I moved here a little under a month ago. How time flies.
On the morning of the 1st of April, April Fool's day, I was all worried about the movers not showing up, or showing up late. They did the latter. And then it took twice as long to load the stuff.
I took the G train, arriving a little later than they did. I took the G train from Queens, perhaps for the last time. The connection from the 7 train was still broken and so I had to take a bus.
That evening seemed so long ago.
That evening Evi's sister along with her fiance also came. They came to the City to pay a visit to the Swiss consulate, and wanted to see my new place, which would soon be Evi's new place too.
That seemed so long ago. That night was raining a lot. I was sitting in the van while the movers moved. I remember feeling anxious in the rain, wondering when the move would be over.
Now I am sitting here, with that move, that evening, seem so distant.
And since then I haven't really enjoyed the neighborhood much. What's the hurry? I don't know. My life has been, since then, mostly dominated by work and cultural events.
This new job is quite interesting. I am learning a lot. There's even pressure for deadline, which I haven't felt in a while. In many years. And yet, I am not working as much as I thought it would be required of me. On the first day I didn't have to arrive too early because my future boss had a morning meeting. But then he gave me the impression that I had to come to work by 8AM. I did the next day and the whole place was empty. Eventually I learned that people didn't come in before 8:45. And little by little I have been coming closer and closer to 9AM. These two days even a little after.
And I don't actually have to leave late. Same time as when I was working in Connecticut. But by the end of the day I am exhausted, so much thinking involved, so much staring at the computer screen.
The best part of the work is the learning, of course. But a good runner-up is the view. The location. I don't sit next to a window, but I can go to the windows and see the Statue of Liberty, the sea, the sunshine. And when it's not too terribly cold, I go outside, sit, stroll, even stretch. To feel the sun. To bathe in it.
After work I am rarely home like today. I have been going to a lot of theater, a lot of classical music events. And when I am not, I have been out of town for one reason or another, interestingly so far all in Connecticut.
It's good to actually spend some time in this new neighborhood, the highlight of my non-work life. It has almost everything I like, including theater (just 15-minute walk from the Brooklyn Academy of Music). Restaurants are everywhere. And there are many cute little places waiting for me to discover and get to know, like a pottery workshop.
The neighborhood is very mixed in a way I didn't expect but don't find it too unfamiliar. There is the hip neighborhoods of Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill, and Brooklyn Heights, full of young professionals and their strollers (also known as Yuppies). Then just the next block from me is Downtown Brooklyn, mostly cheap shops frequented by African Americans. Each morning I see people standing in line outside what appears to be the welfare office. There isn't a line outside the Department of Labor across the street. But on my street it's the start of Yuppy-land, where the streets are made into a green tunnel by tall trees and the as far as the eye can see the roads are lined with brownstones. There is organic everything, including two organic cosmetics stores; I didn't even know it is important to use organic cosmetics but come to think of it, if you really hate chemicals, you would not want to put that stuff on your face.
One of the best meat market is within 10 minutes by walking from me. That is where I got my 7-pound leg of lamb that I roasted for the Easter Brunch.
And yet, there is still a lot for me to get to know. Not just to get to know by location, by its existence, but also to get to know so it becomes part of my life. To see what I like, try things out and decide. To discover places beyond the realm of restaurants and shops, which is the realm of tourists. This weekend I have more time here alone. I have actually two tango acquaintances who live just a block from me. It was pure coincidence that I found a place so close to tango people. I am hoping if we click we can be actual friends.
I didn't actually find this apartment. Evi found it by cleverly joining a neighborhood discussion group and the landlord just happened to be looking for someone to fill the vacancy.
She's the third big event in my recent life, of course. Just a little before the move and before the job, she and I started a life together, very quickly, almost hurriedly, with not a few stumbles and scary falls. Everything is happening fast in all these new ways; it is sometimes nice to just stop and breathe.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Children
The little girl I visited this weekend, Evi's godchild, suffers from congenital muscular dystrophy. She was born with dysfunctional muscles, all of them, from the ones she can control, like the ones on her arms, to the ones she can't, like stomach. And of course, there's also the diaphragm that you can sort of control. She was born unable to breathe because the diaphragm did not work enough to catch the first breath. She was attached to a machine for months.
