"Hey. That smells really good." Evie said, throwing her bag near the pantry and putting her hands on her hips.
"Thanks, I hope it tastes the same, I'm starving."
Our galley kitchen is long and narrow; it is possible to stir fry, wash dishes, and rummage through the refrigerator from one point on its slick linoleum floor. But soft lights bounce off of our short supply of honey-colored wooden counter space, and if you prop a laptop on the microwave, music runs laps around the high ceiling.
"Guess what," my roommate said, looking amazed.
"What?" I asked, poking at my vegetables, growing brighter and more tantalizing.
"I just got my nipple pierced!" She laughed at herself and subconsciously put her hand over her boob. "It's the worst pain I've ever experienced in my life."
"Holy shit! That's awesome! Do you like it? Does it look good?"I asked, wielding a spatula.
"Wait, I'll show you."
She unzipped her sweatshirt and pulled down one side of her plain brown bra. "What do you think?"
A short metal bar, a ball on either end, sat flat against her chest, gleaming, neatly bookending her nipple. "I don't know what I expected: a ring or a larger bar, but that looks so cool," I said.
"Yeah," she said fondly, pulling her shirt back into place "I think it looks great too. And the place was really clean and the guy was really professional and stuff, just like you said."
The piercing place, two doors down from the closest Catholic elementary school, doesn't have a name. Instead, uderneath its dusty red awning it advertises its services by placing photos of all its piercings and tattoos, all taken just after completion, in the shop's six windows.
I like getting pierced. It sounds primal, and somewhat objectionable, but I like the idea of adorning my body in a decisive and yet less permanent way than a tatoo. It is the visible evidence of having made a decision that I still stand by. If I didn't, I'd remove the metal. It also doesn't hurt that my piercings speed up and or confound the first impressions process.
"When I first met you---I don't know, I think you come off as, like, this good girl, who is very kind and nice---and then I saw the bar in your ear and I thought it was cool, cause it didn't seem to fit."
When I tried to relocate the shop on a Saturday in October, it had disappeared. I walked up and down the familiar section of Calle Fernando el Catolico, hypothesizing that it had changed its awning or its location, leaving a friendly "We've Moved" sign that would direct me where to go. I finally found it, one block up from where I remembered it. They'd added a few new photos to their repetoire: a tatoo gleaming on already swelling skin, a bolt through the back of the neck, and a bar at the base of the male abdomen, just enough muscle recognition to hint at what was below the frame.
"Hola, que tal?" The man asked me, turning down the volume on Dr. Dre.
"Me gustaria conseguir un piercing."
"Vale. Donde?"
"La nariz."
"Vale."
It was early Saturday, only noon, so with one hand in his gelled hair, the kid behind the counter had to ask the "piercing artist" to come to work ahead of schedule. Minutes later, he strutted through the door in jeans still stiff with newness, and went to prepare the back room, trailing the scent of cologne and cigarettes behind him.
"He was really nice, and he talked to me in English. And there was this girl from Finland who's working here as a nanny. And she didn't speak any Spanish until she met her boyfriend and she got her belly-button done while he got his tongue done. It was so cute," Evie recounted, slamming rice and chicken fillets onto the counter. "This is fun," she said, pouring oil into a pan "And now that I'm cooking my nipple doesn't even hurt."
There's something about cradling a new piercing that reminds me of the new-haircut feeling. An acute sense of where your body is in space is heightened by the thrill and surprise you feel when you encounter yourself unexpectedly in the mirror. How you'd envisioned yourself is suddenly divulged to the world at large, a more accurate manifestation of your sense of self staring defiantly back at you. Piercings are often more hidden than the effects of a haircut, but they have the same effect on the psyche.
"I had no idea you were so bad-ass," Evie said.
It grows on you.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The 16 and the 61
The end of our street opens up onto the main avenue, making our walk to the bus stop an anxious journey. The closer we come to the intersection, the more likely it is that we'll see the bus rolling towards the stop, all of us breaking into a sprint, our coats flying behind us.
Depending on what time it is, we stand in the middle of the bus, holding onto seat backs and each other to stay upright, taking the corners at 60 km/hr. It is a rare day that isn't sunny, light flooding the bus and making it difficult to look at the streets without sunglasses, or getting a pastoral sense of reality.
