The view through the smudged window was unextraordinary; the desolate brick and cement invoked not just no interest but a distinct restlessness that didn't help her temperament. She had the option of turning around and greeting the harsh fluorescent lights of the waiting room but decided the former was the better option and returned to the window and the soft vast expanse in the glass. She wished to be one of the buses hibernating in the darkness on the far side of the square.
The clock struck twelve and a woman next to her got up and left. She had been called, no doubt, saved from this transit purgatory. She felt envy and rather fixated the emotion on herself: why hadn't she just arrived later! But realising the behavior was not conducive with regard to the further two hours of waiting ahead of her, she tried to calm herself and went back to the stillness of the window.
She stared at the empty bays though found herself imaging the blast of white light that preceded the grand, air-conditioned, floating, cloudy bed with the orange sign warmly signaling B A R C E L O N A and the driver with his pressed collar and shiny black shoes who would ensure she traveled in her dreams.
So she got up and strolled over to the vending machines at the far end of the room. Usually she would have rolled her suitcase along with her but considering the circumstances she didn't care: the imminent bottle of water, and should her pockets provide any fortune some chocolate, carried the gravitas. Besides there was only a couple of middle aged ladies sitting at the opposite window across from her and an old grey haired man whose desire was just to pace the length of the window in keen interest as if he was viewing an aquarium.
Much to her great frustration, and verging on a rage-filled-screaming-fit, after an intense drawn out process of careful consideration, the machine wouldn't take anything less than 50 cent coins so she was unable to get either the water or chocolate. Compelled to buy something after making the decision and the move, she didn't want the ladies to think her strange or poor, she was sure the old man who had been still in an outward blank stare for the past few minutes hadn't noticed, she settled her lone euro for an unsatisfying pack of mints.
The mints at least provided some stimulation and her eyes had adjusted to the harshness of the room. The ladies sat whispering in front of her though they might have been shouting, the dimensions of the room had grown over time and it seemed to stretch full length across her flat world of eternal sunshine. Though their mannerisms suggested it might have been polite whispering. And she was satisfied, as she animatedly took another mint, that the whispering was not about her.
The window behind their heads was glared and she was unable to see if the ladies were neglecting a better view than hers they might have been privy to. Though to be fair, it seemed much the same, much darkness, much nothing, and her reflection caught her attention. Not good, she thought, this light would be doing her no favour. How she usually spent this hour of a friday night still preparing to venture out with her friends escaped her. It's just different, she concluded without pause for consideration and played at her hair in the window until she was satisfied - in case of the remote chance there might be a bus driver of interest.
Apart from her reflection there must have been something on the window because the old man persisted. He'd resumed his pacing the length of the glass as if he himself were in a cage fixated on the concept of freedom. She studied him a bit closer, with literally nothing else to look at, he walked slowly with that typical hunch that she was unsure why old people ended up with. He was dressed well, but not well, just neatly; with an ironed white collared shirt tucked into a black belt raising brown shorts to the knees; and with white socks pulled above polished black leather shoes; he carried a shoulder length leather bag, roughly the size of her purse, that was apparently empty the way it flapped about him. He almost looked like a bus driver. Yes, that was it. He was a bus driver, longing, forced into retirement with his gold watch (that might have been hiding under his buttoned sleeve) after a lifetime of service. With no foreseeable purpose in life he came to the waiting room of his old bus station to watch the buses flow in and out and reflect on his days when he lived this life at its peak. She wondered if he was even waiting for a bus, but without emotion, and eventually grew bored of the old man and returned to the window.
At one o'clock a bus arrived as if shipping in the Vegas Strip and unloaded a buzz of light and sound and movement; passengers fell about the station and hurriedly collected their suitcases before hunting down the exit like a wolf gang. Then the driver, after extinguishing his cigarette on the tarmac via the polished toe of his black boot, put the bus into a reverse of beep... beep... beep... beep... then the woosh as the clutch was stomped and the beast directed forward and its rumble faded from whence it came. It was all over so soon, in a matter of minutes, and a fading memory as the still darkness returned to consume the world.
