Tree-hugger scientist / Científico abraza-árboles

(English below)

Hay científicos comprometidos con el medio ambiente, investigando seriamente el asunto. Y hay “abraza-árboles”, que, en mi opinión, sólo siguen a la mayoría y se creen lo que les dicen, siempre y cuando “lo que les dicen” exalte a “La Naturaleza”, y denigre a las “corporaciones”. (Aclaración: No estoy diciendo que “todos los activistas son abraza-árboles”, sino que “hay muchos activistas que son abraza-árboles”.) Y se puede ser científico o abraza-árboles. O ninguno de los dos. Pero no la dos cosas. Al menos eso pensaba, hasta que vi Avatar, donde los científicos resultan ser abraza-árboles. (Suspiro)

***

There are scientists really committed to the environment, doing serious research about it. There are also tree huggers, who in my view simply follow the crowd, believe what they are told, as long as “what they are told” places “Nature” on top, and “corporations” on the bottom. (NOTE: I am not saying “all activists are tree huggers,” I am saying “many activists are tree huggers.”) You can be either a scientist or a tree hugger. Or neither. But not both. At least that’s what I thought, until I saw Avatar, where the scientists turn out to be tree huggers. (Sigh)

The pros: The whole 3D thing is great.

The cons: Just check the news. Many conservatives hate it (anti-American, anti-military, etc.). Many liberals hate it (racist, etc.). The Catholic church apparently has issues with it (worshiping of nature). Many foreigners will have issues with it, too (an American who, according to the movie itself, is fairly dumb and immature, tranforms himself in a matter of weeks in the fearless and wise leader and savior of a bunch of “savages,” who may have their “cool” traditions and culture but in the end need an American to tell them what to do). Not to mention the predictable plot, full-of-cliché’s and typical Hollywood-blockbuster moments.

But I guess we get curious about the whole 3D thing, and the buzz, and go and see it. Curiosity killed the cat, they say —and it already put more than a billion dollars in the producer’s pockets.

La versión de Willie Colón dice “si del cielo te caen limones, aprende a hacer limonada” (en El Gran Varón). La versión en inglés dice “si la vida te da limones, haz limonada” (if life gives you lemons, make lemonade). No sé cuál sea la versión original; es posible que el dicho venga de otra lengua, incluso, y que sea (casi) tan antiguo como la limonada. No importa el origen. Lo que importa es el contenido. Gran refrán.

***

Nuestro refrigerador se descompuso en diciembre. Olesya llamó al servicio, y vinieron dos días después. Mientras tanto, usamos nuestro balcón, y un clóset que se pone muy frío en el invierno, como refrigeradores temporales. Sacamos fotos de nuestro “refrigerador temporal”, yo escribí una nota (Walk-in fridge), y Olesya puso un status en Facebook al respecto, y ambos fueron muy comentados. Sí, una o dos cosas se echaron a perder por estarlas cambiando de “refrigerador” y de temperatura, etc. Pero al final se volvió una anécdota divertida. Y los del servicio arreglaron el problema, y de paso arreglaron la puerta, que a veces no cerraba bien. Y a todo esto, yo pensaba una y otra vez, a ritmo de salsa: Si del cielo te caen limones…

***

El chiste iría más o menos así. ¿Qué pasaría si un mexicano, un americano y un japonés despertaran un día y se encontraran con que hay una tonelada de limones en su casa? El mexicano acabría en un bar, quejándose de que aparecieron unos pinches limones en su patio, que ahora qué va a hacer con ellos, que ya le regaló unas bolsas a su mamá, a su suegra y a sus cuñados, pero que no sabe qué hacer con los demás. (Y en medio de sus lamentos, llamaría al mesero: “Por ahi más limoncitos para los cacahuates”). El americano haría limonada, y la vendería. El japonés inventaría una máquina para hacer limonada.

Mis escrúpulos americanizados me obligan a aclarar que sí, que ya sé, que es una broma políticamente incorrecta, que no se vale generalizar. Y es cierto, existen los tres tipos de personalidades en los tres países, estoy seguro. De hecho, probablemente existen los tres tipos de reacciones en cada uno de nosotros, ante distintas circunstancias. (Pero, bueno, por otro lado, si el río suena…)

***

Navidad, 2009. Mariana está en terapia intensiva. Se suponía que iba a estar en casa, y que pasaríamos la navidad todos juntos. Ella lleva meses con la mirada puesta en la Noche Buena, para que toda la familia esté reunida otra vez, por primera vez en meses. Pero no se puede, porque le pegó un neumonía con un bicho muy resistente del que seguramente se contagió en el hospital anterior. Hay que curar esa neumonía de una vez por todas. Estamos tristes; Mariana parece estar más enojada que triste.

