sombra y sol

There’s a reason that everyone knows the word sombrero. That’s right. It’s a hat. Do you ever wonder about that? Why, of the many thousands of words in the Spanish language, does everyone know the word for hat? All of the United States (and I’m willing to bet throughout the English speaking world) absolutely everyone knows the word sombrero. As you might guess, I have a theory about this. Sombrero, when translated literally means “shade maker”, and believe me when I tell you that you can’t spend an hour on the streets of Madrid in the middle of August without figuring out that anywhere that has sombra, shade, is prime territory.

The madrileños have an instinctive understanding of where to find the shade. For instance, you’ll never find them walking down the sunny side of the street. Which I realize makes them seem incredibly pessimistic, but such is not the case. They simply know that it’s a solid ten degrees cooler in the shade. Any bench in the parks or along the paseos is bound to be occupied by someone taking advantage of the sombra. I went with a group last week to visit the Palacio Real, and found it amusing that several of our group had huddled together in the shade cast by a public toilet while we waited for our tour guide to appear. (NB: another helpful word to know is servicios.) There may be sights more ridiculous than a crowd of tourists in the shadow of a public toilet, but I’m not certain at the moment what they might be. However, I am almost certain there is the title of a novel in that scene: La sombra de los servicios. It has the weight of classic, don’t you think?

Perhaps it is then a bit ironic that these weighty ideas were rolling around in my head as I maneuvered through the Puerta del Sol. Which, taken literally, means the Door of the Sun. This is the main tourist shopping district in Madrid and leads to the Plaza Mayor, and although very attractive looses a lot of its impact as the mayor when compared to a number of the other sights. I had gone to the Puerta del Sol to meet up with yet another tour group and was walking in a circle through a giant pedestrians-versus-automobiles traffic jam of tourism in search of the statue of a bear. This is one of those icons of Madrid that it is simply assumed everyone visits on the first day. I, having other priorities, had not yet been there and was now paying the price.

The place is absolutely teeming with people, all of whom want your money more or less legitimately. Those who want your money slightly more legitimately are hoping to interest you in bootleg CDs, suspicious designer handbags, or knockoff Real Madrid jerseys sporting David Beckham’s name. Those who want you money less legitimately are hoping that your interest in a souvenir for your little brother will overcome your caution about who might have their hand in your pocket. Alas for them, such was not the case for all of my attention was focused on finding what apparently is the one statue in Madrid not elevated on a ten foot pedestal. I exaggerate, but not by much. Madrileños love their pedestals. By the time I found the statue, I had also managed to find every other type of kitschy souvenir known to man. If there exists a collectible icon of Spain not for sale in the Puerta del Sol, I cannot imagine what it might be. Sadly, my eye is inevitably drawn to glittery, shiny things and I find I can’t help but wonder who I know who might need a “Toledo” sword, or an impressively ugly doll, or a gilt fan.

Let me pause a moment and talk about the fans. I think that on some level I have been searching all of my life for a place where carrying and using a collapsible fan is not considered an affectation, but is merely good common sense. At one time I owned a number of fans, and enjoyed them immensely as decoration, but could rarely bring myself to use them in public because I was too well aware this would be viewed as peculiar behavior at best, and at worst an outlandish affectation. I got rid of most of them years ago, but have kept a sandalwood fan that I purchased at the Texas State Fair more than two decades ago, and one that Mom brought back to me from Singapore. Which goes to show, I suppose, that souvenirs do manage to find their space in our lives. In contrast to my self-conscious ways, madrileñas use their fans as naturally as they seek out the sombra. These are not actions that require any thought. Leave the house, put on sunglasses, snap open fan, and walk in the shade. I dare you to find a routine that is any more sensible. Everyone at home has roundly teased me about the possibility of coming home with the Spanish lisp, but I think it’s much more likely that I will adopt the mannerisms. Don’t be surprised when you see me walking through the neighborhood gently cooling myself with a black lace fan. I will, of course, be on the shady side of the street.

