Street life - by Theo

Madrid, being a big city, naturally has street life in all shapes, sizes and styles, from buskers and beggars to hookers and hawkers. Some areas are particularly known for a certain type of street worker - Plaza Mayor for its human statues, the area around Opera for Chinese ladies selling fans, a street near Gran Via metro for its working girls and so on. Even our local high street, Jose del Hierro has its share of street life.

Firstly, there are the lottery sellers. One of the main lottery companies in Spain is Once, a charity set up to provide blind people with employment. Thanks to the Spanish love of the lottery, it is now a huge company and has expanded its remit to employing anyone with a disability. As a result, not only do we have a kiosk for a blind female lottery seller, but there are also two other regular sellers on our street - a woman in a wheelchair who hangs around the supermarket and a chap with a very dodgy knee (it bends inwards) who stations himself outside the Caja Madrid and always has a smile for Rosie.

They aren't the only people selling things on Jose del Hierro, though I suspect they are the only ones doing so legally. Two sisters station themselves outside the bakery every day with their buckets of flowers, while an older couple (who I assume are gypsies) are across the way selling knock-off make-up, clothes and occasionally extremely cheap melons. Nobody seems to mind, even though there are several clothes shops and fruiterias on the street that they are presumably undercutting.

Finally, there are the beggars. These come and go, but the most regular, rain or shine, 7 days a week, is the African guy. He's probably in his mid-twenties, I remember first seeing him when we came to view the flat prior to moving in, so he's been around at least 2 years, maybe more. He stations himself outside the supermarket, ostensibly selling La Farola (the streetlight), the Spanish equivalent of The Big Issue, though I've never seen anyone buy a copy, let alone read one, from him or any other "seller" around Madrid. Neither does he make any effort to sell one. Rather, he greets people and makes himself useful, holding a dog lead or some shopping bags while the owner shops, and accepting the odd piece of change people (including ourselves) give him. The boredom factor must be huge, despite all the people that pass the time of day with him, and I'm sure when he made the risky and dangerous crossing to Spain this wasn't what he envisaged doing. Yet judging by his perseverance and the preponderance of other Africans doing the same thing at supermarkets all over Madrid, it must be living, and a better one than they could hope for 'back home'. I can't help but think it's a terrible waste of humanity and yet further evidence that western immigration policies based on restricting both numbers and permission to work is failing and wrong-headed.

The Mortal Enemies of Naptime by Kate

How many miles (kilometres, sorry - we are on the continent, after all) have Theo and I walked in the name of Rosie's precious daytime sleep? We've certainly got to know the roads around our barrio very well and have also pushed a snoozing Rosie across the very heart of Madrid, passing such landmarks as Sol, Plaza Mayor, the Ventas Bullring and the Retiro Park. As long as we're properly attired for the weather, don't need to empty our bladders and Rosie co-operates by actually nodding off reasonably quickly, then it's an enjoyable way to get a bit of fresh(ish) air and exercise.

But it's hardly what you would describe as a relaxing stroll. Nope. The savvy pushchair navigator has to be constantly alert to all the circling hazards that can kill a nap without a second thought. They are many and various and include:

1) Stopping the pushchair. Getting the timing right at pedestrian crossings is a tricky business and Theo and I have both been observed running full tilt to catch the green man, walking v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y to avoid stopping at the red, or doing figure-eights or back-and-forths on the braille pavements to keep that essential forward motion going at all times.

2) The changing weather. Manic re-positioning of the parasol to avoid sun rays hitting Rosie's reposing eyes; enveloping the buggy in the rain cover (or indeed removing it); hastily improvising wind-breaks with bits of string and bulldog clips... all of this without stopping (see point 1).


3) Sudden sharp noises. During the deeper part of her sleep cycle, Rosie can sleep through pretty much anything. But when she's moving from one cycle to the next, typically at the half-hour mark or thereabouts, any number of sonic interruptions can effectively assassinate the remaining nap. These include:
*dogs barking
*toddlers throwing tantrums
*vehicles tooting (junctions are dangerous - Spaniards tend to be very impatient with cars that don't move forward the instant the light turns green, or preferably, a second or two earlier)
*air-brakes (buses are the worst culprits)
*emergency sirens
*roadworks
*chatting Spaniards (they tend to talk VERY loudly)
*chatting Africans (they tend to talk EVEN MORE loudly)
*mopeds and motorbikes
*baby-loving passers-by ("Que cosita!!" They shout at our sleeping daughter, ignoring our pleading expressions as Rosie's eyelids start to flicker alarmingly)
*buskers (I'm a music lover, but I could cheerfully kick a hole through any accordion threatening my baby's sleep. It usually is an accordion.)

Any of the above can send us skedaddling down side-roads, sprinting across parks, executing 180 degree hand-brake turns with the buggy - or any means necessary to avoid Rosie being woken prematurely.

Which is why an hour and a half of successful sleep from Rosie while out and about tends to feel like a mission as we set out and imparts a glow of satisfaction when we return with the snooze quota fulfilled. But it's no wonder that after the initial stampede to use the loo, we buggy-navigators need to sink gratefully onto the sofa with a calming cup of tea. Those walks are almost always fraught with incident from the most innocent-seeming sources. Strolling has never felt so adventurous.

