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Forty Days & Forty Nights:Dos June 21, 2014

Posted by The Typist in The Narrative, The Typist.

First floor, first room: the Vorticists, as if the directors of The Museo Thysen-Borneimisza knew my next stop was Brunnenburg, Italy to study Ezra Pound. So much for my flighty idea to simply stay in Spain.

I am trying not to dress like a tourist, but apparently I am the only man under 70  in Madrid wearing a hat, except the jovenes in their embroidered-bill gansta caps. And I need to get a bag mas tipico, the narrow vertical sort instead of my purse-shaped Pategonia. My high school Spanish comes and goes. Sometimes I can make myself understood, and others must sound like the village idiot after a visit to the cervescaria. I catch answers better than I thought I would, enough fragments to find my bus stop home yesterday afternoon. (I took the night bus back the first night). The men in the ETA kiosk (t as in transito, not terrorist) are complete idiots. Two different guys sent me to two different places to catch el autobús 53 por Ciudad Lineal  and both were wrong. (Google says I should say hacia not por but they understood me well enough to send me to the wrong stop for 53. I’ve learned to find a driver having a cigarette at the busy transit terminal at the Plaza de Artistes if I need directions.

I have another long day planned–Parque del Retiro, Museo Prado, jazz again at ten–but I clearly need to take some time to just wander and take pictures. There are enough modern buildings for a modern capital city but there are so many baroque facades, the Moorish Plaza des Torros I pass on my return bus (I must get off today or tomorrow for pictures, then catch the next bus), the Mexican Embassy which looks like a miniature Worlds Fair. There are so any things I did not think to do: visit the Naval Museum, the Centro des Cervantes, perhaps the Biblioteque Nationale . Still, I think tomorrow I will avoid the busy flea market with its pickpockets and faux designer goods, and simply wander El Centro and let myself get lost in the narrow streets, wait for the synchronicity that placed the Vorticists as the first paintings in the museo yesterday, that landed me in the cafe with the marvelous anchovies before my first night of jazz.



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