The first circle takes us past the fountain, water shimmering and cascading as motos and cars make hairpin turns around it. Following the flow of traffic we barely fit through the crosswalk, women pulling wheeled grocery bags, men with the day's bread rolled in the newspaper. We stop at the bakery to pick up more passengers, the employees occasionally looking out at their reflections in the bus window.
Down past the elementary school on the right, a fruteria, the school on the left, the cultural center, a fruteria, a bazaar, the Chamberi market, the butcher's stall visible from the street, a new Mediterranean restaurant, and then the Mexican bookstore that heralds our arrival at Moncloa. Everyone gets off the bus, the doors hissing open. We stream towards the metro station, merging with another tide of people crossing the street and running for their trains in a manner reminiscent of a synchronized swimming number. We dart past the women selling colored socks, the men handing out the Metro paper, and bear right towards Parque del Oeste, the lawns filled with municipal workers sweeping up shards of wine bottles from the night before.
Depending on what time it is, we stand in the middle of the bus, holding onto seat backs and each other to stay upright, taking the corners at 60 km/hr. It is a rare day that isn't sunny, light flooding the bus and making it difficult to look at the streets without sunglasses, or getting a pastoral sense of reality.
The first circle takes us past the fountain, water shimmering and cascading as motos and cars make hairpin turns around it. Following the flow of traffic we barely fit through the crosswalk, women pulling wheeled grocery bags, men with the day's bread rolled in the newspaper. We stop at the bakery to pick up more passengers, the employees occasionally looking out at their reflections in the bus window.
Down past the elementary school on the right, a fruteria, the school on the left, the cultural center, a fruteria, a bazaar, the Chamberi market, the butcher's stall visible from the street, a new Mediterranean restaurant, and then the Mexican bookstore that heralds our arrival at Moncloa. Everyone gets off the bus, the doors hissing open. We stream towards the metro station, merging with another tide of people crossing the street and running for their trains in a manner reminiscent of a synchronized swimming number. We dart past the women selling colored socks, the men handing out the Metro paper, and bear right towards Parque del Oeste, the lawns filled with municipal workers sweeping up shards of wine bottles from the night before.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Las Carboneras
It was an efficient noise. Holding up her skirt, the sound travelled easily through the noise of bar glasses and house music: a rapid toe strike lightninged to the sole, moving her foot backward, finishing in a slide that hung lazily in the air.
Somehow, there were three beats to it. Her friends watched her foot and tried to recreate it. Tac, tac. Tac, tac.
Slower, the effort showed through the careful professionalism of fresh stage make-up and crisp dresses.
Tac, tac. Tac-tac. They laughed and asked her to show them again.
The start was so fast that the foot looked detached from her body. Three beats. Three beats. The sound and the form consistent, unhesitating. The other two held their skirts in their hands, eyes trained on her foot, their own beginning to mimic its motions, when the house lights began to fade and all three let their smiles and hems drop, lined up, and walked purposefully to the small center stage.
The crowd watched intently as the shapes of two microphones, three full dresses, two guitars, and one man in a light suit grouped themselves in two rows. For several minutes the darkness continued, the waiting silence growing louder and louder. Just as the anticipation reached a restless tension the stage lights grew large and burned the dancers into view, the dark dissolving into the shadows of the dancers and suit jackets of the guitarists.
Flamenco, for all of its color and fury, begins slowly, sad chords walking along the frets and trickling to the ground, the dancer dipping a toe into the puddles the sound makes.
The two guitarists huddled together on the stage's right hand wing, watching each other as much as the dancer, who walked purposefully to center, her face torn with emotion. The words of the song leapt over the gutiars' melody, and the sound of her shoes snapping the stage grew louder and louder. There was a switch from minor to major, and she began to move faster, swirling in circles, her feet beating out a complicated rhythm, arms reaching for the air and for attention. Jumping up she slapped her thighs on the way back down, head dipping down and then rising, her body still in its curve, switching her hips back and forth. The song ended, and in the silence, she started to clap her own rhythm, her two friends catching on and taking it up, yelling their approval, motioning to the guitarists to pick it up too. Everyone on stage settled in to watch, entranced, while she moved from subtle to extraordinary, turning in circles that didn't seem in time to the music, leaping just in time to catch the beat, drawing her arm across her stomach and leaving it on her hip as though to ask "Can you feel it? Look at me- aren't I captivating? Have you had enough? More? Can you follow me?"