I wonder how parents deal with their children born with enormous challenges, for the children as well as for the parents. This little girl's parents work full time outside their full time job to keep her alive and afford her the best care possible. While her muscles are improving, they will soon begin to deteriorate inexorably. I am not only thinking about the value of life, but also about being a parent. I see my nephew running around being unruly or uncontrollable, at least for me, not sure about the his parents. And I see that at least he's a normal child with normal challenges for parents and for himself.
I watched the little girl swing her little arms and legs. She started to smile, a behavior requiring facial muscular movement. She will have trouble speaking, and learning to speak. There is a tube attached to her trachea as if she was some patient suffering from lung disease after a life-time of smoking. She was still a little child, having spent first half her life so far in the hospital. I looked at the mother, and I saw no room left for grief or worry, just constant flow of tasks to keep her baby alive and in the best condition possible. What does it mean to be a parent? Is it really for the process? Or is it also for hopes and goals, goals of bringing a human being into a normal, fruitful life. Perhaps, not normal.
That was the preoccupation of my weekend in New Haven. And they were also seeds of thoughts. I haven't really let them grow into anything concrete. It was also a long weekend spent with Evi, nurturing that sapling called our relationship, building a connection that is just starting. The exception was a couple of hours in my old tango haunt, the place here I spent most of my Sunday evenings until I started driving down to New York City to dance that day of the week. Most faces were new but a few ghosts stubbornly clung to the tree of time. But there were really just two friends, one was the Indian man I had mentioned a few times, the man who stopped talking to me because I dated his ex-girlfriend without telling him. The other was a woman I went to Montreal once in her car; we also went often to New York City to dance. I caught up with both of them for a bit. I sat most of the time on those familiar steps that divided the dance section from the section where food and water was available and people gathered. I was the one who baked goods and wowed people for a few years. I was the one sitting there being too afraid to ask a better dancer to dance with me. I was somewhere around being upset amidst some drama with some tango dancer. I was everywhere in so many moments of those five years of dancing in this hall.
I wonder how parents deal with their children born with enormous challenges, for the children as well as for the parents. This little girl's parents work full time outside their full time job to keep her alive and afford her the best care possible. While her muscles are improving, they will soon begin to deteriorate inexorably. I am not only thinking about the value of life, but also about being a parent. I see my nephew running around being unruly or uncontrollable, at least for me, not sure about the his parents. And I see that at least he's a normal child with normal challenges for parents and for himself.
I watched the little girl swing her little arms and legs. She started to smile, a behavior requiring facial muscular movement. She will have trouble speaking, and learning to speak. There is a tube attached to her trachea as if she was some patient suffering from lung disease after a life-time of smoking. She was still a little child, having spent first half her life so far in the hospital. I looked at the mother, and I saw no room left for grief or worry, just constant flow of tasks to keep her baby alive and in the best condition possible. What does it mean to be a parent? Is it really for the process? Or is it also for hopes and goals, goals of bringing a human being into a normal, fruitful life. Perhaps, not normal.
That was the preoccupation of my weekend in New Haven. And they were also seeds of thoughts. I haven't really let them grow into anything concrete. It was also a long weekend spent with Evi, nurturing that sapling called our relationship, building a connection that is just starting. The exception was a couple of hours in my old tango haunt, the place here I spent most of my Sunday evenings until I started driving down to New York City to dance that day of the week. Most faces were new but a few ghosts stubbornly clung to the tree of time. But there were really just two friends, one was the Indian man I had mentioned a few times, the man who stopped talking to me because I dated his ex-girlfriend without telling him. The other was a woman I went to Montreal once in her car; we also went often to New York City to dance. I caught up with both of them for a bit. I sat most of the time on those familiar steps that divided the dance section from the section where food and water was available and people gathered. I was the one who baked goods and wowed people for a few years. I was the one sitting there being too afraid to ask a better dancer to dance with me. I was somewhere around being upset amidst some drama with some tango dancer. I was everywhere in so many moments of those five years of dancing in this hall.
Friday, February 17, 2012
A Brief Return
I just missed the diesel train. I haven't been on that diesel train for nearly a year. Ten months. Since April. The diesel train between Stamford and Old Saybrook, passing by my Pink House. It's the train I took to work and sometimes back from work when I was still living in New Haven. I started taking that train, going on that route, after starting my transition toward New York.