So it was that I found the statue of the bear. The statue was surrounded by tourists waiting rather good-naturedly for their turn to take a photo in front of the statue. Not wanting to be part of some stranger’s vacation photos or wait my turn with the rest of the crowd, I never got close enough to read the plaque explaining the significance of the bear. I had about forty-five minutes before the group was supposed to meet, and had worked up a good appetite. I hiked through a couple of the nearby streets and surveyed my options weighing price against purse, and quality against comfort. I finally took a seat in the shade on a terraza and ordered the menú del día. I sat and enjoyed the breeze, for I have found that wherever there is sombra there is also a breeze, and contemplated my life in Spain thus far.

I have always been an introvert, and you who know me best will admit the depths to which this is true. In Madrid I’m discovering that more than ever before there are tremendous conflicts at play in my daily life. Sitting alone in the shade I’m experiencing a state of isolation unlike any I’ve experienced before. The language barrier is only part of it. I’m hampered by my natural reluctance to strike up conversations with strangers, and the few people I have befriended these last two weeks are most likely to revert to English the moment class is over. I’ve had several invitations to join other students, and in fact had just that day turned down an invitation to go to El Escorial because I knew that while I’d enjoy the camaraderie, I would make no progress with my language skills. I rarely lose sight of why I’m here. I find I’m really looking forward to Pamplona, which is muy pequeña in comparison to Madrid, but where I can anticipate making a few friends. The realization of how short my time in Madrid is yet another hindrance for me.

In direct opposition to this is my growing need for privacy. I’ve never before lived with anyone other than family, and perhaps I would have been the better for it. I’m living, as you know, in the home of Blanca Peñas. What you don’t know is that her home is a two-bedroom/ two-bath flat, and I am not her only lodger. Blanca has rented the “spare” room and bath to a pretty chemist named Monica, whom I don’t see often and talk with even less. She doesn’t seem inclined as a rule to want to deal with my struggling Spanish. However, Monica and I did bond a bit over a documentary on Ethiopia, which we watched together over dinner one day. Ask me a personal question and I know nothing, bring up the subject of Ethiopia and you’d think I was the blinking ambassador. Now if you’ve been counting along you know that we have two bedrooms and three women. Monica is renting the “spare” room. I am renting Blanca’s room. Blanca is sleeping on the couch. I could console myself with the knowledge that I do at least have a bed, but I’m afraid that that is cold comfort when I want to sleep and Blanca can’t find her shoes. Why? Because all of Blanca’s clothing is in the closet in “my” room. Although she did clear a bit of space for me in the closet, I don’t have any place to keep my toiletries, towels, etc. which means that I have to go through a daily routine of packing and unpacking these things. Blanca’s absolutely rabid about things not being left out to compete for dust with her bric-a-brac. I’ve come to horde the time that I have to myself in the apartment, not that there is much of it to have. In fact, I just heard one of my roommates come in the door. So, while I do have isolation, I don’t have solitude.

So, as I was saying, I was sitting in the sombra on the terraza and contemplating all my personal hang-ups when the tallest cross-dresser I’ve ever seen in the shortest mini dress I’ve ever seen sits down at the table next to me and orders a café. At which point I begin to wonder if I am in a Pedro Almodóvar movie. Picture me: short and grubby in khakis and sneakers, hair tied back and make-up long since smudged away; and picture her: the very definition of a glamour queen, absolutely radiant in her illusion of femininity. The contrast between the two of us was ludicrous, and I debated whether this was perhaps why she chose to sit down at the table next to mine on an otherwise deserted terraza. Not that I have any real reason to suspect her motives. All I really have is a fantastic grasp of the absurd.

I probably don’t need to mention that I didn’t make it in time to catch up to the tour. Between my own wanderings and the relaxed service at the cervecería, by the time I finished it was a full hour past the time at which I was supposed to have met the group. No le importa. They weren’t expecting me specifically, so no one would notice I was missing. The excursion was to have been a tour of a Carmelite convent. There has been a religious of the Order of the Sacred Heart in my class this week, and when I asked if she was going on the tour she replied, “Why? Is there anything special about it? If you’ve seen one convent, you’ve seen them all.” Even with Donna’s enthusiasm ringing in my ears I decided to try to find the convent after I finished my meal. By the way, the meal ended with the best helado limón I’ve ever had. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was my hunger, but that was some mighty fine ice cream.