A dog stood in front of her, blank and curious. She had heard a scurrying and had turned back from the window to meet it. She looked at the old man and the ladies - both displayed no interest. It seemed pleasant enough, it was obviously a stray but it wasn't bloody and didn't appear aggressive, she thought it was in a pretty good state. So when it settled, content with a certain area on the grey tiling for a place to sleep, she remained unmoved and just observed the brown, warm looking foreign thing as it fell into some strange state of alertness of which she could relate.
Her eyes were only resting, she insisted, when the pitter-patter of paws sounded again. She glimpsed them scampering back out the door and then heard the growl of a bus. She was the only one in the station now and she grabbed her things before walking out into the summer air. The white light of the bus was blinding but she could make out the illuminated destination. The screech of the brakes and then the release of the compressed air brought it to a stop. She gave her ticket and climbed on board.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Cerrado.
After a good while in the closeted, dark space that he so often frequented, Ignacio realised the rain was beginning to give way under the strength of the August sun and shortly he would be obliged to return to the city in which he was supposed to be living.
His visits to this part of the house were discouraged by his Mother, even an absent minded observer would have appreciated her will only strengthened her son's to be there, save for when the heavy and thick mass of rain brought normal activities inside. His Mother had always keenly desired him to be normal and Ignacio felt it wasn't even some unattainable normality in him that she sought, but a code for him to change to being someone else altogether. So the two fought regularly. And it was to his great relief and fortune that the summer heat swept over the Mediterranean from foreign lands, unspeakable places his Mother daren't entertain, had been shrouded by the muffling grey cloak of rain.
As he observed the gradual resurgence of light filtering through the window and on to the bed which he lay, Ignacio calmly and slowly finalised his plans. He closed his eyes and reviewed them carefully but without any further consideration. Then he rose, and made the bed so it was in the same state as he found it, and went down the stairs to where he was sure his Father would be waiting ready to head out.
The room upstairs was notoriously outside time; not because he had no source of it but because he would idly lose its concept. Therefore, he wasn't surprised when the kitchen clock read it was well after siesta time but rather adapted his running thought to its sudden return and the accompanying regime that intruded into his world outside the room upstairs. Understanding, he envisaged the shop must be opening for trading or at least undergoing weather induced repairs, without seeing his Father or Mother he left the house.
The air was cold and the wind ruffling the clouds pierced his summer attire. He enjoyed the dull discomfort; it was vitalizing. He walked the way with a vigour he didn't usually carry on the walk to work but there was no avoiding the energy of the time. People seemed to share his spirit, the streets were already a buzz of activity not seen since the rain had begun. Final thunderclaps were heard as shop shutters were rolled up and signs ignited its evening intentions. Others ambled aimlessly, and slowly, they kicked at the stony ground and skimmed their toes in the puddles and took heavy breathes and prospectively assessed the reactivating economy; licking their lips, catching themselves in the glass windows and fingering their pockets. In an apparent awe as if discovering a lost-land that by unknown means was vaguely familiar.
It wasn't the time for shopping but the weather had transcended the routine of time and dictated mass behaviour. Ignacio arrived at the shop ready to embrace the shift. It was closed but the interior lights were on; his parents must have been finalising preparations or even waiting for him. The door was locked and displayed cerrado. He couldn't see any movement in the front and he used his key to skip inside. He was disappointed at the condition of the store; it looked as if nothing had been prepared and he had to dodge the abandoned rebajas signs that were dumped inside when the weather initially approached. He could see the stock and the till hadn't yet been closed off from that day. It was strange nothing was done. He continued past the clutter and into the back room, the hall light was on, as was the light in his Father's office. Ignacio found it empty and in the same unkempt state.
Where his parents might have been he did not know nor could he find a satisfying scenario in his mind that would allow him to start work on the shop. Then on the desk he saw an envelope with a scribbled Ignacio. He opened it without thought and read it through, taking every word, in complete haste. Only then did he allow the handwritten words of his Mother and the cold cordiality of his Father to sink in. The words advised Ignacio they had left for unspeakable lands, leaving him the house and the shop.