I remember writing my blog on the way home, passing Bridgeport, watching the cars whose existence was indicated only by their taillights. There is the big factory with tall chimneys that bellowed out white clouds in the chilly morning sky. Now, as I pass them by, they are quiet giants falling into sleep along with the sky. A drop of nostalgia, perhaps? But I don't miss that commute, and I don't miss the town I had stayed in for so long. It was never a "home"; it was more like a Hotel California, a temporary place that you can get stuck in permanently, a middle point that can become the end point. There are memories in that Hotel California, memories that shaped my journey, but there's nothing to return to. Not like New York, which is at once forever changing and forever the same.
Now I am looking for a job again. Another move closer to New York. I moved my home to New York, but the job was stuck halfway. I am going through the whole recruiting process again, trying to show off how smart I am while discovering where my limitations are, and in those limitations I learn where I want to go next. It's been more than a year since I was going through my first job application in nearly nine years. Now looking back, that one year in this job, compressed, seems so brief and short. But like New Haven, it is just a stop, and a stop I refused to allow to extend further. That is why I am searching for another job. It's because, yes, I am tired of the commute. But also, there's a strong desire for motion after nearly nine years of stagnation. New York was going to be an endpoint, but then life opens finally the door of romance to me and now I don't know how long I will be in New York. I don't feel that obsessive attachment to it that would make me feel sad to leave. But the feeling of constant motion is made even stronger now that I am not sure how long I will be in the place I didn't think was another Hotel California, but a home.
The recruiters are interesting. I never saw them in this way before. What I mean is, somehow with some deeper sagacity, I can see how their words and persuasions are tailored with one goal in common: getting me a job so they get their commission from the hiring firm. They won't declare this intention, of course, but they never sugarcoated anything to make themselves sound like they are doing me a favor. The less experienced ones just want to throw me as many opportunities as possible, even if they are not so relevant. I have learned to set limits, be assertive in what I want and not tolerate compromises. There are the more experienced recruiters who is more discerning of what I can do and where I would fit, and they try to get me the right jobs while doing their best to convince me to follow their path.
I am likely to get two offers soon. Already the HR managers of the two companies have spoken to me about compensation. I am learning the art of negotiating, if just a little bit. A year ago I was willing to settle for whatever that would help me get out of New Haven and get a pay raise. Now I want to be more discerning myself. When I listen to recruiters speak, to HR people speak, to interviewers speak, I hear more than just the words they utter; I start to see their intentions, understand their private motives, and then, hopefully, I have a better idea how I should go about getting my own goals. In that way, perhaps, I have grown up a little bit this past year. And I see my own limitations, I sense them. I don't mean the technical limitations. I mean personalities that impede me from getting the best offer in the best place. Worries, ego, uncertainty, self-esteem.
But what is the best offer, the best place to work. The two places that are ready to give me an offer are on diametric ends of many spectra. A bank that would offer more money but has had a worsening reputation for the past many years. A young company with young developers that are serious about building software for educating school children. But it's not so simple, as I am learning more. Nothing is so black and white. The bad bank is so large that it's difficult to judge any part of it for the misdeeds of a few sections. The young company is young also in a bad way, or possibly, like poor management, unrealistic about compensation, chaos. Besides all this, I don't really know what I want, and am afraid to do what I had done in the past: pick something and go with the flow. This is likely my last job in this country and after that I will be away for some indefinite amount of time. I feel I need to be careful what I choose, not only for current aims but for later, for starting a family, in terms of salary, skill set building, and other factors about my career.
I guess I need to write down the pros a
And so fast, this year has indeed flown by. I wonder what the next year will be….
I remember writing my blog on the way home, passing Bridgeport, watching the cars whose existence was indicated only by their taillights. There is the big factory with tall chimneys that bellowed out white clouds in the chilly morning sky. Now, as I pass them by, they are quiet giants falling into sleep along with the sky. A drop of nostalgia, perhaps? But I don't miss that commute, and I don't miss the town I had stayed in for so long. It was never a "home"; it was more like a Hotel California, a temporary place that you can get stuck in permanently, a middle point that can become the end point. There are memories in that Hotel California, memories that shaped my journey, but there's nothing to return to. Not like New York, which is at once forever changing and forever the same.
