On the kindness of strangers

Last Thursday night around 8 p.m. I navigated my way through crazy Madrid evening traffic towards Cibeles and the monthly gathering of bicycle-minded people called Bici Crítica. On the Castellana just north of Colón, my chain started doing funky things and I pulled onto the sidewalk to investigate. As I’m a rather inexperienced cyclist, I had no real idea of how to remedy the problem and so grabbed the chain and tried to put it in its place. But lo and behold I heard someone shouting instructions to me (in Spanish) from the neighboring lanes of traffic: “Just pedal and the gear will catch!” I turned to see who was advising me; it was none other than a municipal bus driver leaning out the window of his big red bus. I pedaled with my hand and, of course, the gear caught.

The ride, when we got started, was great. K and I commented on how liberating it is to ride on streets overtaken by bicycles. And so silent! Some drivers were pretty aggravated (the taxistas are specialists in this), but there were plenty of well wishers along our two-hour route all the way up Calle Alcalá to García Noblejas, where the Madrid government is building bike lanes on the sidewalk, to the dismay of many pedestrians. Towards the end of the ride I had a brief conversation with two women standing out on their 8th-floor balcony and cheering for us:

Me: Mejor que coches, no? (Better than cars, right?)

Them: Mucho mejor! (Much better!)

And at the end of the night, after a picnic on the other side of town, K and I started to make our way, somewhat uncertainly, back to our barrio. We came across another cyclist at a traffic light at Avenida de América and asked if he knew the best way to go. He asked if we’d been with the Bici Crítica and said that though he’s been riding to work daily for a year, he’s never been able to make the monthly event. And then, though it wasn’t on his way, he led us to a street that would take us basically straight home and avoid the worst of the traffic. In 15 minutes we were home.

Recent observations on the metro

What do you think of changing your baby on the metro? Good idea? The other afternoon I witnessed a young mother changing her rather large baby’s very dirty diaper in a row of three seats on line 10. I boarded the train when the operation was already in progress, but, judging by the splatter, it seemed that it might have been some sort of shit explosion necessitating immediate nappy changing. I felt sort of a mix of revulsion and empathy toward this woman, but I have to say that she was not attending to the matter in a very neat fashion. When she left the train, there was definitely still shit on the seat.

And how about clipping your nails? Great idea! The metro is the perfect place for that. This afternoon I had the privilege of listening to the clip clip clip of a woman’s nail clippers as she took care of some of her personal grooming underground on line 6. What a treat!

Latest autobombo

I hadn’t been doing much writing since the demise of Inside Spain back in March (yes, the crisis has hit very close to home), but I’m happy to report that I’ve started up again. I’m writing about Madrid for the travel site Momondo, which is primarily a flight search engine, but also has a well-reported section of travel articles from cities around the world. My first piece, about Madrid terrazas, is up and there should be more to come soon. Keep up with me here.

May

19 May 2007

Granada is so lovely

La Criticona

This year the second of May saw an uprising in Madrid of a different kind. La Criticona was Spain’s biggest Critical Mass event, a huge gathering of cyclists determined to show the city that cycling is a means of transport. The organizers at Bici Crítica say there were 2,546 riders who filled Madrid’s streets with chants*, the dinging of bike bells, music blasted from rear-wheel-rigged stereos, tall bikes, dogs in bike baskets, and lots of smiling faces on a warm Saturday afternoon.

The group got more separated than the organizers would have liked, and there were plenty of irate drivers waiting as we all passed, but, as the post-Criticona debate has expressed, the idea is to think that any driver could be a future cyclist—to educate rather than aggravate. Hence the cyclists seen bent over car windows chatting with drivers about what we were doing. Not everyone was very receptive (the fact that there was a football match about to begin didn’t help matters), but the people who stood on the sidewalks applauding and snapping photos as we passed made me think that the event surely would leave an impact on the minds of some madrileños. Naturally, among the cyclists there was a real sense of goodwill and camaraderie as well as the sustained hope that each day more bikes will ride the city’s car-congested asphalt.

