whitecaps are. I thank him and offer my hand to shake, which he pointedly ignores, kissing me on both cheeks instead. I wish I had the courage to take his photo.
I walk into what must be the Spanish equivalent of a dollar store. Most items are not that cheap, but they are very inexpensive. It's a discount store, run by two asian women who speak almost no Spanish and decidedly not a word of English. This is where I should have come to buy my supplies while my bag is still missing--there is shampoo and conditioner and soap and electric plugs, and candles of saints, and dog beds, and everything anyone could ever need. I buy some Nivea deodorant--I always pack deodorant in my carryon, but managed somehow to melt mine... I take the can to the counter and the asian woman keeps me there for a few minutes so I can teach her the Spanish word: desodorante. I am now teaching Spanish to immigrants!
I start to walk back to my hostel, stopping in a nearby Santaria shop. They have this amazing collection of Tarot cards in all languages. They're beautiful and the glass case must house at least 300 different packs. The women in there are so friendly and continuously offer to explain the use of certain candles or idols. There is a wall of organic materials and upon closer inspection I realize that there are hundreds of little packets of herbs and other ingredients for making tonics and potions and spells (maybe, I didn't ask). There is a variety of crystal balls available, and a collection of handmade Ouija boards. But it's not all pagan magic; there is a huge corner devoted, floor to ceiling, to candles and figures of every single saint in the Catholic church. It's really incredible and I think I'll have to go back and investigate further.
By this time it's past siesta hour, but l return to my room anyway. I do some reading, write a little bit, and rest. At nine thirty it's time for dinner. I head out to Calle de Cadiz, which is a short alley lined with restaurants run by immigrants. I sit down for some pizza across from the restaurant where I ate the plate of vegetables the night before. Two guys my age from Napoli run the little pizza joint--they both come out to take my order. I explain in Spanish that I don't eat meat so I can only choose from two things on the menu: the Pizza Margarita or the Pizza Caprese. They argue in Italian over which pizza I should order, but I can't understand any of it because it turns out that it's not Italian, it's Napolitano that they're speaking. One of them wins the argument, but I can't tell who and the shorter one storms into the kitchen to start my dinner. The other remains and explains that they are making me a special Pizza de Napoli, sin carne (without meat). The servers name is Federico and he remains to chat with me about the United States and why I am in Spain. When my pizza comes wishes me a good appetite in four languages and disappears to go argue with the cook again (I can hear them in the back). The pizza is thin crust with olive oil and herbs slathered on and topped off with sliced tomatoes and four enormous slabs of mozzarella--the best I've had outside of Italy. The pizza is amazing. Amazing. And I can't believe I eat the whole thing. Then Federico tells me to wait and runs next door to the Turkish restaurant. He emerges with two different desserts and presents them with exaggerated flourish. They're sickeningly sweet and I can't finish them.
Of course, throughout this entire meal I get to meet everyone who works on the street, and all their friends who pass through, and all the Americans who pass through are introduced to me by the various people who work there as they try to entice them to eat at their restaurants. "Americanas? Que suerte! Ella es Americana tambien!" (Americans? What luck! She's also American!) and then we Americans shake hands and everyone else talks about us in their respective languages. And so it goes until I pay my bill and leave. I now know everyone on Calle de Cadiz. Everyone. And I have been promised free pizza if I bring my friends to eat... we'll see.
I walk to a small plaza nearby to see if there are any street performers. The night is pretty quiet and so I sit and people watch for a while. One of the waiters from Calle de Cadiz recognizes me on his walk home and invites me for a drink at a bar in the plaza. We go and sit outside and he buys me a glass of tinto de verano, which I prefer to sangria, hands down. A gypsy passes through the tables selling flowers and premonitions. She stops at our table and I pause in the middle of my sentence to smile at her when she pulls a rose from the middle of her bouquet and hands it to me. I tell her, no thank you, I cannot pay and she waves me off, saying "Es un regalito, nina" (It's a little gift, child). The waiter with whom I'm sitting, Lucas, is gaping at me and when the gypsy leaves he tells me that I must have such luck, the gypsies never give anything away. I tell him I'd like to trade the rose for my luggage!
We part after drinks and I head for the hostel--it's been a long day of doing not much and I have a lot more of it ahead of me tomorrow!
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