The rhythm reached an uncomfortable pace, too fast to follow how the dance joined it, sweat dancing along her forehead- she picked up her skirt to show her feet, moving so fast they jolted her along in tiny steps. She raised her arms, her hands working through the air, feet still moving and spun into her chair, pulling her arms inward over her head, her face calm, her chest heaving.
The bar exploded in applause as the lights softened out, leaving the old singer in the back row smiling at the dancer, and raising his two hands in approval.
Somehow, there were three beats to it. Her friends watched her foot and tried to recreate it. Tac, tac. Tac, tac.
Slower, the effort showed through the careful professionalism of fresh stage make-up and crisp dresses.
Tac, tac. Tac-tac. They laughed and asked her to show them again.
The start was so fast that the foot looked detached from her body. Three beats. Three beats. The sound and the form consistent, unhesitating. The other two held their skirts in their hands, eyes trained on her foot, their own beginning to mimic its motions, when the house lights began to fade and all three let their smiles and hems drop, lined up, and walked purposefully to the small center stage.
The crowd watched intently as the shapes of two microphones, three full dresses, two guitars, and one man in a light suit grouped themselves in two rows. For several minutes the darkness continued, the waiting silence growing louder and louder. Just as the anticipation reached a restless tension the stage lights grew large and burned the dancers into view, the dark dissolving into the shadows of the dancers and suit jackets of the guitarists.
Flamenco, for all of its color and fury, begins slowly, sad chords walking along the frets and trickling to the ground, the dancer dipping a toe into the puddles the sound makes.
The two guitarists huddled together on the stage's right hand wing, watching each other as much as the dancer, who walked purposefully to center, her face torn with emotion. The words of the song leapt over the gutiars' melody, and the sound of her shoes snapping the stage grew louder and louder. There was a switch from minor to major, and she began to move faster, swirling in circles, her feet beating out a complicated rhythm, arms reaching for the air and for attention. Jumping up she slapped her thighs on the way back down, head dipping down and then rising, her body still in its curve, switching her hips back and forth. The song ended, and in the silence, she started to clap her own rhythm, her two friends catching on and taking it up, yelling their approval, motioning to the guitarists to pick it up too. Everyone on stage settled in to watch, entranced, while she moved from subtle to extraordinary, turning in circles that didn't seem in time to the music, leaping just in time to catch the beat, drawing her arm across her stomach and leaving it on her hip as though to ask "Can you feel it? Look at me- aren't I captivating? Have you had enough? More? Can you follow me?"
The rhythm reached an uncomfortable pace, too fast to follow how the dance joined it, sweat dancing along her forehead- she picked up her skirt to show her feet, moving so fast they jolted her along in tiny steps. She raised her arms, her hands working through the air, feet still moving and spun into her chair, pulling her arms inward over her head, her face calm, her chest heaving.
The bar exploded in applause as the lights softened out, leaving the old singer in the back row smiling at the dancer, and raising his two hands in approval.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Cacao Sampaka
Imagine the conversation:
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I dream of being a bombonera."
(Bombonera-Person in charge of creating and making chocolates) It is one of the options that isn't bandied about in college brochures, but should have seen some proliferation with the release of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, as the candy man can do what other mortals can't.
Cacao Sampaka, an artesanal chocolate factory, is located in Barcelona, where its small factory produces the delicacies pedaled in its branch locations: Madrid, Berlin, Malaga, Palma de Mallorca, and Valencia. The company commands the process from bean to palate, and aims to "create a whole new language of forms and flavors," limiting itself to only one medium.
I sat back in my chair and took a small nibble. The dark chocolate crumbled chalkily in my mouth and onto my tongue, where it stayed, trying to decide whether to be smooth or bitter. Once the shell dissolved against my palate, the strong taste of salt came through as I bubbled my tongue in an attempt to discern the flavor. Ham? Soy sauce?
Another nibble. The same dominance of salt over chocolate, and the sensation of something cured triumphed. It tasted like the legs of ham in bars smell--dense and organic, and somewhat sickening.
"Your chocolate was a mix of anchovy and vinegar." Anchovy. I like trying to imagine the bombonera who braved the possible chagrin of his colleagues to suggest, in a brainstorming session, that the company try something different. Something new. Something untried. And, crossing and re-crossing his legs, managed to spit out what he'd been thinking.
"Fish. I think we should mix fish and chocolate and see what happens."