Now I am looking for a job again. Another move closer to New York. I moved my home to New York, but the job was stuck halfway. I am going through the whole recruiting process again, trying to show off how smart I am while discovering where my limitations are, and in those limitations I learn where I want to go next. It's been more than a year since I was going through my first job application in nearly nine years. Now looking back, that one year in this job, compressed, seems so brief and short. But like New Haven, it is just a stop, and a stop I refused to allow to extend further. That is why I am searching for another job. It's because, yes, I am tired of the commute. But also, there's a strong desire for motion after nearly nine years of stagnation. New York was going to be an endpoint, but then life opens finally the door of romance to me and now I don't know how long I will be in New York. I don't feel that obsessive attachment to it that would make me feel sad to leave. But the feeling of constant motion is made even stronger now that I am not sure how long I will be in the place I didn't think was another Hotel California, but a home.
The recruiters are interesting. I never saw them in this way before. What I mean is, somehow with some deeper sagacity, I can see how their words and persuasions are tailored with one goal in common: getting me a job so they get their commission from the hiring firm. They won't declare this intention, of course, but they never sugarcoated anything to make themselves sound like they are doing me a favor. The less experienced ones just want to throw me as many opportunities as possible, even if they are not so relevant. I have learned to set limits, be assertive in what I want and not tolerate compromises. There are the more experienced recruiters who is more discerning of what I can do and where I would fit, and they try to get me the right jobs while doing their best to convince me to follow their path.
I am likely to get two offers soon. Already the HR managers of the two companies have spoken to me about compensation. I am learning the art of negotiating, if just a little bit. A year ago I was willing to settle for whatever that would help me get out of New Haven and get a pay raise. Now I want to be more discerning myself. When I listen to recruiters speak, to HR people speak, to interviewers speak, I hear more than just the words they utter; I start to see their intentions, understand their private motives, and then, hopefully, I have a better idea how I should go about getting my own goals. In that way, perhaps, I have grown up a little bit this past year. And I see my own limitations, I sense them. I don't mean the technical limitations. I mean personalities that impede me from getting the best offer in the best place. Worries, ego, uncertainty, self-esteem.
But what is the best offer, the best place to work. The two places that are ready to give me an offer are on diametric ends of many spectra. A bank that would offer more money but has had a worsening reputation for the past many years. A young company with young developers that are serious about building software for educating school children. But it's not so simple, as I am learning more. Nothing is so black and white. The bad bank is so large that it's difficult to judge any part of it for the misdeeds of a few sections. The young company is young also in a bad way, or possibly, like poor management, unrealistic about compensation, chaos. Besides all this, I don't really know what I want, and am afraid to do what I had done in the past: pick something and go with the flow. This is likely my last job in this country and after that I will be away for some indefinite amount of time. I feel I need to be careful what I choose, not only for current aims but for later, for starting a family, in terms of salary, skill set building, and other factors about my career.
I guess I need to write down the pros a
And so fast, this year has indeed flown by. I wonder what the next year will be….
Monday, January 2, 2012
End of Vacation
Two weeks away, now, a new year starts. Last year I returned to the US on Christmas Day from Buenos Aires. This year, on New Year's Day. Is the flight cheaper, is that why the coincidence?
I wonder what is going on with the Swiss pianist. She seems to be going through a tough time, based on what she says in her latest poem. I am worried, but I guess this is a battle I can't help her in while I am still an "outsider".
Last night walking in Madrid I realized that despite having been here twice before, and that the first time I was here for actually a whole week, studying Spanish, despite all this, I didn't know the city so well, not even the touristy places. I had to ask people who currently live here where to go for the little narrow streets, an image not from my previous experience in Madrid, but more because I assume all old European cities had such a thing. Walking around last night I did remember many things, the Royal Palace whose picture with coffee tables in the foreground is found on one of my photographs in the New Haven kitchen, the Plaza Mayor that I always seemed drawn to, and other touristy places. But not only touristy places; I recall this entrance to an underground parking garage, for some reason, and the hotel next to it brazenly advertising "Do you want to sleep with me?" in English. It's not a weird hotel, but in fact a very chic looking one. I also recognized the movie theater where I met up with a Spanish woman to see one of the most disturbing movies in English, "Dogville". It was obviously not a date. I remember what she looks like, sort of, dark eyebrows, very beautiful smile. But I can't remember where I met her from. She and this sort-of boyfriend came to New York once and I remember showing them around before running for a train back to New Haven. Still, for the life of me, I can't remember how I got to know them or what her name was, even.
