madre

Our apartment is interior, which in Spanish architectural conventions means that its windows open to an interior rectangular patio surrounded by other apartments. In the summer, when our patio neighbors' windows are open, you can hear the life of dozens of the homes of this working-class barrio--telenovela stars monologuing, talk show hosts screaming at each other through the static of ancient radios, children laughing, babies wailing, cats meowing from windowsills, a lapdog downstairs expressing its impotent rage, the construction workers on the ground floor singing while they hammer and drill.

We 're right near a corner of the patio, and just caddy-corner from the apartment of a woman in her fifties. She's South American, by her accent, although she's been here long enough that her grown children speak with the lisps and smooth cadence of Madrid. Her window to the patio is in her kitchen, so around meal times, we get a full blast of her volatile emotional life. The family is in the living room behind her as she prepares lunch, chopping garlic and onions with furious whacks of her knives on the cutting board. She throws down pots and pans and slams shut cabinet doors, all the while screaming at her family in the next room. They don't come see her enough, they don't care enough about her, they say mean things to her and never take to her advice. She's a good woman and a good mother, goddammit, and they should be better children.

The kids respond the same way every meal: we're always here, Mom, we call every day, we eat nearly every meal with you. But there's no calming her once she's in her stride.

After the meal, she's back in the kitchen to do the dishes. Apparently the heat of the stove, or possibly that of her fervor, has become unbearable, because at this point she often whips off her shirt and does the washing up bare-chested, her naked top half in full view of anyone who cares to look into the patio. Free from her elastic bonds, she really lets loose, bellowing out the window about her terrible children, about how her shows are all jumping the shark; the bills, the rent, the government, the nagging phone calls from various parties--nothing in her world is safe from her braless recriminations.

Dishes done, she retires into the more soundproof recesses of her flat (presumably after donning her discarded shirt) and we enjoy a few hours of the relative quiet of jackhammers and yapping yorkies.

mercado

Enjoying a chocolate stout with my friend Erin

Spain isn't known for its beer, and for good reason. Most bars offer only one beer on tap, and it's almost always one of a handful of domestics that resemble the poorer of the mass-produced American lagers. It's refreshing in the summer heat, but frankly, it's pretty awful. Of course, the wine here is fantastic, but after two years in Spain and a year in Thailand (where the beer tastes like its Spanish counterpart but is, judging by the vicious hangovers it causes, clearly laced with poison), I sometimes find myself desperately craving a good beer.

Juanma at work

When we arrived in Madrid, some new friends introduced us to the wonder that is the San Fernando Market. Only two blocks from our door, it houses La Buena Pinta, a tiny beer shop with bottled imports from all over Europe and select beers from America. The name of this little place is a play on the Spanish expression tiene buena pinta, which means "it looks delicious," and the literal meaning of the phrase buena pinta, which is "the good pint." The owner is incredibly knowledgeable in all things beery and makes great recommendations. He's got a nice bar setup so we sit right there and enjoy our liquid treats.

The market itself is an old warehouse-style building with two dozen or so mini-shops like La Buena Pinta. There are wine and vermouth shops, a couple of Spanish-style bars with tapas and light beer, a Greek snack bar, a sushi restaurant, various bread and cheese stores, a cobbler (who rescued my boots for seven euros) and a book shop that sells second-hand books by the kilo (Girl With the Dragon Tattoo weighs .65 kilos, so it's  €6.50). A few tables are set up in the open space and each food and drink shop has its own little bar, so you can pick up some olives, some goat cheese, and a baguette and have a picnic with your pint or glass of wine.

Sunday morning party time

On Sundays the markets hosts dance events. One weekend a big group of amateur dancers came in and showed off various types of Latin dance while we drank chocolate stout and ate empanadas. It's a great place, far and away my favorite spot in our neighborhood.

*All photos are, of course, courtesy of the incredibly talented Levi Shand. Check out his website!

basura

The Madrid trash workers are on strike. They´re facing wage cuts as the city tries to trim down it budget in light of the current economic crisis, and they are clearly unhappy about it. We´ve gone over a week now without trash collection. The ever-growing piles of bagged garbage are fine. Unsightly and stinkier every day, but I can live with it. The people who keep this city clean don´t deserve to have their salaries cut, so fine, let it pile up.

But they decided not to just let it pile up. Apparently afraid that simple heaps of rotting trash wouldn´t make a strong enough statement, the angry workers took to the streets on the second and third day of the strike to tip over gabage cans and dumpsters, scattering their contents far and wide.

The city center is a distaster zone. It looks like a tornado has ripped through the place, somehow managing to leave the buildings in tact but obliterating every trash recepticle in its path. The Lavapies plaza, the heart of our bohemian little barrio, already a touch shabby under the best of circumstances, looks positively apocalyptic. Every breeze kicks up torn newspapers and candy wrappers, and passing dogs have lefts trails of half-eaten, rotting food on the sidewalks. Even the pot dealers on the corner and the drunks on the benches look a little uncomfortable in their newly disgusting surroundings.

The newspapers say the strike may go on a while. God help us.