Se suponía que haríamos un intercambio de regalos en la Noche Buena, algo que nunca habíamos hecho en nuestra familia. Eso también ilusionaba a Mariana. Decidimos posponer el intercambio; se supone que Mariana saldrá de terapia intensiva en tres o cuatro días. Comenzamos a hablar del asunto, comienzan a salir ideas sobre qué hacer, cómo darle la vuelta a esta situación. Y de pronto (no sé quién lo sugirió, para ser honesto) alguien dice que por qué no usar Skype, que Mariana participe en el intercambio por Skype desde su cuarto cuando salga de terapia intensiva. Todos estamos de acuerdo.

Unos días después, conectamos las computadoras, instalamos un proyector en el cuarto de Mariana para que nos vea en grande, preparamos celulares y teléfonos fijos con altavoces por si es necesario… y a jugar. Y qué bien nos la pasamos.

Y en mi cabeza, Willie Colón cantaba una y otra vez: Si del cielo te caen limones…

I have the fortune to have a gym in my workplace. Even more, it is a staffed gym. More still, the staff cares about the gym members, and they keep organizing classes, information sessions, and contests throughout the year.

Well, they organized a “challenge” for the recent holidays season. We all had a calendar, with activities to do each day (we had to do at least two a week); we received weekly e-mails with tips for the season (recipes, how to plan expenses and chores for the holidays, etc.); and last, but not least, we had to “weigh in” at the beginning of the program, just before Thanksgiving, and then “weigh out” at the end, just after the new year. They had a scale in the main office at the gym, though nobody would be looking at your weight; as it’s usually the case with their challenges, it’s all honor based. It’s not about winning, but about participating and meeting some minimum requirements to get a little “prize” at the end (a coupon for a lunch, a T-shirt, things like that). There is not one, but many winners.

I paid attention to the suggested activities and tips throughout the holidays (that’s where the idea of a Christmas gift exchange originally came from, which evolved into a very nice experience with the brainstorming of the whole family), and I was a lot more conscious about my weight than in previous years. OK, I am not overweight, but last year I had a very hard time losing the pounds I had gained over the holidays, which had never happened before. So I tried to watch what I ate (sometimes I just couldn’t, to be honest), and I tried to stay phisically active. My recurrent knee problems are back, and I haven’t been able to run for a few weeks now, so I had to swim more (waking up at 5:30 am; our gym doesn’t have a pool, I swim somewhere else), go for some good walks (it’s not exactly balmy out there these days, you know?), and climbing La Malinche after Christmas certainly helped (more on that in another coming post).

Anyway, the point is… It worked! “Officially,” my weight at the end of the program was one pound less than before the holidays. I know, maybe there was a little variation in the conditions, maybe I had had a bigger breakfast when I weighed in, or I drank less water the day I weighed out. But even if my weight was the same, or if I actually gained a little, I consider myself a winner in this challenge. And it feels good. Really good.

This Madrid trip report (see also Madrid, day1 and Madrid, day 2) got way too long. Mostly for the sake of completeness, here is the second half of the trip in a single post, just to wrap things up.

Day 3. Before and during the trip, people kept telling us “you have to go to Toledo.” Plus, we wanted to see Miguel, who was staying in Toledo for the weekend.

On Saturday, we woke up by noon (well, we were thankfully waken up by a phone call from Carmen and Javier, otherwise we would have slept in through the day), got ready, and headed to the train station. The AVE (high-speed train) leaves from Atocha, a nice train station better known, sadly, because that’s where the terrorist attack took place on March 11, 2004. It takes 30 min to get to Toledo.