Funny how I remember little things, like the Spanish word "Empresa", meaning "company" or "firm", this word I learned from this Spaniard because she was explaining to me what she did. She and that same sort-of boyfriend invited me to some restaurant at the top of the ubiquitous department store, El Corte Inglés. I remember these things. I can't, however, remember her name.
I didn't recognize much of anything else in my late night walk in the quiet streets. Most streets were quiet because people were in their homes celebrating New Year's Eve with their families. It's more like Thanksgiving than the party mode North Americans are familiar with. Of course, after they do their countdown with the family they go out and party until the sun rises. But before that, the streets are empty. Empty except those in the touristy areas; there you hear a lot of Italian and Portuguese. Of course, I heard a lot of other languages too because the first place I "landed" was Lavapiés, the immigrant neighborhood. I walked down a street lined with Bangladeshi and Turkish shops, and the people on the street were mostly Africans. I hardly heard any Spanish walking there, or for the most part, walking that night.
I didn't know how I felt about Madrid. When I was in Buenos Aires, or in Paris, I felt in love. And it wasn't because Buenos Aires was new to me, or that Paris has its reputation. Sometimes you just bond with someone, or some place. I didn't feel very bonded to Madrid. I don't know why. The streets are cute, the buildings were beautiful and interesting. I can't remember if I felt more bonded in the past visits. If not, then perhaps that explains why I can't recall much.
However, I was impressed by the huge presence of immigrants. I remember visiting the old Atocha train station and chalked up a conversation in Spanish with this man. Was he from ex-Yugoslavia? Slovakia? I ended up giving him 10 euros and my address that he asked for so he would pay me back. I didn't expect he would pay me back, and I never did get it back. Still, I remember him and many others that were not from the country. That was my first time in Madrid; it was between Christmas and New Year's. That time I also spent New Year's in Madrid, doing the touristy thing of joining a crowd of thousands in Plaza del Sol for the New Year's countdown. I remember that. I remember the roasted chestnuts I got from one of the many stands found in just about every corner.
And I wonder what I will remember from this brief visit. I am afraid I will remember the circumstances surrounding my visit more than the visit itself. I left Tenerife with a heavy heart because of a poem the Swiss pianist sent me. I thought it meant she had decided and I believed her decision was to stay with her boyfriend. I couldn't focus on much after that poem. My farewell with my Spanish family was very much distracted by my preoccupation with the poem. I wanted to be alone and could hardly muster the attention for the farewell. I didn't even realize the little girl, Marifrancis' niece, wasn't there to say goodbye until I was already in the airport. Of course, my best friend tried to pay attention to me. But in the end, I wanted to be alone. Get on the plane to Madrid and be alone. Before I left for my night walk in Madrid I got a text from the Swiss pianist that she has still yet to make any decision and begged me for patience.
That was the context in which I visited Madrid. It was good to know she hadn't made a decision, so my old year didn't end with such a sour note, and neither did the new year start in this way. What I will remember for sure about my walk is how I celebrated the New Year's arrival. I walked to Chueca, the gay area. And yes there were plenty of male couples, hands held, walking around like any other couple, nothing eccentric, nothing to show off, as I often find in, say, Greenwich Village. I went there because people told me there's night life there, and I was advised to just go to a bar and celebrate New Year's there. So I walked around that neighborhood and settled for this tiny bar that seemed very traditional. It wasn't a party scene, which I saw in other places. There were plenty of restaurants and bars open for the New Year's Eve despite what I said earlier about the local customs regarding New Year's Eve. But I picked this little bar and I got myself a local beer and some fried calamari. There I chalked up a conversation with this American who lives in South Florida. He was a character. He was very secretous about what he did, or for that matter, what his son did. He said he was on a layover from Riga (Latvia) to Florida, but when I asked him what his son did, his answer was "He does very well what he does." Then later he would say he knew a lot of famous people, like Lady Gaga, Donald Trump, Madonna, and an actor whose film he didn't like but he wouldn't divulge his name because he works with him. He asked me if I was working for Donald or Gaga; I thought he was joking but apparently he had had spies follow him before, sent by the very people he worked with. Maybe it was still a joke, but his secretous air made it not so funny. I just thought he was crazy. And if he is really such an important person, I should stay out of his way, especially after he started talking about how there are more banks in Panama than in Switzerland and many of these banks were funded by money laundering from the drug cartels down south in Colombia.
