17 April 2017

Just had the strangest sensation.

 

Ever had it?

 

The one where someone pours something nice over you, causing a tingle from your scalp all the way down.
 
Makes you fizz.
 
Very strange.

 

I’ve had it before – years ago, I couldn’t tell you when.  In a church, I think.
 
Another time, Col. Gaddafi had called to a neighbour’s basement flat in Leeds.  He was doing his rounds on his stolen mountain bike – it was the early 90s. 

 

Muammar handed a small pipe round the little circle.  There were a few nervous looks, but we all tried it and passed it on. 

 

We never did find out what was in it, but I remember the feeling it gave: what people describe as having warm water poured over you.

 

Similar to, but not the same as, this.

 

There was a beggar on the Metro today.

 

It's a common enough thing, with the tradition of alms.  The Church. 

 

The train was quite empty – the schools must still be on holiday. 

 

I watched him get on at Avenida de America. 

 

There’s a kind of routine: a few moments after the doors closed, he told his story.  I picked up “no trabajo”  “cuatro ninos” “ayudar” (help), and that he wished everyone buendia and was sorry for bothering us.

 

No one moved.  He walked down the train away from where I was standing, then back up again to stand by the pole between the doors. 

 

Usually, a few people per carriage give something. 

 

I was just watching in a detached way, then took my wallet out and started digging around for some change.  A woman sitting by the door a few metres away was doing the same. 

 

She held out her hand and said something that sounded like an apology, which he answered with a joke. They both laughed. His face cracked into deep lines converging upon his eyes.

 

The train entered the station at Nuevos Ministerios and I walked down and put the money in his hand, the edge of my palm brushing his.  It wasn’t much – just loose change.  He looked up and thanked me.  I wished him buendia.

 

I was orientating myself on the platform, looking for the Linea 10 exit.

 

Maybe I was thinking about the violinist up ahead, or maybe the lesson I had to teach.

 

I walked into something like a huge field of static. 

 

The more I try to describe it, the more elusive becomes the memory.
 
Scalp.  Skin.  A wave of tingling.  Something nice poured over. 

 

I don’t know. 

 

We might have called it a rush once.

 

I walked on, up the escalator and round the corner. 

 

The violinist was in his usual place where the travellator deposits its humanity.  He was there when I passed around eight a.m. 

 

I watched him cue the backing track. 

 

Vivaldi. 

 

He was concentrating, thinking into it, as he raised his bow. 

 

I smiled and gave him a wave.  He returned the smile.

 

Walking through the tunnel towards the Cercanias station, I realised how light I felt. 

 

Like an accumulation of stress had been lifted from me.

 

A very beautiful feeling.

 

Very strange.

 

Shame the student hasn't turned up.