Making artesanal chocolates appears to be not unlike working as a WXPN dj (a public radio station that doesn't earn its means from commercial investors, but instead from listeners, lowering the popular pressure to play certain genres). Sometimes the selections are challenging, resulting in an almost irrepressible desire to lunge for the dial and end the death throes of that particular cat. But you stick around, learning to enjoy the music for what it is, instead of berating it for what it isn't. And other times, what is played is selected to be outrageous, in the hopes of having something to talk about.
We finished savoring our chocolates, using new vocabulary words to describe various subtleties and tones. With new sounds connected to ideas like smooth, bitter, sour, without salt, the chocolates took on new dimensions, exploding like cap guns on both senses and language.
Rosana, brandishing a chocolate, reminded us "These aren't meant to be eaten one after another. You can eat one or two of these with a cup of coffee, or a good glass of wine. They're for tasting."
For savoring.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I dream of being a bombonera."
(Bombonera-Person in charge of creating and making chocolates) It is one of the options that isn't bandied about in college brochures, but should have seen some proliferation with the release of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, as the candy man can do what other mortals can't.
Cacao Sampaka, an artesanal chocolate factory, is located in Barcelona, where its small factory produces the delicacies pedaled in its branch locations: Madrid, Berlin, Malaga, Palma de Mallorca, and Valencia. The company commands the process from bean to palate, and aims to "create a whole new language of forms and flavors," limiting itself to only one medium.
I sat back in my chair and took a small nibble. The dark chocolate crumbled chalkily in my mouth and onto my tongue, where it stayed, trying to decide whether to be smooth or bitter. Once the shell dissolved against my palate, the strong taste of salt came through as I bubbled my tongue in an attempt to discern the flavor. Ham? Soy sauce?
Another nibble. The same dominance of salt over chocolate, and the sensation of something cured triumphed. It tasted like the legs of ham in bars smell--dense and organic, and somewhat sickening.
"Your chocolate was a mix of anchovy and vinegar." Anchovy. I like trying to imagine the bombonera who braved the possible chagrin of his colleagues to suggest, in a brainstorming session, that the company try something different. Something new. Something untried. And, crossing and re-crossing his legs, managed to spit out what he'd been thinking.
"Fish. I think we should mix fish and chocolate and see what happens."
Making artesanal chocolates appears to be not unlike working as a WXPN dj (a public radio station that doesn't earn its means from commercial investors, but instead from listeners, lowering the popular pressure to play certain genres). Sometimes the selections are challenging, resulting in an almost irrepressible desire to lunge for the dial and end the death throes of that particular cat. But you stick around, learning to enjoy the music for what it is, instead of berating it for what it isn't. And other times, what is played is selected to be outrageous, in the hopes of having something to talk about.
We finished savoring our chocolates, using new vocabulary words to describe various subtleties and tones. With new sounds connected to ideas like smooth, bitter, sour, without salt, the chocolates took on new dimensions, exploding like cap guns on both senses and language.
Rosana, brandishing a chocolate, reminded us "These aren't meant to be eaten one after another. You can eat one or two of these with a cup of coffee, or a good glass of wine. They're for tasting."
For savoring.
Disco never died
There is a small enclave in Madrid where neon lives and strobe is still king. One of the last surviving pockets of disco-fabulous, it isn't where I expected to find it. As all of the dance clubs huddle under the heading of "discoteca" I thought that I would find roller skates and John Travolta in a side alley somewhere near a shag carpet emporium. But instead, el Gimnasio Arguelles can claim endangered status.
He is not especially tall, nor especially buff. I wouldn't have pegged him as the gym employee type. Perhaps a marathoner, or a soy protein addict, but my favorite instructor is just that-- a knowledgeable gym rat, an indispensable fixture who infamous for his music choices.
I was chatting with my roommate as I sauntered to a spot on the studio floor and started to unfurl my mat. As the far left corner made contact with the ground, an older woman slammed her water bottle into the space about to be occupied, effectively claiming the spot as her's. I started laughing, the water bottle suddenly looking very much like its owner, stolid and unmoving as it guarded the floor. After a moment the woman laughed and moved her bottle, shrugging good naturedly. I understood. The stairs outside the studio had filled steadily for ten minutes before the class started; when the step class let out and the door opened, it was akin to watching cockroaches scuttle away from light, everyone rushing to find a place.