I did my 12-grape eating countdown to the New Year, as it is customary in Spain. My grapes were in a ziplock bag provided by Marifrancis' family. It was not trivial to dig inside the bag to retrieve the grapes, more difficult than eating one per second for twelve seconds that mark the 12 months to come. Perhaps I will be lucky as a result. My first month is already quite lucky. (More of that in the next entry.)
I did not want to dolly much longer; the weird company was reaching the end of its interestingness and I wanted to catch the metro back to the hotel. So I walked through Chueca and soon found myself in the Madrid metro system again. It was a special night in that I made it. Since I left home I have spent most New Year's alone. This night I was in some ways alone because my friends were far away, but at the same time, I had this weird company. I also thought about the times I did have my friends with me. Two new year's eves with my Swiss girlfriend, first time in Vienna, then in Cairo. There was the New Year's Eve with Rose in China; I remember upsetting her by calling Marifrancis from China. I can't remember now if I spent other New Year's Eves with someone after my independence from my parents. I suppose in college, once? That seems too long ago. When I was alone, I remember before I started traveling over New Year's Eve (alone) I would spend the evening alone in my apartment, recalling the old times, reading through old letters. This New Year's Eve I didn't do that, but I did when I returned to the US, unintentionally, started to go through the old emails from the first few years of my life in New Haven. There were contacts I had nearly forgotten. I finally found that Spanish woman's name, but her email was no longer valid so I couldn't contact her. There were others. So many faces, so short of a time. I can only wonder who else will be in my future. I can only wonder where I will be the next New Year's, and with whom, if any.
I wonder what is going on with the Swiss pianist. She seems to be going through a tough time, based on what she says in her latest poem. I am worried, but I guess this is a battle I can't help her in while I am still an "outsider".
Last night walking in Madrid I realized that despite having been here twice before, and that the first time I was here for actually a whole week, studying Spanish, despite all this, I didn't know the city so well, not even the touristy places. I had to ask people who currently live here where to go for the little narrow streets, an image not from my previous experience in Madrid, but more because I assume all old European cities had such a thing. Walking around last night I did remember many things, the Royal Palace whose picture with coffee tables in the foreground is found on one of my photographs in the New Haven kitchen, the Plaza Mayor that I always seemed drawn to, and other touristy places. But not only touristy places; I recall this entrance to an underground parking garage, for some reason, and the hotel next to it brazenly advertising "Do you want to sleep with me?" in English. It's not a weird hotel, but in fact a very chic looking one. I also recognized the movie theater where I met up with a Spanish woman to see one of the most disturbing movies in English, "Dogville". It was obviously not a date. I remember what she looks like, sort of, dark eyebrows, very beautiful smile. But I can't remember where I met her from. She and this sort-of boyfriend came to New York once and I remember showing them around before running for a train back to New Haven. Still, for the life of me, I can't remember how I got to know them or what her name was, even.
Funny how I remember little things, like the Spanish word "Empresa", meaning "company" or "firm", this word I learned from this Spaniard because she was explaining to me what she did. She and that same sort-of boyfriend invited me to some restaurant at the top of the ubiquitous department store, El Corte Inglés. I remember these things. I can't, however, remember her name.
I didn't recognize much of anything else in my late night walk in the quiet streets. Most streets were quiet because people were in their homes celebrating New Year's Eve with their families. It's more like Thanksgiving than the party mode North Americans are familiar with. Of course, after they do their countdown with the family they go out and party until the sun rises. But before that, the streets are empty. Empty except those in the touristy areas; there you hear a lot of Italian and Portuguese. Of course, I heard a lot of other languages too because the first place I "landed" was Lavapiés, the immigrant neighborhood. I walked down a street lined with Bangladeshi and Turkish shops, and the people on the street were mostly Africans. I hardly heard any Spanish walking there, or for the most part, walking that night.
I didn't know how I felt about Madrid. When I was in Buenos Aires, or in Paris, I felt in love. And it wasn't because Buenos Aires was new to me, or that Paris has its reputation. Sometimes you just bond with someone, or some place. I didn't feel very bonded to Madrid. I don't know why. The streets are cute, the buildings were beautiful and interesting. I can't remember if I felt more bonded in the past visits. If not, then perhaps that explains why I can't recall much.