*Among the chants:

—No es un deporte, es mi medio de transporte! (It’s not a sport, it’s my means of transport!)
—Yo pedaleo y no me cabreo! (I pedal and don’t get pissed!)
—No contamina, no gasta gasolina! (Doesn’t pollute, doesn’t use gas!)
—Si tu coche te quema, quema tu coche! (If your car burns you, burn your car!)

A marathon encounter

Among the wave of brightly-clad runners heading downhill in Parque del Oeste, a diminutive black man wrapped in a gold foil blanket sitting on the curb caught my attention. He resembled the gazelle-like runners, thin as reeds, who’d passed my balcony before any other runners this morning. I was out on my own run, no number pinned to my shirtfront, but I attempted to run a little with the marathoners and cheer them on. They were only halfway and had been running well over two hours. Then I approached the man on the curb.

“Are you hurt?” I asked him in English, guessing he would speak my native tongue rather than Spanish. He looked at me somewhat distrustfully.

“No. I am the pacemaker.”

“Ah. So you just run half and then stop?”

“Yes.”

“And how long did it take you?”

“One hour and ten minutes.”

“Where are you from?”

“Kenya.”

“Nairobi?”

“Yes. Have you been to Kenya?”

“No, but my sister has. She lived near Nairobi for a year.”

“Are you coming to Kenya?”

“I don’t know. It’s an expensive ticket.”

“Are you going to finish the marathon?”

“No, I’m not running the marathon. I’m going home.”

“Where do you live?”

I signaled up the hill.

“Where is the main town?”

“Near here,” and I pointed up the hill again.

“Can I have your phone number?”

“Why?”

“To communicate with you. We are friends.”

I looked at the crinkly blanket. The timing chip on his Nike running shoes. He looked so small on the curb with his knees pulled up.

“You’re not going to remember it. How long are you here?”

“One month.”

We exchanged names, he asked about my job, and repeatedly asked for my phone number. The runners going by rapidly decreased in numbers. A cop in a neon yellow reflective vest eyed us questioningly. Up the hill, breakfast and a shower awaited. I shook Eric’s hand, bid him good luck, and headed up the hill.

Second impressions about Morocco

Morocco doesn’t deceive. It pleasantly surprises, reaffirms my belief in the fundamental goodness of humankind. It smiles, frequently. Laughs easily. Looks you in the eye when speaking. Is unhurried. Piles on motorbikes and weave through traffic, clad in sandals but not in helmets.

A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice is sold for what it’s worth — as little as 30 cents in Marrakesh and just one euro in a mountain hut. Toilets are uncomplicated — generally a pretty clean white hole and a bucket of water. Tea is the national drink. People both rise and go to bed early. This country knows what’s going on.

Discoveries made on this trip:

The town of Moulay Bousselham. Perched on a steep embankment overlooking a gorgeous long sandy beach, the town has one main street and no banks. It’s spitting distance from a lake that’s famous for its flocks of migratory birds, and thus has a handful of places to stay and two campgrounds. We loved its market lane, where we found delicious rolled bread snacks and jackknife clams fresh from the Atlantic at a price unthinkable in Spain.

Refuge du Toubkal (3,207 m / 10,521 ft). My experience in mountain huts is limited since I’m usually carrying a tent. But when you’re planning a significant ascent, huts offer a certain ease of mind. Almanzor’s Refugio Elola had been my most recent hut experience: surly caretaker, some not very nice holes in the ground for toilets, and too many rules. The Refuge du Toubkal was a welcome change. This hut seems to operate on the familiar Moroccan principle of organized chaos. At first glance things appear to be supremely disorganized and unregulated, but then everything sort of falls into place. The bathrooms were clean, rooms were big with lots of natural light, and there was a sort of pervasive good mood about the place, which in no doubt stemmed from the smiley, singing Moroccan staff under the direction of Ibrahim, tall and dark with a killer smile and a firm handshake. When the mountains’ shadows extended across the hut’s roof, the guests (Spanish, Italian, English, German, French …) piled into the dining room to play games, chat, and drink tea. In those very close quarters, people were cordial, climbing stories were exchanged, and pretension dissolved into the thin air.

