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An article by a recent graduate describing his experiences in MadridIn every major city around the world, one can find a true cultural center. Not a concert hall or museum, but a neighborhood where artistic energy flourishes, stimulated by diversity, active nightlife, and oftentimes seediness. By my estimates, Madrid lays claim to Bohemia at the nexus of three neighborhoods: La Latina, known for its sweeping Sunday market (El Rastro), Tirso de Molina, and Lavapies (literally, "clean feet"). The latter two plazas, formerly havens for drug addicts, have been outfitted with playgrounds, which seem to have done the job of deterring the more hardcore offenders, though their (the playgrounds') appeal to children remains in question. Just south of Sol, the center of Spain's Capital, a downward slope forms at Tirso and La Latina and converges in Lavapies. The cobblestone streets and lighting fixtures that connect these neighborhoods evoke a time before cars and electricity, but the neighborhood's main benefit is a far more multicultural than these relics of antiquity suggest. Upon the old fashioned roads, a row of Indian restaurants and locuturios (call centers) give way to small shops offering goods from the Middle East, Africa, Asia, and South America. The languages you hear and faces you see along the way will confirm that the people come from these places as well. Throughout this journey, one gets a strong cosmopolitan sense of the range of cultures and ethnicities that now call Madrid home. Some people in Madrid might argue that this neighborhood is not Spanish enough, that they would never want to live in a place where immigrants have compromised the integrity of Spanish culture. What these people don't understand is that Lavapies is precisely the place where Spanish culture thrives. The richness of Spain's culture is a product of an amazing confluence of traditions. More importantly, this neighborhood is where young madrileños and madrileñas congregate. With a cursory glance at many of the walls you might catch sight of an invaluable gem, be it stunning graffiti or an intriguing concert notice (though I must warn you to beware of fliers from 2006). The cafés buzz with artists, writers, and posers thereof and many of the bars come to life with musical performances. One has to wonder how bohemian this culture can be if it remains so emblematic of the siesta and tapa lifestyle. That is to say, wouldn't anyone be bohemian in such circumstances? People here don't live according to any convention but there own, which happens to seem quite comfortable. In Spain, most people have an intuitive understanding that sitting down for a coffee and spending the next two hours in the same place talking about the same thing can be as effectively earth shattering as another worthwhile activity. They understand that going out with friends for a drink and some tasty snacks (more on grandma's croquettas prefacing grilled ham and cheese to come) is the most sensible way to enjoy life. If a nap is needed to spell these strenuous activities, so be it, a nap it is. I may sound cynical, but I fully support these restful ways. As a New Yorker, I cherish moments to chill in the big city. That many madrileños would argue that Madrid is amongst the most stressful cities in Spain should be of no issue to foreigners. The myriad interesting and chill cafés will offer you plenty of opportunities to relax in good company. **** I was taking a deep breath on a bench in Lavapies with my madrileña friend when the happiest homeless man you can imagine crossed our still and as yet undetermined path. Alcohol had definitely swayed his mood, and as he dragged a mattress behind him, he smiled and sang, "En el mar, que facil a navigar, en el mar..." (In the sea, how easy it is to navigate, in the sea…"). I nodded to acknowledge his presence and my lack of Spanish skills, though I did not want to get roped in to any further exchange. He moved on, followed by a friend with a bottle, and I looked on from a comfortable and removed distance. Somehow, my friend and I knew with uncertain prescience that the spectacle was by no means over. He lumbered to the corner, mattress in tug, and began to cross the street. A showdown had presented itself. A garbage truck wanted to continue its route up the skinny road, but the man (and his mattress) had decided to fortify in its way. I would like to tell you what I think was going on in his mind, the political necessity of standing up to the system in any form, but the spectrum of his mindset was both too vast and capably drunk to try. He laid down on the mattress. I was fretted by but fixated on this image, so seemingly profound in social implication. At this moment of poignancy, laughter became as evident as the night sky. Laughter from the man, laughter from his friend, laughter from the sanitation workers, laughter from my friend, and soon enough, laughter from me. This wasn't Tiananmen Square. The garbage truck roared in hydraulic fury. It grunted as it exercised its vertical prowess, lurching in the air to make its point while taking solace in the time off from work, a tireless grinding and compacting of the city's waste. The moments lasted eternity, beleaguered by the politically incorrectness of it all but coming to their own terms. Somehow, the ludicrous confrontation between hobo - lying - down - on - a - mattress -in - the - middle - of - the - street and a sanitation vehicle on its normal route had entered not only the realm of the possible but also the reasonable. In a matter of minutes, in the most ridiculous way, everyone had come to enjoy their own walk of life with respect for each other and, most importantly, an unpredictable sense of humor. Why not laugh and have fun when an unlikely circumstance presents itself? The man had visibly derived some sense of pleasure from his belligerence. The garbage men had certainly been amused by the change of pace. For bystanders, any vantage point claimed witness to a most awkward situation that could only be remedied with laughter. Our impromptu seat on the bench had run its course. We walked a block away to a small, hip, and colorful bar equipped with books, beer, and conversation. Andrew Aprile |
