There is a virtual yellow post-it note tacked to my computer screen reading one word in capitals: BLOG. There it is, each time I flip open my laptop, and I quickly click open a web browser as if to deny that I've been busy or lazy or things have been crazy or for whatever reason I've neglected my duty to document. But, in attempts to justify the sparse posts, can I argue that it's fitting with the culture of Spain, which in itself is a place of plans delayed and promises postponed? I've come to realize that, generally speaking, madrileños have little regard for organization and obligation. Instead, they elude commitments with well-meaning excuses.
To express past intentions, we use the imperfect "iba a", or, in English, "I was going to..." Though I probably learned the grammar in 9th grade Spanish, it's only been in the past two months that I've found myself using it nearly everyday.
and camels...
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| Tangier, Marruecos |
and quaint cafes...
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| (That double as reading nooks!) |
But then something more pressing came up...
Spaniards use the phrase "es que" to slide into justification. It's essentially a colloquialism for "because," and it spills easily from the lips when suddenly you need to explain why you were late for class ("es que tenía que esperar demasiado para el metro...") or politely turn down the plate or chorizo or jamón ibérico ("es que soy vegetariana...")
And so, just as the whole city put off their plans in order to protest in a 24-hour multi-national strike, I also need to stray from my blogging outline to acknowledge what happened, because it was super strange and exciting. First of all, classes were cancelled, which brought back fond memories of sleeping in on snow days. And, just as if there there had been a blizzard, transportation was nearly impossible. All the metro lines were shut down. Shops and businesses were closed too, so, with little to do, I spent most of the day in a lazy stupor. But when I took a walk around 7:00 that evening, rather than white, fluffy stuff filling the streets, I found a swarm of people-- shouting, marching, pushing signs up into the air.
And threatening graffiti on the windows of banks...
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| "You're all dead!" |
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| "Capitalism kills" |
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| "Here they eat the people!" Eek! |
Then around 10:30, the madness culminated in Atocha Center, which happens to be right where I live. I had just cracked open a book when my señora came into my room and motioned for me to come to the living room window. We then watched as people set fire to trashcans in the street outside our apartment. My host father poked his head out the window to exchange words with the neighbors, all of whom stood watching from their balconies. My two host sisters spewed strings of slang at the expense of the "idiotas" starting the fires and held their noses as the smoke drifted upward. The dog was terrified and squealed herself into a corner. I might have been a little bit terrified too, but the pyro in me was far to entranced to move away.
As I stood by the window and watched the flames catch and spread, my señora uttered the last, inevitable part of the progression that I have come to know as so quintessentially Spanish: "no pasa nada"-- it's no big deal. They're just pranksters, she explained, they want to hold up traffic and make a scene. They don't want to seriously hurt anyone.
This I believe, though I'm not sure the events of the strike can really be dismissed by the "no pasa nada" mentality-- it seemed like a pretty big deal, to me at least. What's interesting, though, is the impulse to classify these acts as "tonterias" (silly things), the impulse to keep calm and trust that things will work out as they always seem to do for easy-going, pleasure-seeking madrileños.
So there seems to be some sort of paradox at work here. You can almost feel the sidewalks shake as the people here oscillate between fighting wildly for rights and keeping their cool. It's the fiery upswing of passion followed by the gentle release that comes from the realization that life is still beautiful and amidst the beauty, there are things to be done. And so a new day begins again with a wiping of sweat from the brow and a smile. The metro pulls into the station on time, and people with briefcases shmush inside. But the graffiti remains, and even if it washes off in the rain, I don't think it will be long before a spark incites a filament of passion, and, once again, the cycle repeats.
While I can't begin to delve into the economics and politics of it all-- even in English, I'm intimidated by specifics-- it's been incredible to watch the cultural response to the crisis. Or at least at much as I've been able to see from the living room window.