It’s the simple things in life that are best. On our first evening in Morocco, we sat down in front of a café facing the 15th-century walls of Asilah and ordered mint tea. Deciding we were hungry, one of our group slipped across the street and bought a couple loaves of bread from a vendor and some fresh goat’s cheese from a man with a cart. That impromptu picnic tasted so good that we talked about it for the rest of the week. Now I wonder if it was the food and drink that was so delicious, or the combination of the eating and drinking, the sun setting on the city’s walls, and the feeling of empowerment that accompanies the start of any adventure.

I explain my reasons for posting about Morocco in a blog about Spain in my previous Morocco post.

La vida de los otros

I don’t know the majority of our neighbors, but proximity has bred a certain intimacy with them. I know, for example, that the guy who lives on the floor below ours across the alleyway loves to hang out in his tighty-whities in front of the computer. And the [male] neighbors directly above us have a real penchant for “Guitar Hero“—their favorite songs by far are “Livin’ on a Prayer” and “Hotel California.” They love to practice said songs just around midnight on weeknights.

And tonight I’ve just realized that I was more involved with the neighbors across the alley and one floor down from our kitchen window than I’d thought.

We didn’t always have neighbors there. It must’ve been sometime last year that workmen in paint-splattered clothes appeared in the windows at work on what appeared to be a gut renovation. My eyes would wander down to the windows as I cooked my oatmeal, or waited for something in the oven, or boiled pasta water. The renovation finished, enter the Ikea furniture. And the young couple with an Arctic-looking dog way cuter than a Huskie and decidedly too big for a Madrid apartment. I must have stood there trying to catch that dog’s eye on multiple occasions.

Then I began recognizing the couple on the street, where they were often returning from a walk with the dog (more easily recognizable than the humans). Sometime in the fall the woman began lowering herself into the chair in front of the TV somewhat more gingerly. Of course, she was pregnant! (Clearly the next logical step after dog.) The last time I saw her on the street she appeared quite front-heavy, but I was certainly not prepared to gaze over there tonight as I got dinner ready and see her cradling a tiny little dark-haired baby. Dang.

Non sequitur: Obama DVD game

So I’ve been suckered in to playing a game here, thanks to Tom over at
thebadrash. He details the instructions here, but the premise is that Barack Obama gave Gordon Brown 25 DVDs as a gift recently and this makes for a fun game. Tom’s rules are as follows: you get 2 points for each that you own and have watched, 1 point for those you’ve seen but don’t own, docked 1 point for those you own but have never watched, and no points for those you’ve never seen and don’t own (even if you intend to watch them this evening).

I’ve added a note about having read the books (because my score is pretty terrible, but I’m not completely hopeless). Also, Tom requests that you add one DVD of your choice to the list.

Here’s how I did (with my non-existent DVD collection):

Seen:

The Godfather, Schindler’s List, Vertigo, Chinatown, Some Like It Hot, ET: The Extra-Terrestrial, Citizen Kane, The Wizard Of Oz, It’s A Wonderful Life, The Graduate, Casablanca (11 points)

Haven’t seen:

Raging Bull, Psycho, Lawrence Of Arabia, Singin’ In the Rain, Gone With The Wind, Star Wars Episode IV, 2001: A Space Odyssey, On The Waterfront, City Lights, The Searchers, Sunset Boulevard, The General

Read more than once and feel like I’ve seen:

The Grapes Of Wrath, To Kill a Mockingbird

As for the film to add:

Do the Right Thing

And I’m going to continue Tom’s chain by tagging Leftbanker, Selfish Crab, Amy, and Raronauer.