Ignacio's expression was blank. He slowly reached into his pocket and retrieved the pages of his scribblings that he had spent hours and hours in the upstairs room devising. He grabbed at the folded papers with both hands and calmly tore it over and over, before allowing the shreds to fall gently to the floor.
His visits to this part of the house were discouraged by his Mother, even an absent minded observer would have appreciated her will only strengthened her son's to be there, save for when the heavy and thick mass of rain brought normal activities inside. His Mother had always keenly desired him to be normal and Ignacio felt it wasn't even some unattainable normality in him that she sought, but a code for him to change to being someone else altogether. So the two fought regularly. And it was to his great relief and fortune that the summer heat swept over the Mediterranean from foreign lands, unspeakable places his Mother daren't entertain, had been shrouded by the muffling grey cloak of rain.
As he observed the gradual resurgence of light filtering through the window and on to the bed which he lay, Ignacio calmly and slowly finalised his plans. He closed his eyes and reviewed them carefully but without any further consideration. Then he rose, and made the bed so it was in the same state as he found it, and went down the stairs to where he was sure his Father would be waiting ready to head out.
The room upstairs was notoriously outside time; not because he had no source of it but because he would idly lose its concept. Therefore, he wasn't surprised when the kitchen clock read it was well after siesta time but rather adapted his running thought to its sudden return and the accompanying regime that intruded into his world outside the room upstairs. Understanding, he envisaged the shop must be opening for trading or at least undergoing weather induced repairs, without seeing his Father or Mother he left the house.
The air was cold and the wind ruffling the clouds pierced his summer attire. He enjoyed the dull discomfort; it was vitalizing. He walked the way with a vigour he didn't usually carry on the walk to work but there was no avoiding the energy of the time. People seemed to share his spirit, the streets were already a buzz of activity not seen since the rain had begun. Final thunderclaps were heard as shop shutters were rolled up and signs ignited its evening intentions. Others ambled aimlessly, and slowly, they kicked at the stony ground and skimmed their toes in the puddles and took heavy breathes and prospectively assessed the reactivating economy; licking their lips, catching themselves in the glass windows and fingering their pockets. In an apparent awe as if discovering a lost-land that by unknown means was vaguely familiar.
It wasn't the time for shopping but the weather had transcended the routine of time and dictated mass behaviour. Ignacio arrived at the shop ready to embrace the shift. It was closed but the interior lights were on; his parents must have been finalising preparations or even waiting for him. The door was locked and displayed cerrado. He couldn't see any movement in the front and he used his key to skip inside. He was disappointed at the condition of the store; it looked as if nothing had been prepared and he had to dodge the abandoned rebajas signs that were dumped inside when the weather initially approached. He could see the stock and the till hadn't yet been closed off from that day. It was strange nothing was done. He continued past the clutter and into the back room, the hall light was on, as was the light in his Father's office. Ignacio found it empty and in the same unkempt state.
Where his parents might have been he did not know nor could he find a satisfying scenario in his mind that would allow him to start work on the shop. Then on the desk he saw an envelope with a scribbled Ignacio. He opened it without thought and read it through, taking every word, in complete haste. Only then did he allow the handwritten words of his Mother and the cold cordiality of his Father to sink in. The words advised Ignacio they had left for unspeakable lands, leaving him the house and the shop.
Ignacio's expression was blank. He slowly reached into his pocket and retrieved the pages of his scribblings that he had spent hours and hours in the upstairs room devising. He grabbed at the folded papers with both hands and calmly tore it over and over, before allowing the shreds to fall gently to the floor.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The Gaze of the Red Fortress.
I intended to stay in Granada only a couple of days. It was in from the coast and meant a return to the oppressive heat I'd fled Seville to escape from. A week later, as I finally decide to take my leave, I feel there is much, much more to uncover in this small but compelling city.
The first morning I was very happy, with the two day call; it was surely more than enough time to see the place. The city centre on day one, maybe the cathedral as well, and the following day I'd do the obligatory Alhambra and its Palacios Nazaries; which for some reason I'd had to book days in advance to get a ticket despite a daily capacity of 8,000 visitors. Weird and surely there was a clue in there for me somewhere.