Toledo’s train station is beautiful. Instead of taking a bus or a cab (as usual, stubborn, stingy us), we walked to the center of town. That’s about 20 min, nice walk. We picked up a map at one of the visitor’s centers, and started taking pictures, walking, and sampling mazapanes (marzipan) from every other shop in town —all three activities equally rewarding in Toledo. Here’s me, eating a piece of mazapán:

Toledo used to be the capital many years ago. There is a mixture of cultures in it, with Islamic, Catholic and Jewish buildings, almost side by side. The streets go up and down, which makes for nice views, and an entertaining walk. There are very narrow alleys, tons of shops with crafts and sweets, loads of Don-Quijote-cult souvenirs, beautiful colors and textures in the buildings,… great town.

We had a coffee (me) and tea (Olesya) at a nice, middle-eastern looking coffee shop near El Greco’s museum, and it was the best coffee of the trip, simply delicious.

From town, we took a cab to see Miguel, who was staying with his family in a hotel in Toledo. It was great to see Miguel and meet his family. We laughed a lot. We wish we didn’t have an ocean between Boston and Madrid to be able to stop by more often. He works really hard every day, in and out of therapy; he has come a long way and won’t give up. Exemplary. It would be nice to be there more often and share his progress more closely, and enjoy his company. We miss you here in Boston, man. Can’t wait to see you back on this side of the ocean.

Back in Madrid, we met Arcadi for another night out. It was only about three or four places this time, “only” until 2:30 am or so, and in a different area of the city. The menu included morcilla (blood sausage), rabbit, roasted peppers, and a couple of other things. And more claras, more wine, and more cokes. Really nice time, again.

Day 4. We woke up around noon again. We got ready and went out to meet Arcadi for lunch. On the way there, we bought some turrones (a typical Christmas-time sweet from Spain) in a supermarket. Arcadi took us to eat fabada, a traditional soup from Asturias, northern Spain. I had been asking Arcadi to take us to eat good fabada, and he did. This was the type of place that you will never find as a tourist, near Arcadi’s office, a small local place, where the owner’s wife cooks, the owner is the waiter, and the son the bar tender. Great place, great food.

After that, we walked all the way to Plaza Mayor, and got tickets for another tour, this time for the “French” side of the old city. It was a cold day. The tour was, again, worth it, though it would have been nicer, of course, on a warmer day —especially when the guide, the only person in the group properly dressed for the conditions (probably because he does this every day) started mimicking a cello’s sound “playing” a famous Bocherini’s tune… kind of cool, but not so cool when it’s cool (actually very cold) out there.

Then to El Riojano, another pastry shop, where the hot chocolate was tastier than in Ginés, but the pastries not as tasty as in La Mallorquina.

The next stop was a bar to watch fútbol —ie., football, ie, “soccer” for Americans, who have not come to appreciate the most popular sport in the world and don’t even call it by its proper name . Real Madrid v. Barcelona. THE classic, in Spain. And probably one of the top classics in the world, since it is estimated that 500 million people watched that game around the world. 500 million people. Do the math: with 6 billion people in the world, that means one in twelve people in the world watched the game.

Though I don’t follow sports too closely, I was able to appreciate the quality of the game. People more used to good football would probably think it was an OK game, but for me, who had not watched a game in months, it was an amazing match. The quality of the players is just outstanding. Barcelona won. Since Arcadi is Catalan (and since we also have a family bias, because one of the nephews and her mom have Catalan blood) we celebrated.

From there, a few more bars. Surprisingly, there were still loads of people out in the bars and restaurants, despite the fact it was Sunday, late in the evening. A few more tapas, a couple of “tintos de verano” for Olesya (sort of a mini, quickly made sangría), and back to the hotel… walking, of course, which Arcadi, again, could not understand. Javi, one of Arcadi’s friends who spent the evening with us, walked with us most of the way back.

Day 5. Monday; only half day left in our trip, our plane departed in the afternoon. We checked out, and went downtown quickly for one last stop at La Mallorquina. We paid for breakfast, and we had like 20 Euros left in cash. No need to bring Euros back to Boston, so we decided to buy some “hand made” turrón at La Mallorquina itself (OK, probably not “hand made,” but they make it right there). We paid for it, and almost used up all our cash.

We took the train to the airport. Rush hour. When we entered the train, trying to squeeze into the car, two guys sort of pushed me, moved around me, and I clearly felt how one tried to “pick pocket” me. Sorry, man, but we were warned enough about these things, all my valuables were in a safe place in my backpack, which I had hanging on my chest, under my supervision all the time. He got nothing, of course. I turned to the other side a second later, and as I was turning the second guy quickly moved his hand (undercovered with his jacket) away from my backpack. They got off in the next station, empty handed. Bastards. At least we won this one.

