Cafe con leche in Cafe Gijon

I cried today.   It could not be helped.   I went with the poet for a coffee in a very famous coffee place.  He told me of legends contained within it (most famously, a story of a woman slapping a man in the middle of a busy coffee service—which then led us on a tangent about what it means for a woman to slap a man), and as we left, he pointed to a table where two famous Spanish actors/journalists were sitting, in the middle of their ceremony.  He also told me the curious tale of Salvador Dali bringing a panther (which he claimed was quite tame) to a famous flamenco restaurant in Madrid.  The owner, not convinced, made Dali put the panther in the back, in the room where the flamenco dancers would get ready for the evening’s show.  Some people wear a hat or walk with a cane when they go out in the evening.  For surrealist painters, I suppose a panther equates to the same thing. 

Before the coffee, we walked through an outdoor book market—I now have a Spanish copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “100 years of solitude” (if you live and breathe and feel anything at all—read this book before you die).  I now also have no excuse not to learn Spanish.  In English, it is a wonderful read—but I have always wanted to read it in Spanish; some things cannot be captured in English.  Marquez is one of them.

One hundred years of solitude--the way it was meant to be.

 After the coffee, the poet and I parted ways—and it was all I needed to come face to face with the fact that my time in Madrid was slowly coming to an end.   And so it was that I cried, as I walked up Paseo del Prado—because I cannot contain myself (nor did I want to).   I live in my skin.

*

Written when I returned to Ottawa–October 19, 2009

On my last night in Madrid I rushed—everything.  I moved from my apartment (no more humping doors—at least for one night) into a hotel; I walked (quickly) past Calle Montera, into Malasana to go pick up my red shoes (which are fabulous as f*ck, and worth every euro spent to have them on my feet); I bought clothes for my niece, clothes for my sisters, ties for my brothers-in-law—and (because life is romantic) a dress (yet another) for myself.  By the time I was done, it was 6:30—and I was hungry—to the point of h-anger (pronounced hang-grr).  I had an hour before I could pick up my flamenco shoes (it was October 16^th—what seemed like forever ago when I ordered them, was now here), so I decided to stop for a quick bite (one final tapas experience while standing up) at Mercado de San Miguel.  I had gone once more since my first time there—so this would be my third.  A creature of habit, I returned to the place I had had the 14 euro prawns, and the fried anchovies.  

The woman who had served me twice before was there behind the bar; by now, we recognized each other and attempted hellos (despite not speaking the same language).  I ordered a cervesa and two tapas.  I ate quickly.  In fact, I devoured it.   I knew my big, final meal would be had a Casa Alberto—I even had a bottle of champagne (to share with the waiter and the bartenders who had been so lovely with me each time I ate the food there)—so, I could not indulge myself to satisfaction there in San Miguel.   When it came time to pay, I called the woman over—put my hand in my pocket to signal my intentions.  

 She shook her hand at me and told me “You don’t pay”. 

I was confused; she clarified by saying that my food was “her invitation”.  Looking back on it—it was a gesture of such kindness on her part—full of weight and significance.

 *

Photo con waiters #3

ANDE YO CALIENTE!

I spent 5 weeks in Madrid.  I went there because I love (am in love) with the city.   I do not speak the language; I relied solely on my hands, the tone of my voice, my face, my body language to make myself understood.  For this woman to give me such a gift (“her invitation) was significant when I think about how we communicated with each other.  She treated me this food—and it was based on whatever she read on my face; what sounds she heard in my voice.  I can only describe it as an explicit demonstration of my humanity and it was something that attracted her, something she understood, something in me (based on that) that she connected to. It is the only way to explain it—the only way it makes sense to me.  And it stands—one of those completely significant experiences in my life.  I will measure myself based on this—I’ll remember it; how I felt when she told me I did not have to pay—how wonderful it was.   I thanked her and left very soon afterwards.  I was touched, but did not want her to see me cry in front of her.  

* 

I love words—but I cannot deny that it goes beyond them sometimes.  When I am faced with another person, I look to his or her face—because, when a face is not like a door, it can tell you wonderful things about them (and, even when a face is like a door—well, that can tell you a lot too).  My face is in-capable of shielding my thoughts.  It is nothing like a door and you can see everything on it.  It is the best thing I can give anyone who wants to look at me.  Madrid just proved to me how good that can be.

 *

Lovely Lorca and me

I went to Madrid to write—to do battle with duende.  I went to be a romantic with life, but not with love.  I went for a wedding (I will never see another one like it, I am sure of this now).  I went to Madrid because I think she is a woman and I wanted to connect with her—to see myself reflected back to me.  I went because she makes me vibrate—and because, for me and the type of woman I believe myself to be, there is no place like Madrid.  She is hot and heaving—and there is something completely raw and unapologetic about it.  I was in it for 5 weeks—surrounded by it—and it felt like skin.