The city was entirely nice. The Gran Via Colon and Calle Reyes Catolicos that dissect the centre are impressive and wouldn't look out of place in the European Mecca that is Madrid. Michelle Obama even made a cameo appearance leaving the Cathedral with her daughters. I'm sure Bo was around too; somewhere amongst the cavalcade of jeeps and national police cars flashing their blue lights, or perhaps hiding in the jackets of the not so subtle American undercover agents patrolling the sidewalks in their cargo pants and pastel polo shirts.
The afternoon was spent with a couple of beers in an air-conditioned bar airing the fútbol, free tapas didn't go astray either. Totally pleasant and enjoyable and I could see why the first lady might have come to keep the kids occupied for a couple of days over their summer holidays.
Then after siesta time as I strolled from the grand madrileño city along the Carrera del Darrio in search of new restaurant for dinner everything changed. The sun had set, the air had dropped to bearable, people were emerging and bringing life, and I entered another land. The narrow and worn carrera on which I walked snaked over the Rio Darrio. The river, which at one time served a purpose as a life source as well as a moat, divided the Alhambra, it's walls and palace windows now glowing an awe inspiring lit red, and the seemingly untouched Moorish barrio that is the Albayzín; forged of indistinguishable white houses in that classic Spanish style you would expect to see on your travels. And as I slowly passed above the streaming Rio, under the eternal gaze of the Red Fortress I began to realise I actually had no idea where I was. This place, out of nowhere, was somewhere else.
At the top of the road was a small plaza where people dined in restaurants under terraced vines. Others were content to mill around the fountain and sit along the riverside avoiding the orange warmth of the sparse light. Musicians roamed the square searched for a euro or two. All the while taking in the majesty of the Alhambra and the isolation induced from the dark mass that hid the Albayzín.
Back down in the city and a slight exploration down the maze of back streets revealed cheap bars offering their free tapas with beer specials; multiple kebab shops asking to be recognised as the local specialty; and Moroccan style, deep and dungeon-like, tea houses where everything seemed to be made from beautiful sequined faded fabrics.
As for the Alhambra itself; if you can avoid the hottest hours and stand the mass excess of people, there is much to appreciate in how the finest in Islamic culture did business. They created a heaven on earth and it's a most alien and eerily beautiful experience. From which limitless conclusions and inspirations can be drawn.
I leave the romance of Granada, a place where east met west and surely won, knowing I've been affected. I will undoubtedly return.
The first morning I was very happy, with the two day call; it was surely more than enough time to see the place. The city centre on day one, maybe the cathedral as well, and the following day I'd do the obligatory Alhambra and its Palacios Nazaries; which for some reason I'd had to book days in advance to get a ticket despite a daily capacity of 8,000 visitors. Weird and surely there was a clue in there for me somewhere.
The city was entirely nice. The Gran Via Colon and Calle Reyes Catolicos that dissect the centre are impressive and wouldn't look out of place in the European Mecca that is Madrid. Michelle Obama even made a cameo appearance leaving the Cathedral with her daughters. I'm sure Bo was around too; somewhere amongst the cavalcade of jeeps and national police cars flashing their blue lights, or perhaps hiding in the jackets of the not so subtle American undercover agents patrolling the sidewalks in their cargo pants and pastel polo shirts.
The afternoon was spent with a couple of beers in an air-conditioned bar airing the fútbol, free tapas didn't go astray either. Totally pleasant and enjoyable and I could see why the first lady might have come to keep the kids occupied for a couple of days over their summer holidays.
Then after siesta time as I strolled from the grand madrileño city along the Carrera del Darrio in search of new restaurant for dinner everything changed. The sun had set, the air had dropped to bearable, people were emerging and bringing life, and I entered another land. The narrow and worn carrera on which I walked snaked over the Rio Darrio. The river, which at one time served a purpose as a life source as well as a moat, divided the Alhambra, it's walls and palace windows now glowing an awe inspiring lit red, and the seemingly untouched Moorish barrio that is the Albayzín; forged of indistinguishable white houses in that classic Spanish style you would expect to see on your travels. And as I slowly passed above the streaming Rio, under the eternal gaze of the Red Fortress I began to realise I actually had no idea where I was. This place, out of nowhere, was somewhere else.
