La Gran Manzana in Fotos

I have changed my browser's default home page to El País. I figure I might as well practice my Spanish whilst trying keep informed.

Over the past few years my source of news has been mainly (and embarrassingly) limited to Yahoo! headlines.

I always used to like El País when I lived here before. Those were the days before the Internet; before I developed a habit of charging my laptop on the floor next to my bed all night. Those were the days when I had to pull on some semblance of streetwear on a Sunday morning in order to go down to the Kiosk to buy the morning paper. Since we had to go outside anyway, My Man and I often made it a breakfast run too. One of us would get the paper whilst the other went into the local café to wait on a table if there wasn't one free. We would order cafés con leche sometimes accompanied with the sweet and sticky Spanish version of a croissant. I always preferred a tostada (a slice of bread 'toasted' on a butter laden grill) with apricot jam. We'd also order orange juice freshly pressed from pinball machines. I learnt to love orange juice in Madrid.

This morning, My Man looks over at my screen whilst his laptop powers up. My clicks follow the same reading pattern as my shuffling through a real-live newspaper. I gravitate first to the cultural sections. Normally, this would bore him. He would head first to Sports or Business. Today he follows keenly. He is reading with personal interest the article I have chosen. He tells me to scroll back up when I have scrolled too quickly.

My Man is a New Yorker. It goes without saying that we will be visiting the Reina Sofia to see the photograph exhibition celebrating Manhattan.

I'm satisfied with my attempts to keep informed.

Dog Sense

I worry that the table of three elderly ladies to my left will complain about The Dog. The elderly Spanish lady is a demographic that, in general, causes me some concern. She is a powerful matriarch, withering with a severe look or sharp word when the world does not behave as she thinks it ought. She is entitled to make demands without asking. There is nothing to be done when she cuts in line, and she will.

All this is beside the point. The point is that I am worried about The Dog ... Or at least what people think of The Dog. This is one of the worrisome worries I avoid when I am busy putting my head in the dirt of the coriander plant.

After My Man, The Dog is the most important thing in my immediate life. She is my friend, and she depends on me. She is a big dog, a breed which has been stigmitised with an assignation that, on paper at least, restricts their freedom and, on paper at least, subjects their owners to a bureaucratic headache.

The Dog is a Rottweiler, and by Spanish law, Rottweilers are classified as ‘dangerous dogs’ as are German Shepherds, Dobermans, the Argentine Dogo, and American Pit Bulls. According to Spanish laws none of these breeds or any mix thereof are permitted to run freely; they must be on a lead of no more than 1 metre in length, and they must wear muzzles. Owners of these breeds are obliged to register their perro peligroso with the municipal authorities in addition to taking a physical test to prove the owner can control their beasts and a psychological test to ensure the owner isn’t a nutjob who wants a dangerous dog in order to bully his or her neighbours. We are also obliged to secure civil responsibility insurance of a minimum of 120,000 Euros to cover that horrible possibility of our dangerous dog causing civil unrest.

My older brothers stole cars for joy rides, stashed pot in my parents' freezer, and ended up in jail or the emergency room on a number of occasions. While all that was going on, I was sitting in the front row of the classroom with my arm up prepared to answer whatever question the teacher asked. My homework was always done. I follow rules.

I also appreciate that there are dogs that are truly dangerous. Rottweilers are powerful and strong. Temperment, training, and weird wiring that can result from fucked up breeding can all contribute to a dog being truly dangerous.

The Dog is well trained* and for nothing sinister. She has a sweet disposition. Even so, I monitor her carefully when we are around other dogs. (She generally ignores them. If they approach her too quickly and with any kind of antagonism, she can give a mighty roar. It's something natural, but also scary to the uninitiated. I wouldn't want the elderly ladies witnessing such a display.) The Dog doesn't mind children; if a child in the park expresses interest in petting her, I make her sit and carefully supervise. I can't imagine she would ever harm a person; but you never know, and I don't take chances.

For the moment, I'm not going to strictly adhere to the Spanish law. (I suspect it's 'on the books' and only enforced if and when it seems necessary; I hope. That would seem a very Spanish way of going about things. Seemingly negligent; rather pragmatic). I keep her on the lead (except when we find isolated sections of the park where I throw the ball for her), I have the required insurance. I have a muzzle in the closet, but I don't have the heart to put it to use. I worry that someone will take offense and make a complaint about The Dog.

I overhear one of the elderly Spanish ladies at the table next to me say to the others that The Dog is exceptionally well-behaved. I smile. I pat The Dog on the head. She is a good dog.

*She swirls (on voice command or by hand gesture). She sits (voice command or hand gesture). She lies down (voice command or hand gesture). She goes to bed. She gives kissie kissies. She shakes paws. She runs under your legs. She heels. She stays. She is a veritable circus act.