In the way that I could never put into words what it feels like to stand before Picasso’s ‘Guernica’, I will not attempt to describe duende—not when there is Lorca, and he can do it perfectly:

“So, then, the duende is a force not a labour, a struggle not a thought. I heard an old maestro of the guitar say: ‘The duende is not in the throat: the duende surges up, inside, from the soles of the feet.’ Meaning, it’s not a question of skill, but of a style that’s truly alive: meaning, it’s in the veins: meaning, it’s of the most ancient culture of immediate creation”.

This is what it is to write—for me.  To write, is to do battle with the duende.  To be raw, to be visceral, to see anything in the writing, it is to do battle, to struggle with the duende.  Madrid is a woman, and everywhere I look, I see red.  I’ve eaten food that has made me aware of my mouth and my insides.  I rely on my smell for love (it is the best marker for it) and to live any other way (to be anything but a volcano) is to lie.  My best writing has come from a complete slaughtering of myself—the best living has come from this as well.  I’ve led myself to slaughter, this I am sure of—and all because of duende.   My poetry vibrates and bleeds because of it. 

There is this story, of Locra’s—about a woman.  About duende.  I’ve carried this story with me for 10 years—and I can think of no better way to end (or better, to begin) here:

“The great artists of Southern Spain, Gypsy or flamenco, singers dancers, musicians, know that emotion is impossible without the arrival of the duende. They might deceive people into thinking they can communicate the sense of duende without possessing it, as authors, painters, and literary fashion-makers deceive us every day, without possessing duende: but we only have to attend a little, and not be full of indifference, to discover the fraud, and chase off that clumsy artifice.

Once, the Andalusian ‘Flamenco singer’ Pastora Pavon, La Niña de Los Peines, sombre Spanish genius, equal in power of fancy to Goya or Rafael el Gallo, was singing in a little tavern in Cadiz. She played with her voice of shadows, with her voice of beaten tin, with her mossy voice, she tangled it in her hair, or soaked it in manzanilla or abandoned it to dark distant briars. But, there was nothing there: it was useless. The audience remained silent.

In the room was Ignacio Espeleta, handsome as a Roman tortoise, who was once asked: ‘Why don’t you work?’ and who replied with a smile worthy of Argantonius: ‘How should I work, if I’m from Cadiz?’

In the room was Elvira, fiery aristocrat, whore from Seville, descended in line from Soledad Vargos, who in ’30 didn’t wish to marry with a Rothschild, because he wasn’t her equal in blood. In the room were the Floridas, whom people think are butchers, but who in reality are millennial priests who still sacrifice bulls to Geryon, and in the corner was that formidable breeder of bulls, Don Pablo Murube, with the look of a Cretan mask. Pastora Pavon finished her song in silence. Only, a little man, one of those dancing midgets who leap up suddenly from behind brandy bottles, sarcastically, in a very soft voice, said: ‘Viva, Paris!’ as if to say: ‘Here ability is not important, nor technique, nor skill. What matters here is something other.’

Then La Niña de Los Peines got up like a madwoman, trembling like a medieval mourner, and drank, in one gulp, a huge glass of fiery spirits, and began to sing with a scorched throat, without voice, breath, colour, but…with duende. She managed to tear down the scaffolding of the song, but allow through a furious, burning duende, friend to those winds heavy with sand, that make listeners tear at their clothes with the same rhythm as the Negroes of the Antilles in their rite, huddled before the statue of Santa Bárbara.

La Niña de Los Peines had to tear apart her voice, because she knew experts were listening, who demanded not form but the marrow of form, pure music with a body lean enough to float on air. She had to rob herself of skill and safety: that is to say, banish her Muse, and be helpless, so her duende might come, and deign to struggle with her at close quarters. And how she sang! Her voice no longer at play, her voice a jet of blood, worthy of her pain and her sincerity, opened like a ten-fingered hand as in the feet, nailed there but storm-filled, of a Christ by Juan de Juni.”

 *

Madrid is a woman (bigger than any muse) and everywhere I look I see red.   No other reason is needed for why I would choose to come back here—to write, to struggle with duende.  To vibrate in my body—because it is the only one I have. 

*

A small selection of poems (written during my stay in Madrid—September-October 2009)

How a woman becomes romantic with life, but not with love

 A woman who remembers the first man to break her ego will consider him a man of significance in her life (because he is also the first she will have broken her heart over).  She will be sweeter as a result of these breaks—both with him (in recalling him), and any man who comes after.  In this simple way, a woman learns to become a romantic with life—but not with love.

Love is flesh, heat (the kind that can be seen) and bones.   These are things best understood in darkness, with a soft mouth, a hungry hand, far away from any muse.  It is not safe (or wise) to be a romantic with love when engaging in such animal pursuits. 

And so it is, with this, that I still think about….

A woman’s first lover should never be a butcher 

A woman should have experience

in what it means to die

and what it means to come alive

at the hands of a man

who lacks the skills of a butcher.