Towards the end of his total body fitness class, as the hour winds down and the stretching begins, so does the exodus. Women grab their mats and their water bottles and jog towards the door.
"That's rude," I thought, pulling my leg towards my chest, imitating the way he sunk into his stretch like a ballerina, the motion smooth and controlled. I understood the rush, however, when I found every bike in the spinning room occupied, with him at the helm.
He rolled through the door with very little effort, his curly, platinum blonde highlighted head unaffected by the smooth forward progress of his hips and feet.
"He shaves his legs," Alice leaned towards me from her stationary bike.
I cocked an eyebrow.
"No, I'm serious. Check it out."
It's true. His black and neon yellow spandex unitard only reaches the middle of his calves, allowing me to confirm that he does, indeed, take a razor to his gams.
"Vamos!" He swings into the saddle, his bike on a platform in the center of the room. As he puts in the first CD, he sings to himself and unzips the front of his shirt.
We pedal.
The lights go out.
And the strobe light rages.
"He does this thing with his shoulders," Alice said, mimicking a "Night at the Roxbury" move, and snapping her fingers. "Oooh. Just you wait."
His legs circle perfectly in time with the music, a certain bounce on the hips at every second downbeat, lowering his shoulders in a roll, and then rising to a shake. To change positions on the bike he whistles, just one sharp, piercing blast, signalling that we should move our hands from second to third. I'm sweating profusely, trying to sync my legs with the tempo and with his dance moves. He beckons the class coquettishly with two fingers, grinning wickedly as he sinks lower and lower into his handlebars, then shoots back up, clapping his hands above his head.
To the lingering tones of the "Hey Mickey" remix, I peeled myself off the bike and used my shirt to wipe my face. I caught his wink on the way out, as he mouthed the words and turned off the strobe.
He is not especially tall, nor especially buff. I wouldn't have pegged him as the gym employee type. Perhaps a marathoner, or a soy protein addict, but my favorite instructor is just that-- a knowledgeable gym rat, an indispensable fixture who infamous for his music choices.
I was chatting with my roommate as I sauntered to a spot on the studio floor and started to unfurl my mat. As the far left corner made contact with the ground, an older woman slammed her water bottle into the space about to be occupied, effectively claiming the spot as her's. I started laughing, the water bottle suddenly looking very much like its owner, stolid and unmoving as it guarded the floor. After a moment the woman laughed and moved her bottle, shrugging good naturedly. I understood. The stairs outside the studio had filled steadily for ten minutes before the class started; when the step class let out and the door opened, it was akin to watching cockroaches scuttle away from light, everyone rushing to find a place.
Towards the end of his total body fitness class, as the hour winds down and the stretching begins, so does the exodus. Women grab their mats and their water bottles and jog towards the door.
"That's rude," I thought, pulling my leg towards my chest, imitating the way he sunk into his stretch like a ballerina, the motion smooth and controlled. I understood the rush, however, when I found every bike in the spinning room occupied, with him at the helm.
He rolled through the door with very little effort, his curly, platinum blonde highlighted head unaffected by the smooth forward progress of his hips and feet.
"He shaves his legs," Alice leaned towards me from her stationary bike.
I cocked an eyebrow.
"No, I'm serious. Check it out."
It's true. His black and neon yellow spandex unitard only reaches the middle of his calves, allowing me to confirm that he does, indeed, take a razor to his gams.
"Vamos!" He swings into the saddle, his bike on a platform in the center of the room. As he puts in the first CD, he sings to himself and unzips the front of his shirt.
We pedal.
The lights go out.
And the strobe light rages.
"He does this thing with his shoulders," Alice said, mimicking a "Night at the Roxbury" move, and snapping her fingers. "Oooh. Just you wait."
His legs circle perfectly in time with the music, a certain bounce on the hips at every second downbeat, lowering his shoulders in a roll, and then rising to a shake. To change positions on the bike he whistles, just one sharp, piercing blast, signalling that we should move our hands from second to third. I'm sweating profusely, trying to sync my legs with the tempo and with his dance moves. He beckons the class coquettishly with two fingers, grinning wickedly as he sinks lower and lower into his handlebars, then shoots back up, clapping his hands above his head.
To the lingering tones of the "Hey Mickey" remix, I peeled myself off the bike and used my shirt to wipe my face. I caught his wink on the way out, as he mouthed the words and turned off the strobe.
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