However, I was impressed by the huge presence of immigrants. I remember visiting the old Atocha train station and chalked up a conversation in Spanish with this man. Was he from ex-Yugoslavia? Slovakia? I ended up giving him 10 euros and my address that he asked for so he would pay me back. I didn't expect he would pay me back, and I never did get it back. Still, I remember him and many others that were not from the country. That was my first time in Madrid; it was between Christmas and New Year's. That time I also spent New Year's in Madrid, doing the touristy thing of joining a crowd of thousands in Plaza del Sol for the New Year's countdown. I remember that. I remember the roasted chestnuts I got from one of the many stands found in just about every corner.
And I wonder what I will remember from this brief visit. I am afraid I will remember the circumstances surrounding my visit more than the visit itself. I left Tenerife with a heavy heart because of a poem the Swiss pianist sent me. I thought it meant she had decided and I believed her decision was to stay with her boyfriend. I couldn't focus on much after that poem. My farewell with my Spanish family was very much distracted by my preoccupation with the poem. I wanted to be alone and could hardly muster the attention for the farewell. I didn't even realize the little girl, Marifrancis' niece, wasn't there to say goodbye until I was already in the airport. Of course, my best friend tried to pay attention to me. But in the end, I wanted to be alone. Get on the plane to Madrid and be alone. Before I left for my night walk in Madrid I got a text from the Swiss pianist that she has still yet to make any decision and begged me for patience.
That was the context in which I visited Madrid. It was good to know she hadn't made a decision, so my old year didn't end with such a sour note, and neither did the new year start in this way. What I will remember for sure about my walk is how I celebrated the New Year's arrival. I walked to Chueca, the gay area. And yes there were plenty of male couples, hands held, walking around like any other couple, nothing eccentric, nothing to show off, as I often find in, say, Greenwich Village. I went there because people told me there's night life there, and I was advised to just go to a bar and celebrate New Year's there. So I walked around that neighborhood and settled for this tiny bar that seemed very traditional. It wasn't a party scene, which I saw in other places. There were plenty of restaurants and bars open for the New Year's Eve despite what I said earlier about the local customs regarding New Year's Eve. But I picked this little bar and I got myself a local beer and some fried calamari. There I chalked up a conversation with this American who lives in South Florida. He was a character. He was very secretous about what he did, or for that matter, what his son did. He said he was on a layover from Riga (Latvia) to Florida, but when I asked him what his son did, his answer was "He does very well what he does." Then later he would say he knew a lot of famous people, like Lady Gaga, Donald Trump, Madonna, and an actor whose film he didn't like but he wouldn't divulge his name because he works with him. He asked me if I was working for Donald or Gaga; I thought he was joking but apparently he had had spies follow him before, sent by the very people he worked with. Maybe it was still a joke, but his secretous air made it not so funny. I just thought he was crazy. And if he is really such an important person, I should stay out of his way, especially after he started talking about how there are more banks in Panama than in Switzerland and many of these banks were funded by money laundering from the drug cartels down south in Colombia.
I did my 12-grape eating countdown to the New Year, as it is customary in Spain. My grapes were in a ziplock bag provided by Marifrancis' family. It was not trivial to dig inside the bag to retrieve the grapes, more difficult than eating one per second for twelve seconds that mark the 12 months to come. Perhaps I will be lucky as a result. My first month is already quite lucky. (More of that in the next entry.)
I did not want to dolly much longer; the weird company was reaching the end of its interestingness and I wanted to catch the metro back to the hotel. So I walked through Chueca and soon found myself in the Madrid metro system again. It was a special night in that I made it. Since I left home I have spent most New Year's alone. This night I was in some ways alone because my friends were far away, but at the same time, I had this weird company. I also thought about the times I did have my friends with me. Two new year's eves with my Swiss girlfriend, first time in Vienna, then in Cairo. There was the New Year's Eve with Rose in China; I remember upsetting her by calling Marifrancis from China. I can't remember now if I spent other New Year's Eves with someone after my independence from my parents. I suppose in college, once? That seems too long ago. When I was alone, I remember before I started traveling over New Year's Eve (alone) I would spend the evening alone in my apartment, recalling the old times, reading through old letters. This New Year's Eve I didn't do that, but I did when I returned to the US, unintentionally, started to go through the old emails from the first few years of my life in New Haven. There were contacts I had nearly forgotten. I finally found that Spanish woman's name, but her email was no longer valid so I couldn't contact her. There were others. So many faces, so short of a time. I can only wonder who else will be in my future. I can only wonder where I will be the next New Year's, and with whom, if any.
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