We got off at the airport. It turns out you need to pay one Euro per person to get out of the train station. Uh, oh. I took all the cash we had left on us and counted… 2 Euros and 90 cents. Relief. We paid and celebrated that we had used our cash so precisely: only 90 cents left. Cool.

We made it safely back to Boston. I entered the US as a permanent resident for the first time (well, except for a previous trip to Canada, by car in the summer, but this was the first time entering as a resident by plane), together with Olesya, as a family, for the first time, too. The immigration officer simply did his job, a couple of routine questions, etc., and let us in. Nice.

And that’s all, folks. Great trip, Madrid was definitely a lot of fun.

Our fridge, the one that came with the house, is sick. The techician is scheduled to come tomorrow. Being Mexican, I immediately worried about the food (“the first two things you need in a house is a fridge and a bed”). Olesya, being Ukrainian, simply took the food out, to the balcony. “Is it cold enough?” I asked. “It’s colder than the fridge, for sure” she said. We are in New England, and it’s almost winter time. So, yes, I guess that’s cold enough, I thought.

This morning I got milk for my cereal, and sure enough, half of the milk became ice overnight —let’s say I had cereal with smoothie, rather than milk. If there was any doubt about how cold the balcony was…

Fancy fridge, our balcony. When you step out, you actually step inside our walk-in fridge, which even has a nice view of urban New England. And it also came with the house.

On the first day (see Madrid, day 1) we saw Madrid “from the outside.” So, on Friday, we decided to go inside some those nice buildings during the day, and bars, in the evening.

We woke up very late, both because we were tired, and because we wanted to wake up late, and stay up late at night for the four days, to minimize the jet lag —what’s the point of getting adjusted to the local time for four days only. After two stops for pastries, as breakfast(s), we went to the Reina Sofía museum. This museum has the more contemporary stuff, whereas El Prado has the most “classical” things. As you may know by now if you’ve read previous posts in this blog, I am not a museum guy, I get tired quickly. So we decided to focus on a few “highlights.” The second floor in the Reina Sofía has works from the late XIX and early XX centuries, that is, mainly surrealism and cubism. For me, that means Dalí, Miró, Picasso, “and some other guys,” and that’s what we chose to see.

In general, I don’t understand art; however, there are things I like, and things I don’t like. In this case, even before we started, I knew I love Dalí and Miró, and I knew I have never liked Picasso. Being there, I confirmed my feelings. I still love the details in Dalí’s paintings, and now I love even more the colors and shapes in Miró’s paintings. And I still don’t like Picasso. I stood in front of Guernica, took a very good look at it, went past the 10 seconds of I-am-in-front-of-a-very-very-famous-painting stomach butterflies, and finally my feeling was “well… I can certainly see that this is a very large painting.”

About two hours later, I knew I had had enough, it was time to leave the museum. Plus, I was getting hungry. So we headed to Can Punyetes, a small Catalan restaurant near the Neptuno roundabout, mentioned by Arcadi when we asked about Catalan food. We had stopped by earlier that day to ask what time they served the menú, and they said, from 1:00 to 4:30. So, when we got there, after the museum, at 4:20 pm, we were dissappointed (and sort of amused, to be honest) to hear the owner say “it’s kind of late for the menú, isn’t it?” So, no menú. People were nice at this restaurant, though. We ordered a sampler platter with ham, a little bit of cheese and olives, and a selection of Spanish sausages. We also ordered two “tostadas,” a large toast with tomato scrubbed on it (pa amb tomàquet), topped with slices of a choice of a Spanish sausages (I chose botifarra, and Olesya chorizo ibérico). Very tasty.

Next, we walked a little. The streets in this area have names like “Cervantes” or “Lope de Vega.” Now, you can find a “Cervantes” street probably in any Latin American country, just like you can find, say, a “Washington” street in any town in the USA. The difference in this case is that the naming of the streets is not just a tribute, it is due to the fact that these guys actually lived in the area. You can still visit some of the houses where these famous writers lived. Kind of cool.