At the top of the road was a small plaza where people dined in restaurants under terraced vines. Others were content to mill around the fountain and sit along the riverside avoiding the orange warmth of the sparse light. Musicians roamed the square searched for a euro or two. All the while taking in the majesty of the Alhambra and the isolation induced from the dark mass that hid the Albayzín.
Back down in the city and a slight exploration down the maze of back streets revealed cheap bars offering their free tapas with beer specials; multiple kebab shops asking to be recognised as the local specialty; and Moroccan style, deep and dungeon-like, tea houses where everything seemed to be made from beautiful sequined faded fabrics.
As for the Alhambra itself; if you can avoid the hottest hours and stand the mass excess of people, there is much to appreciate in how the finest in Islamic culture did business. They created a heaven on earth and it's a most alien and eerily beautiful experience. From which limitless conclusions and inspirations can be drawn.
I leave the romance of Granada, a place where east met west and surely won, knowing I've been affected. I will undoubtedly return.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Seville has not abandoned me.
His footing slid on the gleaming cobbles as he struggled to keep a decent pace. He cursed the afternoon rain that had turned the stone to ice and the lingering cloud that sent the dry summer heat to a screaming humidity. He knew it wasn't far, no where in town was far, but once in the labyrinth of the streets it could take hours to find yourself. He knew it as he stopped, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the rolled sleeve of his white shirt, to observe the fork in the road.
There was no sight of the Giralda as he studied his vacant surroundings; even in which direction it stood he did not know. It was buried somewhere beneath the suffocating walls that defined every street and alley. Behind the faceless shutters and iron doors, that frustrated him so endlessly, that hid the life of the town he was searching for. Follow the Giralda, it was the last thing they'd said to him before he left and he feared time; that it would sound again soon.
He'd strolled the endless maze without care since choosing to find his own way after lunch. Leaving his friends en route to the hotel for their routine siesta to explore the streets of their newest destination; the culprit of a sudden combined burst of energy, curiosity and a strong coffee. He most enjoyed the country at the hottest hours when all activity ceased and people dispersed to places unknown and he was able to wander undisturbed in the tranquility of his thoughts and his surroundings. But now the time for siesta had long since passed with the glare of the sun and he felt a growing anxiousness that the barrio hadn't burst into life around him.
As he faced yet another decision between left and right he felt his first flash of fear. It was not a conscious fear but one built over time of knowingly incorrect decisions; a growing understanding the streets were capable of defeating him accompanied a growing sense of weakness. He felt the left was right somehow, indeed it looked the more inviting; the stone reading copper in the diminishing light. The other way already covered in the deep shadow that had done little to cool him. He made left driving purposefully down the middle of the desolate road.
The emerging darkness was bringing no relief. The heat seemed to be stuck low in the street. Trapped without the usual gentle breeze to chase it out of the town. Convinced his friends would be waiting for him his anxiousness had turned to frustration and he ducked down an alley. Employing his blind sense of direction he continued in this fashion taking turns where he saw fit. Willfully challenging the streets, determined not to succumb to its oppression.
Then, as space materialised, he was forced a moment to realise the futility of his methods. Velázquez stood someway in front of him proud and forgotten. No sight or sound of life. He knew where he was. He had been here earlier. Despair began to creep forth from the shadow enveloping plaza. He wildly scanned the many exits, desperate to recall some piece of lost information, a lost clue, that would inform him of the way. Anything. Anything but the incessant insanity of the empty, lifeless, winding streets.
A blast disrupted his impending doom. The Giralda! The chimes swept across the plaza, piercing his ears, and down the avenues behind him hunting the silence. He ran as the bells rang again, and then again. There was no need to wait out the count, he already knew it, and he streamlined for a new exit in the general direction of the benevolence. He dashed down a narrow way that lent right, then took a side street and scrambled madly up a flight of stairs in an effort to keep true to the sound. He knew he was running out time and stole another hundred meters or so before the ultimate ring finally faded away into the obscurity.
