Dear F.,
We have just come from drinking jars of beer and watching the whores on Calle de la Montera. Say what you will about the world´s oldest institution (one desperately in need of renovation), it's hard to find a more piquant blend of sensations than the taste of cold beer on the palate, the pathos of the downtrodden, and the sight of corroded butt cheeks hanging out of a pair of jean shorts. Grotesque, you say? Well, grant us this one last indulgence, for tonight is our last night in Madrid. And where we´re headed, there won't be such urban spectator sports.
Tomorrow, while Madrid is only beginning to register its hangover, we will be headed for the frontier--first by train to Jaca, Aragonese mountain town at the foot of the Pyrenees. Then hopefully by bus, of whose existence the internet only gives vague and conflicting reports, to the French town of Oleron St. Marie, about 60km across the border. From there the following day, we will begin the Camino Aragones, a 120 mile connector road to the main route of the Camino Frances we hiked two years ago. We aim to do it in 7 days, across mountains, ruins, dense forest, purple sand dunes, and cave churches, arriving in Puente la Reina in the afternoon of the 25th to catch a short bus to Pamplona, where we will eat Navarran pintxos (tapas) from one end of the bar to the other.
But first, before we don our pilgrim's cloak and fill the old calabash with walking brandy, a final reflection on this dissolute city is in order. Consider the question posed, rather melodramatically, by Jose Ortega y Gasset, the fellow whose papers I have been rifling through for the last four weeks, in his first breakthrough work Meditations on Don Quixote: "Good god, what is Spain?!" The same should be asked of Madrid. Why are all these people in the streets at all hours of the day and night, except for those magical hours of nightly stillness during the brightness of day from 2-5, when you could hear a cat yawn? What are they doing in the streets? Ostensibly nothing. There is one street in La Latina that is legendary among M. and me because every night of the week one can see people--families, bachelors, rentiers-- literally standing in the middle of the street-- not drinking, not even leaning, just talking.
Wherever one goes, one is sure to hear talking. A Spanish teacher years ago told me that more than three seconds of silence for Spaniards is unbearably awkward. I don´t believe I've ever heard such a long pause as that in Madrid. And I read this week in a newspaper article in a Fascist organ, Arriba España, from 1944, that Spaniards regard the food and drink at a table really as a garnish for the true feast--conversation. So there you have it-- Spanish sociability--yet another legacy from Francoism.
The national pastime of loitering, which is consummately executed, calls to mind a conversation I had over lunch (in fact, as I recall, it was difficult to eat my meal, given the constant nature of the conversation) with a philologist named Filipe. Filipe, whose professional obligation is to be fascinated with language and its cultural significance, told me one of his favorite idiomatic phrases in Spanish was "Me voy en la calle" (which too literally translates into "I'm going into the street") because only the Spanish people could express such a sentiment as leaving, but to no particular destination, which was equivalent to going out in the street. When I told him that the phrase 'I'm going out' exists an English, he was crestfallen.
But Filipe had all sorts of ideas that expounded to me over lunch. Latin America is a stupid name that comes from 19th century French and Italian cultural imperializing aims adopted by pretentious Venezuelans, which is why it should still be called Hispano-America. Bulgarians are terrible students. And Polish people 'se ahoga en un vaso de agua' ('would drown in a glass of water') brilliantly referring to their life-as-a-constant-crisis mentality. Filipe had things to tell me. But then again almost all Spaniards do.
The flair for pedagogy abounds, as it must in order to give people fodder for constant conversation. Which is why Filipe and his colleague Jorge engaged in a passionate polemic about Spanish ham after I broached the topic, hoping to give myself time to slurp up my heretofore neglected gazpacho. Salamanca vs. Badajoz. Clearly, but what about Granada? Oh, that´s the white pig, totally different breed, stick to the subject. From there, we surveyed fruits and the ideal seasons for eating them. Figs were a subject of much controversy. Finally, after August was settled as the ideal month for fig-eating (despite my revelries during June consumption), we finished the meal with a discussion on the legacy of Stalin in Russian letters. The Russian woman at our table hardly got a word in, as Filipe and Jorge weighed in as adamantly on Uncle Joe as they had on legs of pork. I would have been curious to hear what our Russian friend I. would have said, given that she had told me earlier that day that I bore a striking resemblance to Holden Caufield and/or Tom Sawyer.
If pedagogy fails, there's always gossip. In the library where I spent my days reading old letters and newspaper clippings, a stream of constant gossip spoken in low murmur and occasionally climaxing in a passionate shout could be heard among the library employees, chiefly by a woman who reminded me of a painted candle of the virgin Mary that is slowly melting. If her coworkers ever had to go to the bathroom or take a lunch break, she would quickly fill the silence with a phone call. Sometimes I think the same conversation begun with a coworker would continue on the phone with an entirely different party.
I realize now that I haven´t really told you much about Madrid. But since there is an Indian man in the computer stall next to me laughing like a madman, and I can't be sure he's watching something funny and is not just, in fact, a madman, I'll have to let a single trait speak for the city and its millions in entirety: most bars and cafes in Madrid have dark vermouth-- on tap! They drink it at midday and it is one of the greatest things, aside from my wife, to come into my acquaintance in the last few years.
I´ll drop you a line either on the camino or when we arrive next Saturday in Pamplona.
Yours,
P.
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