I'm legal! (Nearly)

I have received my justificante de empadronamiento, that says that I've duly recorded my legal address with the Madrid ayuntamiento

 

The empadronamiento process has always struck me as a bit bizarre and redundant as a legal requirement, and in fact I know of other Fulbrighters who have been less conscientious about getting the earliest possible appointment for it because (unlike the bendito tarjeta de identidad) it has no practical daily use, especially for foreigners who neither vote nor pay taxes in Spain.  I presume that as proof of legal residence it is used to determine both voter and tax rolls for citizens.  I suppose that it might have some sense if it also functions as an automatic voter registration for citizens, but since (according to the form) it is technically a requirement for all legal residents of Spain, including those "under three months old" it's hard to see it as anything other than a relic of dictatorship.  (My understanding is that you have three months to register yourself at a new address, whether you move from another country or around the block.  If you arrive via someone's uterus your parents have until you are three months old to register you, hence the procedure for under three month olds.  Again, very difficult to see how an infant requires proof of residence in addition to a birth certificate, not mention a baptismal certificate which a friend of mine assured me "resuelva líos" here, but as one of the Fulbright mentors said at orientation "Spaniards love photocopies.")

Dialogue beneath my window

Hyperbole and hysteria aside, most Spaniards are pretty reasonable.

Fortunately, my main course for dinner tonight was salad.  This was fortunate because it meant that all I had to do was boil an egg, which meant that instead of standing over the stove (possibly with the hood on) I was chopping vegetables at the counter by the (open) window, so I was able to hear the dialogue below it, indistinctly at first, and then more clearly when I realized it was interesting, and opened the window wider and moved the cutting board closer to it.  (Hey, it's a pueblo.  If you have interesting conversations in the street people are allowed to listen.)

Sing me a song, you're the piano man...

There's always a moment of quiet satisfaction when you figure something out.  That magical instant when you get confirmation that two people did indeed meet and you think bingo.

Today was a quiet day, devoted to reading, laundry, a little shopping, and a walk in the sunshine.  In fact, the only interesting thing I did was go and visit the British Cemetery and take pictures, in anticipation of a blog entry about the same.  It definitely deserves said entry, but perhaps I'll do that closer to Halloween.

I started playing around with research after getting home around sunset from a walk, simply because it was too early to have dinner.  (I try to keep on Spanish hours when I'm here, and although it's still abnormally warm weather, the sun sets around 8:00 now, and it's pretty dark by 8:30.)  A few people had recommended the Residencia de Estudiantes archive to me, as the natural complement to the Residencia de Señoritas, and even though I spent a couple of days there a couple of years ago, and know that sadly their online finding aid has little about Langston Hughes, I thought it couldn't hurt to add in Dorothy Peterson's name, and perhaps simply type in Fuente Ovejuna/Fuenteovejuna since that's the translation I'm pursuing info about at the moment for my Peterson chapter.

As I expected there were no hits (although I was amused to see that when I searched for "Dorothy" alone I found a translation of a work about Montessori Education by Dorothy Canfield Fisher, who I am fond of as a children's novelist, in addition to Dorothy Parker, who I know was in Spain during the war, albeit briefly).  Then I decided, despairing, to go back to looking for Rafael Alberti, since I know he knew Hughes well, and I know that any search in the Edad de Plata archives of the generation of '27 is sure to feature him, even though his work is rather dispersed.  I was able to filter the search to "documentos" instead of published books, and noted a series of letters between him and one Gustavo Durán Martínez, spanning the time period I was interested in.

Time to open another tab in the browser.

The Polideportivo Gallur

Little red, white, and blue penguins. (Or, Spaniards are very athletic.)

The main entrance of the Centro Muncipal Deportivo Gallur on a sunny weekday evening

I've been planning an entry about the Polideportivo Gallur for ages.  I haven't actually used their sala de musculación, since I've never been very good about weight rooms in gyms (I never know what to do with the machines and they scare me, and stationery bikes and stair machines always seem like pale imitations of the real thing), but I've been going regularly to the pool in the evenings, and it's a lovely communal experience.

Settling In - Mysore House and the Polideportivo Gallur

 

In one way it's hard to believe I've been in Madrid less than a month.  But hopefully time will stop flying and settle into a normal rhythm soon.

I have my appointments for my empadronamiento (legal certificate of residence) and picking up my Tarjeta de Identidad de Extranjero (the foreigner's equivalent of Spain's DNI) next week.  I also got an email today that the faculty meeting of the Complutense where I should get officially approved and get my Complutense affiliation (which will allow me to use the university library, and indirectly should provide me with a letter to get a card for the Biblioteca Nacional) is next week.  So hopefully within the next ten days I should be plentifully provided with various shiny new ID cards which will turn my wallet into less that of a tourist and more that of a local.

"Véte a la milonga, muchacha..."

Yes, for my tango peeps, I have finally gone out dancing for the first time.

This afternoon I checked out a milonga which the organizers sweetly described as "por la mañana" even though it runs from noon to 15:00 (I do love this culture).  I had found it on the internet, and recognized the location as being right along my side of the river, in the Plaza San Pol.  That meant it was all downhill or flat going, and mostly flat with only one serious hill coming back, and also that it was pretty far from the nearest metro, so it was an obvious bike milonga.

Twenty minutes picking my way through the Parque San Isidro and down past the Tanatorio to the river, and another twenty rolling of necessity slowly along the banks of the Manzanares among the hordes of people strolling, biking, skate-boarding, scooting, etc. through the warm summery sunshine brought me to the "Sala Cha3" a ballroom located in the basement of a theater that seems dedicated to putting on fairy tales for children.  (The side of the building is painted with larger than life Disney characters, and the flyers above the box office advertise A Christmas Carol, The Wizard of Oz, and similar.)  I locked my bike by the trash containers, and headed in the side door and down a red carpeted staircase to the "Sala Cha3."  (I was there one evening to dance years ago, but I don't think I've ever heard it pronounced, so I don't know if it's pronounced "Cha Tres" or "Cha al Cubo" (Cha cubed) or "Cha Cha Cha."  I'm assuming the logo Cha3 is to suggest the latter.)

Terrible as a city with banners

My poor, beloved, Madrid.  The beautiful city is still clear as the moon and fair as the sun...but it's being overrun by flags.

Some years ago, I believe at the first edition of the Celsius 232, a friendly Spaniard commented that she had liked traveling in the US, because she thought it was cute that rural and suburban houses all boasted their own flags, and even flagpoles, and this seemed charming.  "Aquí, si pones una bandera española, cuando no sea la copa mundial, te tildan de facha," she explained.  I remember telling her with some amusement that I rather agreed that flying the flag from a private home (except during the World Cup, of course) was rather "facha" and that I hated how much the US had been drowning in flags since the destruction of the World Trade Center.  (It was a long time ago, and now it's hard to remember how angry and scared I was by the way they sprouted everywhere in what seemed like an atmosphere that couldn't possibly get more toxic.  More innocent times.)

One of the (many) things I love about Madrid is that the only flags you normally see flying from balconies here are the historic tricolor of the Second Republic, with its purple for promise of the future (mostly in Lavapies) and maybe sometimes the rainbow gay pride flag if it's pride week (or if you're in Chueca).  This has always been a city that takes its patriotism lightly.  Which is why I was so upset by the wall of flags in the Barrio Salamanca that I mentioned a couple of days ago.  I ended up taking pictures, because I want evidence that this is not normal.

Calle Almagro 25 - The former Centro de Estudios Historicos that shows up in the archives, and current home of Ediciones Siruela.  With flags.