Before any butcher

she should take stock

of bankers, doctors, bakers

and other professions with working hands.

A butcher should only come

when her body has stored enough fat

and she is ready to be handled by a man

who knows about meat.

My dirty mind

My dirty mind

Has made a list

Of all the things

I want you to do

The next time

you see me.

My dirty mind

Has also made a list

Of all the things

I want to do

The next time

I see you.

Some things

On both lists

Are the same.

Birds in my coffee

At the bottom of my coffee cup

I look for birds

For birds that look like you

It is a ceremony to fill time

until the next coffee

and the promise of a better man

at the bottom of my coffee cup.

I cannot compare you to the waves or my breasts

I cannot compare you

to the waves or my breasts;

they have a tendency to be wild,

and the others, are rather big.

I cannot compare your

left foot to my left foot;

you have the left foot of a man

and I, the left foot of a woman.

I cannot compare the way you

eat food with any other animal;

the only thing I’ve seen you eat

I’d never let another animal near.

What I do compare

is the only thing worth comparing

where you always finish first;

it is there, on your chest

where the hair is best.

How a woman is like a volcano 

In other ways

more routine

blood runs free—

but in ways unexpected

beyond the comfort of routine,

it becomes a starting thing.

This is how

a woman understands

herself as a volcano

and lets go of any idea

that she may have been

a river instead.

Love is vinegar, love is slaughter

I’ve had sardines two ways—fried (which is the way that I am used to) and in vinegar.  To go beyond the things that I am used to is to encounter something new in the familiar.  Here, soul mate is a good word— for encounters that bring out something new in the familiar. But do not make the mistake and use the word soul mate when it comes to love. 

Love is something else—and there is nothing familiar about it when you encounter it; you know yourself differently, after every single encounter with love (big or small).  Love is flesh and bones—heat that can be seen.  Love is vinegar, love is slaughter—if you get it in the eye, if you get it in the eye. 

Love is vinegar, love is slaughter—and one thing to know about slaughter is that it has a beginning and an end.  And so does love.

My hands

A Scottish man stole my hands—

he touched them and

made them less than flesh.

A Spanish man touched the place

where my hands once were—

he brought them back and

made them flesh again.

 Let us eat our love!

Let us eat our love!

Let’s put it on the table

And devour it until it’s gone.

If this is love

It should be

Nothing less,

Nothing more—

A feast of you

A feast of me.

I do not think my eyes are pretty

I do not think my eyes are pretty—

but I cannot find a man

who will agree with me;

every one that has seen them

considers them quite capable

of turning things to meat.

This makes them pretty

like a slaughterhouse.

Like a snake

A woman should be

like a snake in bed

and curl around

her lover’s body.

In this way, she will learn

the best parts of him

and he will learn

the best parts of her.

We lie still

I lie still beside your body;

you lie still beside mine.

The heat between us

makes a noise.

We lie still, we lie still—

we are the only ones

that can make this sound.

The same slaughter

Every night we commit

the same slaughter.

We will continue on this way

until one of us feels guilty

or, the worst of all—

when it feels too much like a love

that does not taste of vinegar.

*

A footnote to this entry:  Because duende exists, I am including the very first poem I wrote (in 1999) that is full of it—this is the best of me, as a poet—raw, sexy and full of duende.  I lost myself in it—and it is one of my favorites because of it.

He calls my body an umbrella

he likes the way I open

how rigid my bones can be

how they function

to stretch the skin

how breasts grow high

the beautiful brown tips.

When he sleeps

I sit in the bathroom eating figs

and I imagine

this is what it looks like

when he puts his mouth over me.

Without apology, I have relished, loved and inhaled every encounter I’ve had with a man here in Madrid.  Whether with wine, coffee or other things that are better than beer—I will leave heavy and live heavier as a result of my encounters in Madrid.   I let myself be a romantic with life (in the way that I would never be a romantic with love) and it suited me well.   I suffered no slaughter here (save one small death of my hands—but, I’ve got them back now, the way I’ve always known them to be) and as a result, I am bigger (size matters here most of all).

While there are no favorites of all the men in Madrid (from the poet, to the waiter in Casa Alberto; and of course, the quickest of all the rabbits)—I will, nevertheless, mention two (that have yet to be mentioned).  The first is an owner of an antique store, on Paseo del Prado.  For the past five weeks, every morning that I walk by (on my way to my first coffee of the day), he invites me in—to see his store full of things.  Every day, I tell him ‘no’ (although I have every intention of going into his store before I leave Madrid at the end of the week).  He still calls me beautiful when I walk by—and it has become a habit for me to expect it; it is a lovely way to start the day (right before coffee).  The second is a man in his 80s.  He walks slowly (slower than anyone here in Madrid) and with a cane.   He has a face like an owl, in the way that an owl looks distinguished.  I do not see him often; but I’ve seen him enough to notice him.  I have no idea where he is going or where he is coming from (or even how long it takes him to complete his walk start to finish) but, a couple weeks ago, as I passed by him I caught his eye and smiled.  He smiled back and he called me ‘guapa’ and a couple other things that I did not understand (for reasons that are obvious)—but I thanked him, and now, I make a point of waving at him every time I see him.  He is another encounter to enjoy Madrid by (and yet another reason why walking is better than running, by all accounts).