The silence tore at him as he surveyed the darkness. There was just enough moonlight to make out the stones at his feet but he was convinced this was the right path. Convinced to keep the veil of madness at bay. He knew now he was homecoming and his stride broadened and his spirit restored. He continued a while. The abandoned streets took on a new look. For the first time he appreciated a cool beauty in the way the white moonlight infiltrated the greys and yellows of the stone creating a serenity that previously escaped him. He settled in the comforting thought.
Time passed and he felt progress. He envisioned the elevated bell-tower guiding him out. As if an actual brilliant shining light illuminated his return to the world. After an eternity the night finally opened in front of him and, relieved, he broke into a run toward the abyss. Then he stopped, skidding to a halt on the smoothed stones, his face a picture of horror. It was Velázquez; proud and forgotten.
There was no sight of the Giralda as he studied his vacant surroundings; even in which direction it stood he did not know. It was buried somewhere beneath the suffocating walls that defined every street and alley. Behind the faceless shutters and iron doors, that frustrated him so endlessly, that hid the life of the town he was searching for. Follow the Giralda, it was the last thing they'd said to him before he left and he feared time; that it would sound again soon.
He'd strolled the endless maze without care since choosing to find his own way after lunch. Leaving his friends en route to the hotel for their routine siesta to explore the streets of their newest destination; the culprit of a sudden combined burst of energy, curiosity and a strong coffee. He most enjoyed the country at the hottest hours when all activity ceased and people dispersed to places unknown and he was able to wander undisturbed in the tranquility of his thoughts and his surroundings. But now the time for siesta had long since passed with the glare of the sun and he felt a growing anxiousness that the barrio hadn't burst into life around him.
As he faced yet another decision between left and right he felt his first flash of fear. It was not a conscious fear but one built over time of knowingly incorrect decisions; a growing understanding the streets were capable of defeating him accompanied a growing sense of weakness. He felt the left was right somehow, indeed it looked the more inviting; the stone reading copper in the diminishing light. The other way already covered in the deep shadow that had done little to cool him. He made left driving purposefully down the middle of the desolate road.
The emerging darkness was bringing no relief. The heat seemed to be stuck low in the street. Trapped without the usual gentle breeze to chase it out of the town. Convinced his friends would be waiting for him his anxiousness had turned to frustration and he ducked down an alley. Employing his blind sense of direction he continued in this fashion taking turns where he saw fit. Willfully challenging the streets, determined not to succumb to its oppression.
Then, as space materialised, he was forced a moment to realise the futility of his methods. Velázquez stood someway in front of him proud and forgotten. No sight or sound of life. He knew where he was. He had been here earlier. Despair began to creep forth from the shadow enveloping plaza. He wildly scanned the many exits, desperate to recall some piece of lost information, a lost clue, that would inform him of the way. Anything. Anything but the incessant insanity of the empty, lifeless, winding streets.
A blast disrupted his impending doom. The Giralda! The chimes swept across the plaza, piercing his ears, and down the avenues behind him hunting the silence. He ran as the bells rang again, and then again. There was no need to wait out the count, he already knew it, and he streamlined for a new exit in the general direction of the benevolence. He dashed down a narrow way that lent right, then took a side street and scrambled madly up a flight of stairs in an effort to keep true to the sound. He knew he was running out time and stole another hundred meters or so before the ultimate ring finally faded away into the obscurity.
The silence tore at him as he surveyed the darkness. There was just enough moonlight to make out the stones at his feet but he was convinced this was the right path. Convinced to keep the veil of madness at bay. He knew now he was homecoming and his stride broadened and his spirit restored. He continued a while. The abandoned streets took on a new look. For the first time he appreciated a cool beauty in the way the white moonlight infiltrated the greys and yellows of the stone creating a serenity that previously escaped him. He settled in the comforting thought.
Time passed and he felt progress. He envisioned the elevated bell-tower guiding him out. As if an actual brilliant shining light illuminated his return to the world. After an eternity the night finally opened in front of him and, relieved, he broke into a run toward the abyss. Then he stopped, skidding to a halt on the smoothed stones, his face a picture of horror. It was Velázquez; proud and forgotten.
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