Our next stop was El Prado museum, which, as I said before, has more “classic” works, say mainly from the XVI to the early XIX centuries. The admission is free every evening from 6:00 to 8:00 pm. We got in line by 5:40 and the line was already big; by 6:00, the line was huge. We checked the floorplan, and identified the paintings or painters we wanted to see, and sort of prioritize them, again, focusing on the “highlights.”

We started with Las Meninas by Velázquez; it is certainly a great feeling to stand in front of such a famous painting (those “butterflies” mentioned earlier, that I could feel with a few paintings during the day). Then we saw more Velázquez. Then El Greco. Then we used the floorplan to get to the works of Rafael, Fra Angelico, Durer, Goya and others. We swang by the museum shop and coffee shop at the end, but somehow lacked the motivation to take advantage of some of their great deals, such as a special edition of Goya’s who-knows-what-notebook by 200 Euros, or apples for 2 Euros a piece in the coffee shop —you know, very affordable stuff.

At 8:30 pm we met Arcadi at Plaza Mayor. We were ready to eat, and start “la marcha,” the traditional Spanish “procession” from bar to bar, until early in the morning. We started with bocadillos de calamares (fried calamari sandwiches) outside Plaza Mayor.

Then we walked for a little while. We entered a place in La Latina area (I think) that seemed to have good food. We got our first raciones (servings) of the trip; raciones are pretty much the same as tapas, except the amount of food you get is a lot bigger. We ordered patatas ali-bravas (i.e., half with alioli, or all i oli, and half with hot sauce), mejillones al ajillo (mussels in garlic sauce), oreja (pig’s ears), and sampled a couple of empanadas (those on the house). Olesya had wine, Arcadi beer, and I had a coke. They served us enough food for, I don’t know, eight people maybe, and we ate plenty, but could not even finish half of the stuff.

The next stop was supposed to be La Soleá, a flamenco bar, probably not very authentic, in Cava Baja (a popular street near Plaza Mayor, full of bars and restaurants). The place was still closed because the owner forgot the key to the place —go figure. We went to another bar, to kill some time. And there is where Olesya tried her first clara, a mix of beer and lime soda, which she loved. From there, back to La Soleá, now open. A guy was playing the guitar, and there was a singer, too. But then, a spontaneous guy jumped in, and started singing louder than the other guy, in a sort of daring attitude. For the next half an hour or so, the spontaneous guy would keep singing, and getting into verbal, loud arguments with other customers. A very entertaining scene, actually, as long as you were only watching.

We then walked to another area in the city, by Huertas street. It was about 1:00 in the morning, and by looking at the amount of people on the streets, and the noise, you would not guess it. Madrid does not sleep. We picked a bar almost randomly for yet another drink (either clara or wine for Olesya, probably another doble for Arcadi, and probably another coke for me… or maybe I had switched to sparkling water by then).

By 2:30 or so, we decided to call it a night… yeah, we are old, young Spaniards go on until 7:00. In any case, a traditional way to end the night here is with churros, sort of doughnut sticks, served with a cup of dense hot chocolate. So we walked to Churrería San Ginés, near Plaza Mayor. Tasty, though, again, the place felt a little touristy; chances are you can find better churros and better chocolate elsewhere. This is not a complain, though. Those churros were pretty good.

So… by 3:30 or so, we started walking back to the hotel, which Arcadi could not understad. He took a cab, looking at us like we were crazy for wanting to walk to our hotel after having walked all day. But we wanted to. Plus, it was only 20 minutes or less. And we needed a walk —I could still feel pig’s ears, alioli, potatoes and churros being painfully processed inside my stomach.

I started writing a trip report of our trip to Madrid, but I realized it was getting too long. Plus, it would take me a few more days to finish writing the whole thing. So, here is the first day.

We landed in Barajas airport Thursday morning, around 7:30 am. Beautiful airport, by the way. We couldn’t sleep much on the plane, so we naturally felt tired already. No matter. We stopped by the hotel to drop off our luggage, and started walking towards downtown Madrid. On the way there, along Hortaleza street, the shops were either closed or just opening. There was heavy traffic, and people everywhere on their way to work or to school. In some ways it reminded me of home, where “home” means Mexico City and Puebla. The buildings looked like the buildings back home, and there is something in the character of the people that feels deeply familiar.