To enjoy Madrid is to understand her as a woman—this is one of life’s absolutes for me.  Madrid is a woman.  Period.  For the type of woman that I am—I celebrate Madrid for everything hot and heaving that she is, for being so unapologetically feminine and sensual (sometimes, women spend too much time apologizing for things that are, if nothing else, in their nature to be).   Now that I have encountered Madrid once more—I could never apologize (a waste of words) for the type of woman that I am.  I may not move them all, but for the men that would want a woman like me—I know I can (that it is in me to) move them well.  And make no mistake about it—I love to move men.  Without apology.

*

I write for men

I write for men:

at times, for one

at times, for many

to move just one

or to move the many

I write for men

because I love

the smell of them.

(2009)

Juan

In case it needs to be clarified, ‘road movie’ means road trip.  But since this is Spain—and Juan was driving, our trek to el Escorial and Segovia on Sunday will forever more be known as a ‘road movie’.  And if I am being accurate about it—it should be “road movie, road movie, road movie!”

This past weekend was a long weekend in Spain—Monday was a holiday.  Sunday, it was decided, would be a day to go beyond the borders of Madrid.  Now—I’ve already done this, with the wedding in Toledo; that said, el Escorial and Segovia were cities not to be missed should an opportunity (road movie) arise to visit them.  As luck would have it—one did. Originally, it was going to be a whole group of Spaniards and myself going off to visit these cities; however, in the end, it was just me and Juan (whose colourful use of the English language more than made up for the lack of other characters on this trip.  Between the two of us, we managed to do well for ourselves—in food, conversation and drinks. 

The monastery in el Escorial

We began the day in el Escorial—a city (if you can call it that—it felt very much like a town in fall to me) with a beautiful monastery—complete with bells, gardens and a church (in which we enjoyed Sunday mass; I managed to sneak a couple of pictures of the church—even though it was technically (and possibly morally) not permitted.  Morality be damned—we were on a road movie, bitches! (may the supple Jesus forgive me for saying so). 

Technically not allowed--but I took the photo nevertheless...

The day was lovely—sunny and warm.  We walked through the gardens, took pictures and developed quite an appetite.  When it came time for lunch (in Spain, anything before 2, and—as with running—you are labeled a tourist, pointe finale), I was in the mood for pork.  Now, the best pork was to be had in Segovia—but, we would not have made it there for lunch before 4, and it may have been impossible to find a place to eat once we got there.  So, I had to ‘settle’ for pork in el Escorial.  And by ‘settling’ I mean I had fantastic pork.  It came, the skin cooked on—and the meat underneath, fell off the bones.  I ate—I moaned—until I was full.  It was a meal to remember el Escorial by.   If the restaurant had a bed—I would have taken advantage of it; some meals are so good, they take you to sleep.

The pork and me

But there is no sleep when you are in the middle of a road movie, so onwards—to Segovia.  Segovia has an aqueduct, a cathedral and a castle.  All three are very impressive.  But, for me, Segovia will be remembered for one thing and this one thing is how to tell a good paella from a bad one.  As we walked through the little roads of Segovia (reminiscent of Toledo, but not as lovely) to get to the castle, I asked Juan for his recommendation on where—in Madrid, a girl like me could get good paella (even full on pork, my mind is thinking of my stomach).

“The difference between good paella and bad paella”, he said—“is like lonely sex and sex with another person; you should go to Paella Real—they have good paella there”.

Having experienced days of big moans in Madrid (and thanks to the pork, also in el Escorial) I know what he means.   I am only here for 4 more days—it might be tough to fit good paella in, considering the week-long love affair I have been having at Casa Alberto—I want to eat my way through their entire bar menu—Ox tail stew; cod Madrid-style; meatballs.   That’s plenty sexy for me.  The paella might have to wait—for a road movie sequel.

Road movie final stop in Segovia

I left, walking—my mind in its own world.  At some point on the Paseo del Prado, a man came up to me—I brushed him off abruptly with a ‘no hablas espanol’—and walked faster.  I could feel him behind me.  I slowed down—so he could pass me—so that I could watch him walk away.   When he passed by me—and I could see him walking in front of me, it struck me:  I was utterly unkind, for no reason, with this man.  I cannot explain it, because I did not feel as though I was in a bad mood (though Guernica can be a heavy thing).  I’ll admit to it here—that this one time, in Madrid—I ran to catch up to him, to make amends.  And for my efforts, I was rewarded (for a second time on a Saturday night) because (in the ways that life is romantic) he was a poet.    