On another subject, my classes this week, while more advanced than last week, were distressingly boring and still not up to the level at which I need to work. I was bored out of my mind Thursday and Friday. I began to get panicky when I heard Macarena, this week’s instructor, saying that next week she was going to cover the same information again, only SLOWER. I almost came unglued. Donna, the nun who was with my class most of this week, switched Friday to the class I’d had the week before. I thought she put it very well when she said that the first hour of grammar (in the lower class) was too slow for her, but Pablo led a very interesting class and they spent more time practicing speaking. Let’s face it; if the nun is having the same response that I had, it may be more than simply his natural charm.

Macarena overheard me talking with Donna and repeated to her that our class was going to be slower next week. That’s when I voiced my objections. I need to be in a class that’s moving faster not slower. Macarena tried to dissuade me from moving up, but relented and took me to talk with Roscío who teaches the next level. Roscío, who’s led three of the excursions I’ve been on, flat out said no. She didn’t think I had the skills for the next class. Surprisingly, Macarena stood up for me and said that I had the best command of speaking in the class, and I asserted that the grammar that Roscío is covering in her class was not beyond me. I’m familiar with the grammar; I need practice. Roscío finally agreed that my comprehension is fine, but she has her reservations about my ability to keep up with the class. In the end, she agreed that we’d see how things went on Monday.

Roscío terrifies me. I’m not sure why. The interview with her (in the teacher’s prep area and witnessed by every instructor in the joint) was like being grilled under a bare light bulb in some old crime drama. Bright light shining in your eyes, sweat running down your face, and everything that you say just leads to another probing question. It’s exactly the sort of situation that makes me revert to my most introverted. Please, please, get the attention off me. The blinding glare of that kind of attention has never really suited me. Public speaking? Piece of cake. Starring role? That’s a snap. Tremendous attention focused on me personally? I’ll do my best to suck it up and try not to let on that there are knots in my belly that will take hours to untangle, but chances are that I’ll walk away shaky and angry and in need of a good cry.

I have no doubt that she was trying to intimidate me, because her Spanish just kept getting faster and faster. I think I made a bad impression on her the week before when she asked me a question as we were walking in a group down the street. I couldn’t hear her question. I knew she was speaking to me, but she was turned away from me and there was a great deal of traffic. She repeated herself once, and looked very irritated when I told her I couldn’t hear her. I know she thinks I’m just slow. I think what finally swayed her in my favor was that she could see I had an anthology of selected works by Mariano José de Larra tucked in with my books. I’ve finished the books I brought to read on the plane and have pledged to myself that I’m only reading works in Spanish from here on out, e-mails being the sole exception. I walked out of there trying to understand what could have possibly been in my mind that I had willingly subjected myself to such intense scrutiny, and not only that but I had invited myself to more of the same next week. Roscío warned me that the students in the next class do a lot of talking. I kept trying to tell her that that is why I’m here. I can’t say I enjoyed the attention. I was practically shaking by the time I escaped the spotlight.

I took a long walk to calm myself down. The weather has changed in the last day or two and the warm sun was a good contrast to the crisp wind and helped to take my mind off my apprehensions. That interview with Roscío is the closest I’ve come yet to the full blown panic attack I’ve been expecting since this whole business began. I walked all the way up to good old calle Zurbarán, then down the paseo Castellano to the Plaza de Colón. There are several fountains in the Plaza de Colón, and a soaring pedestal with a statue of Cristóbal Colón, better known to us as Christopher Columbus. Behind the statue are the Jardines del Descubrimiento, the Gardens of the Discovery. I walked through the gardens and then sat for a while and listened to the competing sounds of traffic, and water, and the flapping of the largest flag I’ve ever seen. It was a flag large enough to rival the impact of the towering transvestite. Sitting on a bench in the warmth of the sun and looking at monuments to an event that changed the world, I was reminded that the price of discovery is a place in the sun.

Pray for me.

Love,
Goo