Singers at Siesta

It was on the first day at the park when we saw him playing the guitar, sitting between statues. 

He had put his empty red canvas case on the ground -- so as to collect euros.

 His voice was lovely and although we were walking, we stopped and sat.

When he sang – and when he sang – we were moved.  

Such a low and sweet and quiet tone.

   

Dulce.
We listened to one song and then another...and another.  
 Beautiful, really.

I sent her over with a coin and to ask him if it was his own music – her language was so much better – and he answered the name of another songwriter but alas, I have forgotten it.

All at once three policemen approached.  They seemed to ask ‘do you have a permit?’ – he seemed to produce one.   They said ‘you cannot perform here and now.’

They said ‘people are resting here in the park’.

‘It is, after all, time for siesta.’

It was 16.00.

It is time for siesta, they said.
   People in the park are sleeping.

I looked around and saw children hiding in the hedge maze.
No one was sleeping.

The beautiful and low and pleasing which wakes us…is worth the disturbance.    Totally worth it.

And now it is Sunday.  Coming up from the metro, we see him on the landing, singing his sweet song.    He nods at us, smiling, recognizing the strangers:

Us.

We had walked all over the city.   We had gone from Metro stop to stop...walking calles to avenidas and back again.   Like a mad rush to see the city, to feel that city, we didn't want to miss a thing.

It is one thing to hurry about and see everything and yet another to feel it all.

It is one thing to see a plaza full of tourists...quite another to sit and taste the olive oil, eyes closed to focus on the flavor, face turned towards the sun in a distant sky.

Let's go to there again, she said to me.   Let's go and have a siesta.

It is that time of day.

And so we went -- to Parque de Oriente.
 

We have returned!   

We sat in a different place that time: between two statues.

This time I rested.

My eyes are closing.   

She is reading to me from the bible – her homework.

There are families walking by us – returning from church.   Many pregnant women, babies in strollers.   Very young women, actually, wear flowers in their hair, as adornment.   They actually wear church clothes and they actually cool themselves with hand fans.

Of course he was there...in the place where we saw him first.

But this time we could not hear his smooth song as clearly.   His voice is trumped by the soprano on the other side of the maze, singing Mozart on a platform to a gathering...but with a microphone.

She sings Moon River – in Spanish.  "two drifters, off to see the world, it's such a lovely world..."

My companion is now reciting the story of Noah…and I am listening.   Between the guitarist and the soprano and the reading….I am strangely moved.

I am crying.

“it is such a lovely world to see…”  es un mundo tan hermoso a la vista…

She rolls into Somewhere over the Rainbow.  algún lugar sobre el arco iris…

Just then Noah sends out the dove.   It returns.  He sends out another, it returns.  The third goes out and finds a branch upon which to rest.  

When it does not return then Noah knows that it is time.   

Time for them all to rest.

Time for siesta.

Time for the rainbow.

I am thinking of the arias across the park and the olive oil (I can't seem to get enough!) and how I keep being scolded for saying grazie instead of gracias.

God tells him “look up at the heavens and count the stars – if indeed you can count them – so shall your offspring be”.

And now she begins Stranger in Paradise…

Take my hand,

I'm a stranger in Paradise

All lost in a wonderland

A stranger in paradise

If I stand starry eyed,

That's a danger in Paradise

Mortals who stand beside

Angels like us.

Is it redundant to write a Parque as Paradise?

 The soprano begins Love Story.  

And indeed, I think, looking around me, it is.

It is such a lovely world to see…

We are about to stand up – she is reading that Sarah is laughing.

I am laughing as well.   The songs seem to be narratives for our day, chosen just for us.

Waking us to the beauty all around – and inside.

And we are about to stand up, about to walk away.

I take out two euros to give to the young man, on our third occasion to see him.

...because people come back into our lives, again and again.
  
they just do.

And just, just as we are walking away…the soprano begins Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. 

We laugh and sing along.

Call Me Sudsy Malone.

Usually this time of year -- as the darkening begins --
I feel myself beginning to withdraw.

Although I do realize that this is the normal time of year for melancholy, I find myself spending a little more time at home, sorting out closets, cleaning drawers, etc.