We found a place to sit outside, and we shared a pitcher of sangria—and we talked of life, poetry and love.  We spoke about duende, of Lorca and Neruda.  He has written 8 collections of poetry and is currently working on a 9^th.   I told him I consider Madrid a woman; he thinks I am 40% right.  He took my hands—and read the lines in my palms, felt the soft fat of them —a necessary thing because it give me back my hands, the way I know my hands to be (as an aside, they were wrecked a week ago by a Scottish man, who touched them in a way to make them less like flesh; it ranks as one those unfortunate experiences in Madrid).   He smoked (of course), and he recited poetry.   I recited the only poem of mine I know off by heart.  It is something I wrote 10 years ago—it is the sexiest and most sensual of all my poetry, and it moves; 10 years on, it moves still.  It was, in ways that Madrid is the way that she is, one of those encounters— of poets (I will dare call myself one here) colliding.

Then again, it was one of those encounters that almost wasn’t.  Thankfully, I know myself enough to know when I have been unnecessarily unkind to someone.  To remember the sounds of myself then, to know now the tone I used—it is to feel it in my throat (something to choke on, even).   There are ways to measure yourself—from the size of your feet, to eating in solitude; from ‘expensive tastes’ in jamon, to dresses that can contain a girl’s breasts; from knowing the difference between being a river and a volcano (and also knowing the difference between a mountain and a volcano)—there are ways to measure yourself.  And so it is with this that I hold myself accountable for how I treat others.  It exposes me.  I’ve never run after a man (the most I will admit to is getting on a bus because of one)—but, here—to sacrifice a little of myself in running to catch up to this poet was no less than he deserved.  It was also, no less than I deserved on this night in Madrid, a night of failed plans and Guernica.

*

A footnote to this entry:  It may be selfish but I need to know that I always have the capacity for sweetness.  The poet saw it in my eyes—and he told me so (which is something to love about Spanish men; they tell you so.  Of course, I’ve been lucky—I’ve been told many things here in Madrid, whether by Spanish mouths or not).

Another footnote to this entry: 

Two poets in the middle of ceremonies and moments of importance

 The poet and I met at Casa Alberto on Tuesday night.  Between calamari, blood sausage, and tortillas we talked more of life (destiny), love (and its limits) and the significance of particular people (of men, of women) in our lives.   Such things, to mean anything at all, were framed (and framed well) in the ceremony of coffee (two each for each of us).   This is how one marks moments of importance in Spain.  

At the foot of Lorca...

Of yesterday, it was a day to indulge myself—top (something for my head) and bottom (something for my feet).  I went beyond Chueca—because, sometimes, indulging oneself demands that one go beyond Chueca.  And, as luck would have it—I have maps—that go beyond Chueca.  And with them, I went beyond—back into Malasana.

I walked up Calle Bernardo—and turned up one of the little streets, to find a store full of accessories—full of things for girls’ heads: barrettes, head-bands, and hats.   I am not in the habit of wearing barrettes or head-bands—I like to keep my hair wild and in its natural state.  But, where I will submit is to a good—no, a great hat.  And so it was, in this store of accessories, full of things for girls’ heads, that I found a great hat.  I put it on—and it fit me perfectly. 

When I asked the girl how much it was—I almost choked a little.   My face (because it is not like a door) was completely Spanish in its ‘expressiveness’.  I took the hat off—and then, I put it back on…and it was all I needed to know that it was worth the Spanish expressiveness it elicited.   Indulgent and exuberant, I left the shop with a box, and a lovely accessory for my top inside. 

Something for my top....

It will be something to remember Madrid by—besides, every girl should give into a great hat because, sometimes, there is nothing more fabulous than a great hat.  This is what I know about hats.  This, and I’ve been told I look (and would look) good in them.

For my bottom—my feet, the left one and the right one (for I love them both equally), I stumbled upon a store that I wasn’t even looking for.  I walked in—and from floor to ceiling, everywhere I looked (with my box in my right hand, evidence of my first—but not last indulgence on this day) shoes, lovely and bright—lined up like soldiers.  There was a woman sitting at a table, inviting me to look.   And as I did, it hit me—here it was, in a place that I wasn’t even looking for (beyond Chueca), that I would find my red shoes. 

Deciding on the shoe was a lovely adventure.   The woman spoke no English; my hands were inadequate for the discussions—but, we found a way.   I chose a lovely style of shoe—with a heel to promote a bigger, better bum sway.  The woman (who makes the shoes with her Spanish hands) and I sat at her table to pick the fabrics for the shoes.  Three different shades of red (a woman is all kinds of red, so the more shades of red, the bigger and better) will be used to make my shoes.  The most prominent will be a design of red polka dots—a thrill of red polka dots.  It took time—but, everything, between the woman who will make the shoes and my indulgent self, was sorted—even if it took some creative communications on both our parts to conclude the delicious deal.  But I will have my red shoes—and this is the important thing. 

...and something for my bottom.

