The black cat

A large black cat ran across my window this morning, somewhere between sleep and waking.  I looked to see what this might portend and found it can mean a number of things, some of them contradictory.  So it just means I dreamt a cat ran across the window.

Summer might have arrived.  Spring is a switch that someone, somewhere flicks.  It’s been hot for almost a week now.  The protective screens have disappeared from most of the terrace cafes.  I walked to the Reina Sofia a couple of days ago and took the bus back home rather than wilt.  This afternoon, a strong wind appeared from nowhere, blowing over menu boards in the plaza and almost taking the sun-hat I bought in November.  Plane tree blossom fell like snow, leaving drifts of the stuff against curbs and corners.  It’s the same substance that causes itchy eyes in central London and elsewhere.

The weather improved in time for Madrid’s bullfighting season.  People have been urging me to go and see it for myself.  I thought I might, but I’m not so sure now and time is running out.  The season began for the San Isidro fiesta this month and finishes in a couple of weeks.  Maybe it’s some deep-lying moral position, or lack of money, or just lethargy: I haven’t made any attempt to buy a ticket.  There was a steady flow of people stopping-off to drink and chat this afternoon on the way to the Plaza del Toros.  In fact, all evening, while I’ve been cooking pasta and playing guitar, bulls have been tormented, speared and eventually run-through just a short walk away in the next square.

I went back into the plaza for a night-cap in time to see the crowd pouring towards the Metro and bus stops.  They seemed quite subdued, considering.  Post-match football crowds seem much more animated.

I’ve met some nice people this week.  On Monday, I was given the role of courier to meet the friend of a friend at the airport.  She’d flown in from Sao Paolo on an eight hour flight.  I turned-up just in time, leaving everything to the last minute, as usual.  Then I needed the toilet when I got there.  The fight was delayed.  The toilet was disgusting – what do people do in those places?  I took the lift up to Departures to find another.  The seat needed a wipe but otherwise it was usable.

I got to the Arrival hall as quickly as I could.  I needn’t have worried.  There must have been a rush of flights – the waiting area was packed.  I’d written her name on an A4 sheet with “Sao Paolo” in big letters.  I felt a bit shy waving the sheet above my head and decided to rely on memory.  I had a photo on Whatsapp – so did she.

The doors to arrival lounges ten and eleven are side-by-side.  Stupidly I decided she’d probably come out of door number ten.  That was where I focused. When I’d been there close to an hour, I thought I’d take a look at the information board.  Of course, her flight was lounge eleven.  I moved along through the throng to where I might spot her.  Some people cheered as relatives emerged, one lot sang a song.  Others stood patiently and called unobtrusively as their arrivals appeared.  The taxi-drivers and couriers held their sheets and tablets in front of them silently.  I moved nearer the front and held my sheet at chest-level in case I’d somehow missed her.

She eventually appeared through the sliding doors, looking as disorientated as everyone else.  It was like waiting for your favourite celeb and then finally seeing them in the flesh.  I called her name.  My voice was hoarse – it was the first time I’d spoken that day.  I lifted the sheet up and wobbled it a bit.  She heard me call and looked across with a relieved grin.  Then I remembered I’d left the keys to her apartment back in my flat.

The other person I met is an expert on the national Argentinian beverage, mate (pronounced mat-ay).  She works for companies who produce the stuff in the north of the country and has written a mate encyclopaedia.  I had a look through it as we sat outside a bar in Lavapies.  A good friend of mine is Argentinian but I’ve never tried mate in all the years I’ve known her.  Maybe now’s the time.

I finally found a place to practice harmonica without offending anyone.  I walked along the Madrid Rio yesterday – a walkway along the river Manzanares, skirting around the back of the Atletico Madrid stadium.  I had to walk across the Baroque Segovia Bridge, which carries the road up into old Madrid from behind the Palacio Real.  The harmonica practice area is on the parapet, at the mid-point of the nine arches.  Buses and cars hurry along the road and hardly anyone walks by.  I blasted away at some Dylan breaks from “Desolation Row” and “I Don’t Believe You (She Acts Like We Never Met)”.  Only the ducks beneath the bridge could hear anything and they were busy chasing one another.

A student gave me some really nice feedback this week. That kind of thing matters a lot.  And now I’ve almost reached the last month of the school year.  I can’t believe I’ll have been doing it for six months.  Not so long ago, I wasn’t sure I’d ever find work.