We reached Puerta del Sol, which some guides call Madrid’s Times Square, because that’s the place to go for new year’s eve. Nice plaza. There was the big clock accross the street, and the bear and the strawberry tree (“el oso y el madroño”), Madrid’s symbol, on our left. We went straight to our first destination, La Mallorquina, for coffee (for me), tea (for Olesya) and pastries (for both). The coffee was good, but the pastries, especially the “napolitana con glass,” were delicious. Not that we needed food. We had eaten all our meals in Boston on Wednesday, including a small dinner (a sandwich we brought from home) at the airport, before boarding the plane. Then they fed us twice on the plane, good portions, the second time just before landing. So, no, we were not hungry, but it was breakfast time, we needed some caffeine, and we really wanted to try La Mallorquina. Definitely worth it.

Our next stop was the Plaza Mayor, to buy tickets for a guided tour. On the way there, we saw the first Museo del Jamón (“The Museum of Ham”), a Spanish ham (and sausages, and cheeses) shop, which looks impressive, though touristy; they have a branch every three blocks or so. We reached the Plaza Mayor, where they were setting up the stands for the holidays. The visitors office is located at the entrance of the “Panadería” (bakery), a beautiful historic building on the north side of Plaza Mayor that used to be the bakery when the town was founded, and that has some nice, contemporary-looking murals on its facade, added recently. We got the tickets for the guided tour, another map (the maps we brought from home were borrowed, we wanted “our own”), and decided to start our own tour in the two hours we had to spare before the guided tour.

We started with San Miguel market, which was still closed. Then the Corpus Christi monastery, where the Jerónimas nuns sell cookies. Well, I should say, where they usually sell cookies, because they were having a spiritual retreat, and had no sweets for sale for the whole week. This is my reaction.

The next stop was the Almudena cathedral, and the Royal Palace. It was rainy, I didn’t have a raincoat, and I don’t like umbrellas (and I refused to get under Olesya’s umbrella), so after checking out the Plaza de Oriente, the Royal Theater, the Sabatini gardens, and the Plaza de España, we headed towards the shopping area in Gran Vía to see if (what an excuse!) there was a good raincoat for me. But I like shopping less than I like umbrellas, so we didn’t buy anything. We still got cash from an ATM, though, all the cash we planned to spend during the trip at once (one should use the ATM once only, to minimize the ridiculous fees). Then we headed back to Plaza Mayor for the tour.

The guided tour was nice, it was “Essential Madrid I”. We went to the San Miguel market again (this time it was open), the Corpus Christi monastery again, some government buildings and the remains of an old mosque, the Almudena Cathedral, the Royal Palace, then Southwards over the bridge, Plaza de la Paja, la Latina, Cava Baja,… and we ended at Botin, supposedly the oldest restaurant in the world, where we entered to see the cellar and the cochinillos (baby pigs) just cooked in their old brick oven, but not to eat (not in our budget, for sure).

Lunch time. We walked East this time, following Alcalá street (went by Academia de San Isidro, etc.), then a couple of turns to get to La Finca de Susana, where we got the menú del día (or simply the “menú”), a three course meal for a fixed price. This place had been recommended by more than one person, and it was definitely good food, and the place was full all the time we where there, a good sign. It is kind of “cheffy” food, but prepared by students of a culinary school, so it’s cheaper; for 10 Euros, which is the typical cost of the menú in Madrid, it is a good deal. However, if you want a taste of traditional Spanish food, you may want to consider other places. My palate is fairly conventional, so I must confess that I enjoyed better the tapas later on, and especially the fabada on Sunday. Still, La Finca de Susana was worth trying.

By the time we finished lunch, we were feeling very, very tired. We needed to stay active to stay awake, and the rain had stopped. So we walked by the Alcalá street to get to Paseo del Prado, a beautiful boulevard. In this afternoon self-guided tour, we went by the Metrópolis and Bank of Spain buildings, the Cibeles fountain (looks just like the one in Mexico City, though this is the original), the Thyssen museum, the Neptuno fountain, El Prado museum, saw the Atocha train station from afar, and made a stop for another coffee and tea at one of the small restaurants / coffee shops near the Reina Sofía museum.