I have come to realize that I have SAD:

Shampoo Accumulation Disorder.

My life is abundant.
I am wholly blessed with teeny little bottles of personal cleaning products.

My illness began years ago, when we were students.  

Back in the time when the call of "Free Pizza" could tempt us from three counties away and we lived on grocery store ramen soup mixes -- at 19 cents each, and if you stir in an egg....well, hey!  That's protein!

If we had to travel and we would all split a hotel room or the like...and IF little bottles of shampoo were provided for our use....then...

I would, upon checkout, tuck them into my bag.

This seemed like an innocent-enough obsession, or so I thought.  I thought to myself, time after time, 'well, I did pay for them...' and so it would go, me thinking to myself that perhaps I would need them someday.   Perhaps there would be a time that I wouldn't have time to get any shampoo, would not be able to afford shampoo...so I was saving them for a rainy day -- sort of like my grandfather and his post-Depression pencil stubs.

Innocent but crazy -- like all those ladies who steal sugar packets and artificial-sweetener packets from restaurants -- slipping them surreptitiously into their handbags --

Yellow and pink and blue -- the colors of petty crime.

I wouldn't exactly say that I am a criminal -- I am only guilty of foamy infractions.

But to open up the drawer to see it overflowing with samples -- let's just say that I have a serious addiction.  

Why is it that I think that I never have enough?   Why is it that my mother-in-law used to fold up sandwiches in napkins, hiding them in her purse, only to forget about them?

Why did my father save styrofoam and bubble wrap and why oh why oh why was there ever a need for a reality television show called Hoarders?

This is about letting go.

Just as a tree -- at this time of year -- lets its leaves fall, fully trusting that in the spring more will grow, we have to trust that somehow the world will offer a sandwich, bubble wrap, more sweeteners than we ever, ever should have --

And plenty of shampoo.

This obsession is ultimately about trust and fear.

Let go of these pencil stubs.   Life will offer me a way to express myself.

Release these sugar packets -- my life is already filled with sweetness.

Share the bubble wrap and styrofoam...I feel safe and protected without them.

Let go of old, outmoded ideas, clutter, things we no longer need.
Trust that we will have what we need.

I am packing away the itty bitty bottles to repurpose....
trusting that I will be able to wash myself and my soul anew.

I will be able to start again.

Like the trees...

I will have what I need...

for spring cleaning.

On the Sixteenth.

We wanted to see Picasso's Guernica one more time so we headed out early, after breakfast, to the Museo Reina Sofia.

But, alas, it was closed.   We sat a bit in the sun, watching other tourists who, like us, didn't pay attention to the museum hours, react -- and then regroup -- as they decided what to do next.

After a bit we began to walk up Santa Isabel -- a happy accident.

We passed little bookstores -- some markets -- and we went in.


NOTE TO SELF:  When traveling, find the groceries first -- before eating out -- ahhhhhhhh....so that's  what corazones di lechuga romana are....romaine hearts.

Candy store -- five kinds of potato chips.
Church.

We go in.  The eleventh pew is closed.   There is a crane and the signs that someone is making repairs.  Some people are sitting, their eyes closed, their lips moving in prayer.

We sit.  We sit.
We wait.

You can hear the workmen...but you cannot see them.

Drills and hammers and such.   But no words.   No one is speaking.
None.

The paintings around us, beautiful, have faded.

The gold is old.

There is, nonetheless, magic here.
Something, it seems, in this little Santa Isabel church, needs to be fixed.

It is being repaired wordlessly.
It is being remade.
Strengthened.
Fixed.

The part that we don't see -- behind the wall -- is being redone.   It is being sustained.

Someone is working so the magic can last longer.

Of course, if you wish, you can give a euro to light an LED candle for a loved one.
(Are those little LED's as spiritual as the real flames?)

But they, nonetheless, do some good with those euros:

"Pan de San Antonio -- limosnas para los pobres"
The bread of San Antonio -- alms for the poor.

Someone, years ago, built this church.

Old white brick.

Someone, some ones -- pieced together this church,
brick by brick,
so the residents of this town would have a place
to restore their souls.

From time to time we need to go into ourselves.
From time to time we need repair.

