Night in Torrelano

I thought again about the meal earlier. Europop is ubiquitous, or things non-Euro which sound like it or were their progenitors, and that held for this meal, which seemed intrusive. But not as intrusive as the twenty-something with the amplified classical guitar who took up a station near a trinket seller at the edge of the plaza. He had put on new strings, but they would help little to  address both his instrument's intonation problems, nor the fact that he hadn't  stretched them well enough, nor, I suspect, that he was used to playing in tune. But even in tune, his odd mishmash of rock and blues riffs gave the sense of being at an assemblage of teenagers bent on impressing each other. I wished for almost any complete song, but in vain...

...Love in Vain, here's the train, two lights on behind! And back to Torellano.

I have one serious problem with Spain - its dinner schedule. It's possible to get a dinner at my tourist-ready, near-the-airport hotel by 8 P.M., and I sort of imagine it seems like a sacrilege to the locals to be serving in Spring before 9. But, OK, fine, I'll walk awhile until the time rolls around, then walk a little more so my dinner doesn't keep me awake, I guess.

As I walk along the main commercial strip near a rough equivalent of CVS, I pass a pizza place next to a bar. In front, rubber similar to what kitchen staff stand on in a restaurant covers the ground, along with a patch of astroturf, and someone has put up a swing set and play structure on it, as well as a bench or two to watch the world go by - and all are in use after sunset (well, on a Sunday...) I thought to myself, these are people with a clear sense of community. (Pictured: a nearby plaza next to the brick iglesia, with, yes, bocce courts, you'd swear they imported the old men from Italia.)

Back at the restaurant, I take in the Caribbean theme, trained palm trees, Jobim playing, not bad. As dusk approaches, my meal of hake with sauce arrives, quite good, and the birds, already normally active at sunset, become apoplectic, the sparrows hopping and verbalizing in a frenzy. Within a minute, the yowling of two cats joins in - I didn't think it was a full moon, hmm... A jazzy version of "Sweet Dreams are Made of This" comes on, perhaps a Brazilian artist, then an equally jazzy "Tainted Love" cover, who'd have thought? Maybe that's why the birds go crazy?

After dinner, again, it's Sunday night, but plenty of pedestrians are out probably getting ready for their evening meal in a couple of hours when I'm asleep and glad to be. Time to work tomorrow.

(Next: Juan Negrin's Way)