After the coffee, we walked to El Retiro park, which is beautiful. We saw a good part of it, as we entered on the south end, and left on the north end of it. And still, we wish we had made plans to go back to El Retiro later, because it is worth going there more than once. Coming out of the park, we saw Alcala’s gate (La Puerta de Alcalá, mírala, mírala, mírala, mírala…), nice, I would even say impressive. We started heading back to the hotel. On our way there, we went by the Post Office, the House of the Americas, then up Recoletos (same boulevard as El Prado, same as La Castellana further north), passed by a demonstration of government employees (looked just like the ones in Mexico City, too), went by the wax museum, and finally Génova street all the way back to the Alonso Martínez roundabout, where our hotel was located.

We checked in, and called Arcadi, who came in five minutes or so. With Arcadi, we headed down Hortaleza street again, just like we did in the morning, and we stayed at a coffee shop. I think the area is called Chueca. Nice to see Arcadi again, after almost three years. We had some good chatting. We told him all the places we went during the day, and we joked that we were done with the sightseeing in Madrid. We then made some arrangements for the next day. By 9:30 pm or so, we were back in the hotel, ready to sleep. It had been a long, long day, but a really nice one.

Friday, Nov 6, 5:00 am. The alarm goes off. I get up thinking “Oh boy, is it early… Just because I really need to swim today…” Then I hear “Happy birthday!” Ah, true! It’s today. “Thank you!” I had forgotten (or, let’s say, I had not entirely waken up). But Olesya didn’t.

***

Fairly normal day in the office. I call Jacob Wirth to make a reservation. No luck, they say they are no longer taking reservations for the day. What are we going to do? It’s about 15 people who already confirmed. Well, let’s not change plans. We’ll show up and get in line for a table, and get some snacks or drinks (coke for me) at the bar while we wait.

***

I get home, and I am ready to leave for dinner. But not so fast! Olesya has a small cake for me, with candles and everything. Mmmmhhh!!! We eat some cake before heading for dinner.

***

Jacob Wirth is up to the expectations. OK, the food is simply good enough, and so is the service. But the place is nice, it has some, let’s say, “character,” and I am very happy to see all the friends who keep coming. Nice conversations, nice to be together. The piano guy starts playing, and many people in the restaurant start singing along. Little by little, more people participate in the singing. Then we completely ignore the piano guy, because Myongjin is singing, a capella, for the birthday boy (i.e., me); a complete hit —even the bar tender was clapping and cheering. Eventually we end up leaving the tables, and go to stand around the piano, together with other people, and sing for a while. Anyway, we really had a great time!

***

Saturday is uneventful. Some household chores (take care of one of the closet’s doors, try to replace a light fixture…). We eat well and try not to get our legs too tired. We have a race next day. Almost every year (and this goes back to the time we were in Chicago), I try to run a race around my birthday. Kind of like a self-birthday present.

***

Sunday. Get up, ready for running. For Olesya it will be her first half marathon on her own —we’ve run other halfs together, but this is her first time doing the race alone. It’s a “women’s only” race. Well, women, and “one lucky guy” chosen by lottery. I am not the “lucky guy” so I am doing the “significant other 5k.” Get some breakfast, and hit the road. The race is in York, ME.

***

We get to race location early enough, and we are able to get a parking spot in the high school. Go to the gym; pick up our shirts; eat a mini energy bar; stretch; see Kathrine Switzer in person (didn’t talk to her, but saw her signing books and talking to some more curious or more extroverted runners).

***

Warmup. Then I eat a couple of pieces of “uncrystalized” ginger from Trader Joe’s instead of GU (just experimenting; not bad at all). We head to the start line. The 5k starts 10 minutes earlier than the half. It’s only couple of minutes to go, so I say good bye and good luck to Olesya, and get ready. The race starts. First mile mark: right on pace. Second mile mark… not quite, my pace drops badly. It’s getting painful. Very. I think of what Mariana and Miguel are going through, and I realize I shouldn’t be whinning, but running faster (Olesya had a similar motivation towards the end). I try my best. Third mile mark —and 0.1 miles to go: the third mile is surprisingly fast, so much so, that if I could sprint to the finish (which I can’t, of course, because I am giving all I have and I am already pooped) I could have a chance to break 20 minutes. There is the finish line, and it’s already 20 something… nonetheless, I push very hard for the last few steps. 20:11. Not a sub 20, but it’s my fastest time this year. It feels really good.