Perhaps we will be sitting, wordlessly.
Avoiding the eleventh pew.
There will be a crane there.
And guys -- fixing stuff.

We will be repaired.
There will be hammers and drills.
But no speaking.
None.

We sit.  We sit.
We wait.

We cannot see those who will fix us.
The paintings will be faded.

The gold -- old.

Us in our worn and torn-ness.
There is magic nonetheless.

We also were constructed --
brick by brick.

And now we are being re-made wordlessly.
We are being strengthened.
Fixed.

Someone is working on us so our magic
can last longer.

Then.

We walk out into the sunshine, the two of us.
We go back out into the world.

Into the light.

"Estar a tu lado es Soñar"
to be near you is to dream.

Madrid ‘sin gluten’... Celicioso!

 

 People seem to want to give me cake.

Now I don't want you to misunderstand.  I like cake, truly I do.

In fact, I love it.

Cake always makes me think that it is my birthday and that it is ‘all about me’ which I am foolish enough to believe, even now.

Perhaps it is the chemistry that I like in cake:  adding dry ingredients to wet and then something to create a lift and heat -- and well, that sort of begins to sound like one of my hair appointments....

But ah, I digress.

For a long time it has not been possible for me to eat cake out -- because of dietary restrictions, medical and otherwise, so I make cake on my own, when I crave it -- and it is usually lemon and poppy seed, or vanilla, or chocolate with or without zucchini -- and vegan...

And always gluten free.

This past year, in fact, I was shocked, amazed and completely touched that for my birthday my friend Jean delivered a huge lemon cake.  It is quite a thing to have someone else put in all that effort -- just for you.

Really, amazing.

Then I came across an article while researching my trip to Madrid, that there was a strong public information campaign afoot in Spain, opening many more doors for the something-like-forty-eight-thousand medically non-gluten Spaniards, not accounting for 'sin gluten' lifestylers and/or touristas.

It was in doing this research that I found Celicioso, in central Madrid, just off the Gran Via.

Of all the exciting things we had planned for the town -- and in all the ways I wanted to explore (and we are truly explorers of towns....), this was a place I did not wish to miss.

To say that my Spanish 'es malo' is an understatement.    What I lacked in accent and vocabulary, however, I made up for in gesture and charm, I hoped.

So, the first day that we walked into Celicioso I felt as though I had died and gone to heaven.   Every time I sat down in a restaurant I had to announce (somewhat apologetically)to the server "soy celiaca"  which, because of the national PR attention, made many nod in acknowledgement and then in apology because there were limited choices in my dining experience...

Celicioso was and is welcoming and warm and amazing.   

They offer cakes and cupcakes and sandwiches and breads and teas and coffees and tables and music and wifi, and, and, and.....

All offerings are free of gluten, made from a combination of corn and rice flours -- many are free of sugar and some, additionally and happily, are vegan as well.

That day we shared a palmera (puff pastry palm coated in white chocolate) and a vegan chocolate raspberry cupcake.   Plus two cups of good tea...not as easy to find for us there.

Of course we loved it.

So successful was our first time there that on our last day, just before we left, we headed out one more time, on the metro....getting off at Gran Via...

and making a left onto Calle Hortaleza and stepping in.   

The same people were there to serve us as five days earlier....and when they asked us which was our favorites (this time getting a lemon-lime and a vanilla mascarpone)...my answer, in my much-improved Spanish was "todos" -- which caused them to giggle.

(of course, everything)

And when we had finished our snack and got up to pay -- on our way out the door we were handed a bag -- a happy little white bag which we carried back down the street, down to the metro and on the train up to Cuzco...

A happy little white bag which contained something unexpected...

A gift of cakes!

I don't know the names of those nice people and they didn't know mine -- but I thanked them with a million 'gracias's' and smiled and blew them kisses.

(probably completely out of cultural context I am sure that I embarrassed myself, as usual).

But it seems, that people want to give me cake.

I cannot promise that you will be gifted with cake but I can promise that little Celicioso is in itself a gift.

A lovely gift indeed.

Just go.

Celicioso.

Madrid.

Calle Hortaleza, 3, 28004 Madrid, Spain

+34 915 31 88 87