 In ways that only make sense to me—these are shoes to measure the quality of a man by—another area where, accounting for all things, size matters (and not just there)).  Indeed—in ways that a man who does not suffer a bad coffee is unlikely to suffer a bad woman—it will require a man of a certain caliber—and these shoes, with their polka dots and different shades of red, most of all.

With my top and bottom taken care of (for it is important to take good care of both—to indulge them both), I walked, guided by my maps into stores and out of them.  In one—a vintage store—I saw a stunning dress.  It was something beautiful hanging on the wall.   When I asked the store keeper how much it cost, he responded by telling me the price—and, in a tone to make it clear he thought the dress was beyond me, he concluded that I had “very expensive tastes”.  I found him to be rather too indulging of himself—and definitely not the type to ever take my shoes off for. 

In the end, I know where and when it suits me best to be indulgent of my very expensive tastes. In no particular order, it is in times of tops, bottoms and, of course—jamon.

I navigated through Malasana with a different map—its sexuality was unclear—but, the map itself served it purpose.  It guided me to “Biscuit’ and there, I found vestidos and a jacket to fit my breasts.  I must sound like a ridiculous woman—being so hot about clothes, the shopping, the need to have things big enough for my breasts; on the other hand, if it weren’t for the clothes, I’d spend my life a maja desnuda—and while she is lovely, there are times in life where nudity is impractical—clothes become a necessity for living (that said, clothes should not impair a woman from expressing her sensuality in other ways—take the maja vestida, for example, where it is all there, in her face (she not having a face like a door either).

I’ve collected post cards of every place I’ve been in; in some places, I’ve taken more than one.  Each one is a good marker of the places I’ve been.  They will be good, I am sure, for the next  time, when, once again I decide to return to Madrid.  I can’t imagine I will ever tire of her—even in the rain, she remains hot and steaming. I’ve never known a city like this.  For me, she is special—there is nothing boring about her.   I’ve mentioned it before—but, my god—to see old people, young people, all people everywhere, all at once in this city is to see what it is when a city actually lives and breathes.  I’ve never been out in Madrid and felt she was asleep.  Even when I have been the only person on the street—I’ve felt the vibrations of the city.   It exists on duende—this is the only thing to conclude about Madrid and this—for me—is more proof (as if I needed any) of her completely feminine nature.  

I am eating and getting fat here.  I’m fitting into dresses and walking in heels when it is impossible to walk around the city in anything else.   I’m having coffees, enjoying my beers—and wine when it is better.  I have a bruise on my knee that gets bigger every time I need to get into the building of my apartment.  I am writing—yes, above all things, I am writing.   Here, in this city that vibrates, I am vibrating too—and this is all the proof anyone would ever need as to the extent, the depth—the heat—of my feminine nature. 

*

To go back to Ottawa is to contemplate how anyone will be able to stand me, in this state than I am in.

                                    Madonna

Armed with my gay maps, I went back into Chueca with a plan to hit up as many boutiques as my feet in flip flops would allow. 

The many maps of Madrid--maps to warm a straight girl's heart

I walked up the calle with the prostitutes once more—I’ve concluded that, if you keep walking, no one can mistake you for one; stand still, and people are bound to make assumptions—across Gran Via and into Chueca.   I had circled a couple places on my gay map—because, it is always good to have a place to start.   I decided to start in Calle Santa Barbara.  On the way, I stopped in a couple shops—one, “Skunkfunk”, purely because I liked the name.  In another store, I found a beautiful jacket—but, at over 400 euros, it was beyond me. 

Finally, on Calle Santa Barbara, I started trying things on—beginning in one store that made note of its ‘very special shoes’.  I found a dress—with buttons from top to bottom.  “Unhappily”, I was too big for the buttons (size, when it matters, can matter in ways to break your heart).  Being too big for the buttons is something I’ve learned to live with (a lesson first taught me during an organic chemistry lab session), even if I happen to believe that, big or small—I am perfectly proportional for my body.  That said, my breasts can take much of the blame for the rest of me leaving Chueca with fewer vestidos that I would have liked on this day.  I left many a store, pointing at my breasts as a means of explaining to the storekeepers why I was leaving empty-handed (for those who’ve taken organic chemistry, I am sure—they understood where I was coming from).

I was not going to let my breasts spoil all the fun for me on this day—not with my gay maps, not when there were boutiques upon boutiques to venture into (based on past experience, I knew some of them would cater to the size of my breasts).   Onwards and forwards, deeper and deeper into Chueca—this is how a straight girl rolls, bitches!

As it turned out—life being romantic in the way that love is not—I managed to find, fit into, and buy a dress in a shop that wasn’t marked on the gay map.  The name of the store was “Lost People” and the woman (Antonia) was owner and seamstress/designer of all inside. 

Lost People....found.