Sun Toys

Of all the terrazas (outdoor cafes) that line the Paseo del Pintor Rosales, I pick the one called the Charing.Cross Pub. Not out of any sense of nostalgia. It happens to be the first one with a free table with a little shade and with a clientele who don't seem likely to protest too much the presence of The Dog.

There used to be a bar called Charing Cross in the American city where I went to university. I think about the real Charing Cross and wonder about its appeal as a name for pubs in far away lands.

I take a seat with my back to the sun. I'm old enough and fair enough to want to avoid exposure to the sun. I'm vain enough to still hope to get a little colour on my arms and legs ...

Not the face!

... And maybe even get some natural highlights to my hair.

There is an old man reading a book at the table behind me. I wonder if he thinks I am stupid for taking the chair where the sun will hit me most, albeit from behind. Then I wonder if he is laughing at me when I get up to move to one of the other chairs, one with more shade.

It's hot!

Spaniards have years of experience with sun. They know it will be here tomorrow.

They know it's better to take the chair in the shade.

Plants Potted

I have a new garden. A garden that spans the approximate 7.5 square feet of my typical Madrileño balcón.

I never used to consider myself a gardener. I think the idea of gardening seemed too much like yard work, and yard work carried too many uncomfortable childhood memories of a tyrannical father commanding his children to pull the weeds up by their roots.

By most real gardeners’ standards, I’m probably not a gardener. I’m just a houseplanter.

I started having real luck with orchids. They re-blossomed! Then I made lavender propagate! (HOTT!). Sure, I struggled with the laurel trees, which eventually had to be replaced by Privet, but I’m sure someone was pissing on those Laurel trees.

I’ll have no such excuse for any such debacles in my new garden. I’m afraid it will all be down to my inexperience. And, I really am afraid.

I have new species for whom I do not know how to care; and familiar species in a climate that seems to ring the moisture out of chalk.

The coriander is already going yellow, but the soil feels moist.

I worry about the plants because it's less worrisome than other things. Even so, I worry that I'm still worrying albeit semi-unconsciously about the more worrisome things even though I'm trying to put my head in the dirt.

I really hope the coriander makes it.

Appendages Pickled

As I wonder what to write, I hold my hand to my face in a ‘hmmm, what next?' pose.

My fingers smell of cocktail gherkins.

For dinner I have feasted on a hard-boiled egg (with salt!), 2 pieces of wasa bread (with peanut butter!), a pear, and 3 gherkins. To reach the gherkins, I had to fish them out of their vinegary fluid. I suppose I forgot to wash my hands.

The smell of gherkins reminds me of my weekend with The Man. The Man is not as big a fan of tart little pickles as I am. In London, when I ordered the groceries on-line, I always had a stash of 5 or 6 jars. I became attached to a particular brand. I have not yet become an expert on the Spanish varieties of cocktail gherkins; my experience thus far leads me to believe that they are slightly larger than their English cousins and have a subtle difference in flavour.

Maybe anchovy?

Spanish gherkins are called pepinillos (pronounced: pay pee knee yos, with the accent on the knee).

This weekend, when The Man was with me in the kitchen, I asked him a question to which I knew he would not have the answer. I wasn't trying to make him feel small or stupid or anything. I suppose I was just trying to show how clever I could be by asking obscure questions.

Why would you do that? That's really childish when you think about it.

"How do you suppose they make these gherkins so small? Do they pluck them from the vine when they are still baby cucumbers (pepinos) or do they represent full grown specimens of a unique species of cucumbers?" I asked.

The Man was generous with his response. "Good question."

I bet there are some smarty-pants with a horticultural bent out there who know the answer.

This was supposed to be a post about my garden. Maybe that will be next.

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Through this process I also went here:

Sometimes I need a dictionary turned inside out. I know what I want to say but am missing the word. For example, I know there must be a word for 'become an expert' but I simply can't conjure it. So, I want a resource that will give the one word to my phrase.

I tried to put Google to this use. You know what I found out? There are a zillion Internet sites out there that will teach you to be an expert! I cannot believe it. All this time, I have felt like a sham in my professional persona. Now I can go to the Internet to become the expert I'm supposed to be! Yippee!

Out of Practice

My fingers hover over the keys as I think about the words that are supposed to come. Together, my fingers and I have to fight the inertia of inactivity. After two sentences, the pause is pregnant with nothingness.

What next?

“My feet are sore. The Man and I walked a lot yesterday.”

Or

“I’m sleepy. I got up early and went to the airport. The ash cloud was back. My flight was canceled.”

Or

“I suppose there is some irony in the fact that I moved away from The Big Smoke only to find myself in a much smokier place.”

Or

What next?

I am out of practice. My fingers need to keep moving.

But, backspace is the wrong way.