***

I catch my breath. I go to the car to change my shirt, pick up the camera, and head to the half marathon course, to try to take pictures of Olesya. I chat with a couple of “significant others” there, also waiting for their wives. About an hour later, there is Olesya. I had been waiting for this, I had practiced a couple of times in the last hour how to set up the camera and everything. I get ready, start taking pictures, Olesya sees me, smiles, waves… and then she suddenly says “It’s closed!” Uh, oh. I didn’t remove the lid from the lens. Crap. I remove it quickly and take one or two shots, but Olesya is way past me. I feel bad. Olesya is running pretty fast, though; I reckon with this pace she will finish way under 2 hours.

***

Back at the finish line, I practice several times with the camera. I take pictures of the first, second and third place, and the “lucky guy,” too. It’s now one hour and fifty something minutes. Olesya must be approaching. I turn the camera on, remove the lid, and wait. There she is! I get ready for the moment she will cross the finish line and… I screw up again, don’t ask me how. Anyway, I run to meet her, and take pictures of her now that she’s not moving. She ran under 1:55; the official “chip” or “net” time will be 1:54:44. Personal best —which probably means, I just slow her down when we do races together!

***

After the race, we stop by the Nubble lighthouse. Very nice.

Back home, we finish the day with Indian food, ice cream, a movie (”Where the Wild Things are”) and a nice, relaxed walk to go to get to these places (a good thing to do to loosen up the legs, and get the blood flowing to avoid soreness the next day).

I look back, recall all the laughs and singing from Friday, and the nice race, and Olesya’s PR… And I just think: What a nice birthday weekend! With birthdays like this, it doesn’t feel so bad to get older

No, no me refiero a las letras del alfabeto. Esas me gustan. Incluso las del alfabeto griego. Y hasta las del ruso. Y el hiragana es un alfabeto muy bonito. Pero no, no hablo de esas letras. Me refiero a las letras de las canciones. Nunca entiendo nada.

Bueno, a veces sí entiendo. Por ejemplo, como algunos de ustedes recordarán (Te entiendo Herculano) me sé las letras de muchas canciones de Chava Flores. Y claro, en aquella época ya remota de borracheras, me aprendí letras de José Alfredo y José José. Y me sé el himno nacional, y todavía me vienen a la mente canciones de iglesia de vez en cuando (”Quea-le-grííí-aaaa-cuan-do-me-dijeeeeron…”).

Pero la cosa se me complica cuando el tema se pone más abstracto. De por sí oigo mal. Y si a eso le sumamos acentos, expresiones locales, y metáforas, pues no doy una. Vamos, hay veces que Olesya me tiene que repetir lo que dice una canción en español, porque yo no entiendo lo que dice el cantante. Para los que no conocen a Olesya, su lengua materna es el ruso, y su lengua adoptiva el inglés. Y aún así, no es raro que entienda las letras mejor que yo.

De alguna manera, la música ha sido siempre lo que determina si una canción me gusta o no. Me gusta, por ejemplo, El Gran Combo. La mitad del tiempo no les entiendo, la otra mitad me hacen reír, pero todo el tiempo me encanta su música. Me encanta Björk, y ni siquiera hago un esfuerzo por entender lo que dice. Me gusta la ópera, por ejemplo, y ahí sí mejor ni entender lo que dicen, porque las letras son tan, pero tan cursis, que da pena ajena.

Hay canciones que puedo cantar, o “tocar en mi mente”, cuya letra me sé de memoria, pero no tengo idea de lo que estoy diciendo, porque nunca le he puesto atención. Sí, hay canciones que puedo cantar, y no sé de qué se tratan, porque todo lo que está registrado en mi mente son sonidos, música, nada de significados. Y no se hagan, que a ustedes también les pasa: “Mexicanos, al grito de guerra / el acero aprestad y el bridón.” A ver, ¿qué dice? Pus que cuando empiecen los trancazos, agarremos nuestras armas y caballos (”bridón” es un caballo “muy acá”, lo acabo de buscar en el diccionario). Ahora me entienden, ¿verdad? Bueno, pues así me pasa, pero con muchas canciones.

Y todo esto, porque hace poco, platicando con Olesya, me acordé de algo que dije sobre Miguel Bosé hace muchos años, una frase que me gusta mucho —y ya con ésta me despido:

Casi nunca entiendo lo que dice, y cuando entiendo lo que dice, no entiendo lo que quiso decir.