I spoke no Spanish; she, no English—but, we managed some common ground in French.  The dress I bought has buttons down the front (and, by virtue of the fact that it contained me well, I had to buy it).  Initially, I tried on a smaller size—and here too, it was that my breasts were no match for the buttons—but, Antonia, being the seamstress and designer of all that was inside, knew her dresses well, and was able to give me a size—one that mattered most, and best for me.  I have the perfect shoes for this dress—a pair I have brought with me to Madrid, but, have not worn yet.   With this dress, they will get to know Madrid.

This bag contains a dress big enough to contain me.

I walked through Chueca until the sun went down—and by 9, I found my way back to Gran Via, moved quickly down the street where some of the women stand still, and beyond Sol—back to my apartment.   I am by no means done with Chueca—there are still boutiques to see, things to try and things to buy (of this I am certain)—I will go back, if only to return to the one store that is big enough for my breasts.

*

“Smoke baby, smoke baby;

More alcohol baby….”

Hawksley Workman

Because it was so good, and because, for all intents and purposes, I managed some level of success with Chueca on this day, I decided the best (and only way) to end my day was to return back to Casa Roberto—for a big beer and a plate of calamari. 

In Casa Roberto once more....

I was craving them since Gran Via, and I never don’t let into cravings—one of the ways to be completely visceral with life, as far as I am concerned.   It was busy—so I was left to eat standing up at the bar.   Not a bad way to live, as this place is wonderful and the food worth standing up for.  I ate well, I drank well—one of the bartenders let me try anchovies in vinegar (and now, I wonder if I can have them fried ever again).   I ordered a glass of Port wine—to end the night in warmth and sweetness.  

In the middle of it, I was invited to sit with a group of English-speaking folks (English-speaking from England and English-speaking from Ireland).   I accepted, and spent the next hours with spirited people, vermouth (in Casa Roberto it comes from the tap) and cheese.   We spoke of many things–the Irish of Seamus Heaney; me, of Leonard Cohen; and the English–of Shakespeare (because this is all they had).    For a Tuesday night, it was a good night to be in Madrid—I smelled of cigarette smoke by the end of it (where the end of it became the beginning of Wednesday) but sometimes, as with the size of one’s breasts, no time needs be wasted thinking about such things—something always ends up fitting, and cigarette smoke never stays stuck to hair for very long (3-minute showers being adequate for such purposes).

*

A footnote to this entry: 

Photo con waiter #2

As it turns out, I’ve been mixing up my men.   It is not Casa Roberto, but rather Casa Alberto where I have been have wonderful meals in Madrid.  I have no idea who Roberto is—and as far as I am aware, I have not been in his house (for a meal, or anything else for that matter).

I walked through Puerta del Sol (here, too, a creature of habit, for I find myself walking through it daily—I suppose I am waiting for the day they replace the detergent advertisement with a picture of (shirtless) Luis Figo—so far, no luck here) and moved through the people.  It was cloudy, hazy even—and Tio Pepe didn’t stand out as much as I am used to, against blue skies.   In my heels, I decided to go walking up Calle Mayor, to a little bar, for a pincho and a beer.  I left Sol behind, with the sounds of a bagpipe playing AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck”.  

As it turns out, this place I picked, for my pincho and my beer—was something of a ‘fast-food joint’ for tapas.  I paid 2.5 euros for a small beer and a pincho of chorizo—and, because there was nowhere to sit, I ate standing up.  While there was nothing to complain about with the food—I was less than ‘thunderstruck’ and wanted more.  Something more befitting my bum and my feet in heels—some place where the people of Madrid are happily willing to eat standing up (because, had there been a stool to sit on—I would have sat—this first place, for all its 2.5 euros that I was charged, was not worth the sacrifice of eating, standing up—in heels).

Further up Calle Mayor, beyond the archways of Plaza Mayor—I found my way into “Mercado de San Migel”.  

Stand and eat

This place is alive with food and people.  I walked by fruit, cheese, meat, wine and fish—and in some way, I lost my mind a little.   Here it was—this was the place to eat standing up.  Hoofs hanging, the smell of cheese filling the air, and a little further down, this smell over-taken by the smell of fish.  Pinchos on offering, of all sorts: mussels in tomato sauce, smoked salmon, bacalao, jamon and tomato, tuna, pork, chorizo—rows upon rows of food, on pieces of bread big enough for any mouth.   Yes—here it was, a place befitting my bum.

Because they looked so good, and because I did not want to use a fork—just my hands, my fingers, my mouth—I ordered a plate of prawns (tail, body, face—all attached).  With a cervesa, I stood, at the bar, eating, one after the other—with just a little bit of lemon. 

Food for fingers

My fingers smelled of prawn, but it was one of the sweetest meals on my feet.  The people next to me had ordered a basket of fried sardines, and for a moment, I wondered if I had it in me to do the same.  But I decided against it on this night.  Instead, I’ll go back—to have a separate meal of sardines—fried, because that is how sardines should be eaten (whole, and also, without a fork).   