El Rastro

El Rastro is the vast Sunday morning market that sprawls around the streets and squares of La Latina every weekend. Famous for its antique stalls (though in truth you're unlikely to find anything exceptional) it also sells pretty much everything else, with several side streets seeming to specialize - pet paraphernalia, watches, flowers and so on - with the bulk of the stalls on the heaving main street dealing in cheap clothing.

It's a quite a tourist attraction, as you might imagine, though the foreigners were easily outnumbered by locals hunting for a bargain amid the jumbled second hand clothes stores or sipping canas under the shade of a tree.


The market also seemed to attract - if not demand - a far higher quality of busker than normal. We enjoyed the music of (in order) a rather excellent hurdy-gurdy player, a Chinese Chinese violinst (i.e. both the player and instrument were Chinese) and an excellent circus band with a rather marvellous line in jaunty tunes and facial hair. We tipped all of the above.

We made a couple of purchases - some summer trousers for me and a gorgeous red dress for Kate - I think you'll agree she looks quite stunning.

So, no change there then!

The quality of busking is a pain...

I used to really like Simon and Garfunkel. But my appreciation of their work has taken a bit of a dive since I moved to Madrid. It's not Paul and Art's fault. They weren't to know some of their most famous songs would be reproduced on panpipes to oompah backing tracks and inflicted daily on the Spanish Capital's Metro commuters.
Ordinarily, I really like music. I also happen to believe that deserving musicians should be rewarded for their efforts, and that includes decent buskers. But I do object to having music played at me whether I like it or not. At least with other buskers, you have the choice of walking past (with finger inserted in ear) or stopping to listen. When one descends on your carriage on Linea Circular with yet another muzak rendition of El Condor Pasa, Bridge Over Troubled Water or Sounds of Silence, you're stuck with it.
Most Spaniards have developed selective deafness and a thick skin when it comes to handing over money to musical hijackers. Which makes me wonder how many performances of S&G's Greatest Hits (panpipes interpretation) make it worth the hijacker's while.
Maybe I'm being intolerant. After all, riding the Metro isn't exactly the last word in fun and a bit of music is always welcome, isn't it?
No, it isn't. Those people who don't have a companion to talk to during the train journey seem quite happy to be left in peace to read, study or snooze. An over-loud, naff and unasked for soundtrack only serves to add to the other irritations of public transport, like over-crowding, delays and pick-pockets.
The other day, I think I had to suffer no less than four renditions of El Condor Pasa during my journey to work, each by a different busker, yet all sounding the same. Ye gods. If they must panpipe us to death on the Metro, is it too much to ask that they learn a different tune? Something by Pulp or the Sex Pistols or even The Spice Girls? If they could, if they only could...

Buskers

Am I imagining it, or does Paris have a reputation for buskers? Whatever, if it doesn't, it should do. Buskers had been something of a rarity on our trip - we came across a few in Italy, including a 12 year old drummer in the Metro who was making such a huge noise on one drum we assumed it was a whole samba band, but it was only in Paris where they came out in such force and variety.

This old couple playing gypsy jazz numbers in Montmartre ranked among our favourites, but we also saw Michael Jackson impersonators, football jugglers, bad covers artists, bluesmen and those hideous Metro performers who jump on the trains armed with accordions and bad backing tracks. We hate backing tracks; we'd given some money to a pair of teenage girls in Verona solely on the strength that they weren't using a backing track and appeared to be playing their own material. There was one exception to this rule, though and it was also the most inventive bit of busking we'd seen: a Puppet Theatre on the Metro which did require backing music. It was the speed with which the stage was set up and the simplicity of the nonetheless amusing performance with very detailed home made puppets that won us over. Originally, engaging and funny. We had to applaud.

Paris day two

Our second day in Paris saw us attempting a philosophical discussion in a left bank cafe near the Hotel Les Invalides (the place where the rioters of 1789 seized the arms that allowed them to successfully storm the Bastille). But our topic, "What Is Love?" was quickly abandoned in favour of a few games of backgammon, which drew the conclusion that love is not getting too infuriated when your husband beats you all the time.

A short bus ride saw us in the well-to-do shopping district of St Germain, where we salivated in various specialist chocolate shops while picking up a few gifts for friends and family back in Blighty.

We strolled back over the Seine and checked out the Stravinsky Fountain, whose various attractions inspired by the composer are now badly in need of retouching and repair. The Michael Jackson impersonator was deservedly drawing more attention than the no doubt once splendid water features.

We took ourselves past the Pompidou Centre and found a cheapish bar (by Parisian standards, anyway) for an apero or two, then took the Metro to find a vegetarian restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet. The friendly dykes having a smoke outside the lesbian pub next door informed us it had been closed for some time.

Nothing daunted, we got back on the metro and aimed for the Indian quarter just off the Strasbourg Boulevard. We had a very tasty and well-priced three-courser (complete with free glasses of kir) in the Passage de Pondicherry, which kind of reminded us of eating in St Nicholas Market in Bristol. It's a covered arcade and is buzzing with shops and restaurants from India, Pakistan and Bangladsh, not to mention a colourful and cosmopolitan stream of passers-by.

Our next plan, to see the Trocadero Gardens illuminated by night was thwarted by them being closed, but it did afford an excellent view of the Tour Eiffel and the giant stage being set up in its shadow ready for the Celine Dion concert taking place to mark the glorious quatorze in a few days time.

Our trip back on the metro was marked by a lively puppet show by some in-carriage buskers, a welcome change from the backing-track accordianists, bad guitarists and worse singers we'd thus far endured. We chucked them a few cents by way of thanks.