The dish of prawns, all together, cost me 14 euros.  I accept it as one of the prices one has to pay when one decides to eat standing up.  Another (sometimes unavoidable) cost is the price paid by the feet—by the time I got home, my feet, in my heels, throbbed for the first time in Madrid—I take it as a sign of living well, despite needing to be completely indulging of myself in this regard.   Then again, anything less would not be befitting of my bum.

A place befitting of my bum (and a happy bum at that)

 I woke up and took my time. I didn’t look at the clock. I got ready and left my apartment with intentions of going to La Latina to walk through El Rastro

Floating heads in El Rastro

 (the biggest flea market in Europe, which happens every Sunday in Madrid). I didn’t buy anything—I just went to look, to walk, to keep my purse close to me to avoid the pick-pockets, to enjoy something that is completely Madrid. It is full of people—different than how Puerta del Sol is full of

Some of the art in El Rastro

people, but it is full of them nevertheless. Had I had more space, perhaps I would have found something to buy—but, as it turned out, El Rastro remains, for me, a place to look, and not touch. Maybe the next time.

I had gone through Plaza Mayor to get to La Latina—and initially, I had thought to go back there for lunch. I was, for lack of anything better—just looking for food, not thinking it had to be anything other than

Paintings in Plaza Mayor

needing a place to eat—to decide what to do next, on a Sunday afternoon. Of course, as I walked back, as I got closer to Plaza Mayor, my mind thought better of this approach and I decided on a restaurant that I walk by every day on my way to some place else: Casa Roberto on calle de las Huertas. It is marked well—with the poem that begins “Ando yo caliente” lying on the street a little to the right.

An impression in red

Its first impression is one of red. It was founded in 1827—and from what I learned, the second part of Don Quixote was written in this building.

As soon as I walked in, I knew that I had chosen well—the thighs of pigs hung on the wall, their hoofs still attached (a good sign of life and death,

Good signs of life and death

and a good sign for food that is bound to be good). The timing was perfect. Walking through the bar, I saw an empty table—as though, it was there, just for me—and quickly (as quick as a rabbit to a fig, if you like) I sat down. The waiter came by—I ordered a cervesa. I had a choice between a big cervesa or a small cervesa. Because size matters, and the hoofs were all there, I took the big cervesa. This past week, I’ve begun to eat more and more of the chorizo—so I knew I wanted it here. With it, I decided on calamari—done Andalusian style (which pretty much means lightly fried, and this basically tells me I’ve been having them Andalusian all my life). Then, I sat, with my big cervesa, and waited.

In ways that are completely soothing to me, I relish the times where I can have a meal by myself—to be alone, with everybody. I don’t need to say a word—everything is something to look at, and there is perfect quietness in the noises made by other people. Anyone who cannot eat alone cannot be alone with themselves in any circumstance. These are people who care too much about themselves, in comparison to other people—and I cannot stand it. I want and need times like this—where I am the only one filling the room at the table. This is the only way to discover how big one really is in this life (the matter of size being what it is, of course).

When the food came, it became clear to me that I had ordered enough for two. Not to be intimidated—I dug in. The chorizo

The churizo, a cloud of duende floating to the left

was cooked in a cider sauce—and it melted. It was sweet and hot and luscious (the way that only meat can be luscious sometimes), and it made me happy. I used the bread to suck up the sauce, one fork (for I was given two) to stab the chorizo, and I ate with complete happiness. It was a dish to bring out the big moans, in a big way. With the second fork—I went for the calamari.

Calamari--done the way I've been eating it my entire life

Calamari, for all intents and purposes, is built to resist—but, then again, this is what teeth are for. For a second dish, it was a wise choice and I ate, and from this too, I continued in happiness. To say I love food is to be too obvious for words. Better to put it this way: I ordered enough food for two people, and devoured it all myself. The hoofs on the wall might shudder to hear me put it this way, but, these dishes for me (one pork, the other squid) were the perfect Spanish surf and turf. I could not have pleased myself better. I kept the taste of this meal—the chorizo in particular—for the rest of the day.

Happiness during....

The waiter, perhaps on seeing the joy on my face (my face is not built like a door; you can see everything on it), or perhaps because I ate enough for two people, came by and gave me ‘gifts’: a postcard with a picture of the restaurant on the front, a pamphlet outlining the history

....happiness after.

of the place, and a map of Madrid, where a number of other historical restaurants can be found (add that to my free gay maps and there is no place in Madrid where I am not welcome it seems). I finished the meal with the best coffee I’ve had in Madrid (there was duende at the bottom of the cup, of this I am sure, as there was duende in the chorizo and duende in the calamari).

I left in smiles, my fingers, my toes—everything tingling. I walked through the Barrio de las Letras and before returning to my apartment for a necessary siesta (a meal like that can really knock a girl out), I bought a pair of earrings—one, because they reminded me of fruit, and two, because when it comes to splurging on a Sunday, a girl should never just stop at food.

Photo con waiter