Madrid

I'm posting the one journal entry I made while everyone was asleep the first day of arrival in Madrid. More details to come later, after I've gotten all the pictures from Georgia and Ivy and made a Flickr album.

March 8, 2007 - Madrid

Schoolchildren are singing outside in Spanish. It sounds a little like 'Camptown Races' but I know that's impossible. Ivy and Alex are asleep in the double bed abutting the window of our hostel, emitting gentle snores every few minutes then drifting away again into silence. The waning sun is shining warmly through the cracks in the brocades. Georgia sleeps on the bunk above me.

Getting here was relatively easy, although there was a slight delay in the flight and Night Bus service from Katie's was long (plus the Coach from Victoria to the airport in Luton, 45 minutes away). Eventually, tired and zombie-like, we made it to the hostel, making our way down Paseo del Prado and to the 6th (American 7th) floor office of Hostel Sudamericano. A man helped us work the antiquated lift (which no one could work, and frankly, scared us a little). We got up to the floor and the door. An old woman opened.

"Paso, paso," she said beckoning irritably with a stream of incomprehensible Spanish. I caught only the part where she asked for a name.

"Julius," I said. Georgia had made the reservation. We all sat down, and would soon discover that Madrid was a Spanish city, not a bi-lingual one, despite being the capitol. Yes, there were smatterings of English on signposts here and there, but this was Spain. Don't expect us to cater to foreigners. It was, in a way, refreshing -- both a far cry from London and a way to force us out of our comfort zones.

Eventually a bearded man in a pair of big black sunglasses came into the office -- the same man who greeted us in the first floor foyer. He was short and stout with a big salt-and-pepper beard, a bald head, and a broad smile. He spoke English with an expansive lilt, giving one the impression of a wares-hocking Santa Claus. He gave us forms to fill out and cheerfully took the extra money for the linens without returning the change.

We made small talk with another Chris from Jersey, a fluent Spanish speaker who flew in yesterday to meet friends. He was to be our dorm-mate, living in the room across the hall. He seemed nice enough and I was grateful for his interpretation between us and the young man who set up our rooms. I invited him to drink with us tonight, half from companionship and half from the desire to have someone around to assimilate this big, new place. He still hasn't come 'round yet, however, which means he probably won't. C'est la vie. (Note: Later, we'd all become quite well acquainted with him as travel companion and sometimes-guide.)

Eventually we get to our hostel room, which is small, but adequate. Enough space for a big bed and the bunk, with its own toilet and shower, although the shower is ancient and mildewed, with an imitation-porcelain base that is little more than cracked white paint. The hot water knob on the faucet is broken and tied up with some sort of twine ('I will look for a replacement in the morning,' the landlord said cheerfully. But it's clearly been defunct for a long time.) Still, it's a good setup for 20 dollars a night. We have windows facing La Plaza de Las Cortes in the heart of the city. The room faces a posh-looking Palace Hotel (est. 1912), and the sounds of car horns, church bells, and occasional song streams up from the streets. It feels irrepressibly alive.

Everyone is still crashed out form our long night of travel. I slept too, but my body is ill-disposed to long mid-day rests. I finished the last 200 pages of Oryx and Crake, looking out the window a bit into the plaza. Eventually, I settled on this journal. Still no signs of life from my compatriots and I'm getting hungry. Tengo hambre.

My phone says its half-five but I'm not sure if it accounts for the time difference automatically. It might be 6:30. I suppose I should go explore.

Screenwriting

Hilary asked me for some thoughts on screenwriting the other day, as she's one of the presenters at the Critics' Circle Awards tonight. "Some thoughts" turned into 500 words as I was incensed by the disparity between directors and writers. And, since the assignment is a part of my daily life here, I thought I'd post it.

Some thoughts on screenwriting

The screenwriter occupies an unusual space. He (or she) is essential, writing the words that convey and define if not how, then what will be told in a given stretch of celluloid. The director develops the action and sometimes, audaciously, seems to create a singular vision from the pulp and clay of the story. But where is the story but with the screenwriter? And yet, some would have him be a kind of glorified storyboardist, rather than a key player in the persistent conflict between author and auteur.

While there is some truth to the belief that a good director can elevate a mediocre script into a great movie, and a great script can seldom survive in the fumbling hands of a bad director, this is not a dig at the screenwriter. Rather, it highlights the inequities of a system that takes power away from the story-weaver and puts it in the hands of the story-teller. In a perfect world there would be some semblance of equality; a synergy between the director and writer and a realization that writer and illustrator are natural peers.

As it stands, the pinnacle of achievement for the screenwriter is often to be or become a director himself (Tarantino, Linklater, Aranofsky, Lynch). And maybe this is the only way: to take the reins which he has been formerly lashed and claim control of his storytelling. But this lofty goal aside, I would like to think the ideal would be a great collaboration: screenwriters who pair directors who feed each other with mutual vision, respect, and dedication, and thus build something beautiful together out of light and sound, color, character, and words. (There are some writers who manage this – Charlie Kaufman and Robert Towne come to mind – but the current system makes it harder, not easier for the next generation of Kaufmans to fight their way out of being permanent journeymen.)

None of this is to denigrate the worth of the workman screenwriter and the workman director. Every piece need not be high art, nor is it wrong to belong to a team that writes the next light-hearted summer fare. Everyone needs to eat. It is noble to be an artist as it is noble to be a workman. It is noble to create, no matter how small. Of course, films are prone to go through any number of writers and revisions, any number of directors and budgets – and the screenwriter must be applauded for his patience and resolve in weathering the myriad difficulties of the business. Does that make these practices correct? No. There is nothing more depressing than watching a painfully moulded piece of work lose its personality in superfluous editing and interjection just to fit a demographic.

The screenwriter writes the story, and stories are powerful objects – not mere commodities. Don't take that away. Fund partnerships. Fund genuine vision. Let the artists breathe!

Interning: First Days

This is the first of my "internship journal" I have to do to fulfill my credit requirement, but I figured it's insight into how I've felt and what I've been doing since I started, so here goes:

Expectations

I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about what my expectations were for this internship before I walked in for my interview the first day. The information sheet provided by CAPA was vague: "Cameo Productions. This company prepares interviews and reviews of films for radio," followed by an address and a contact number. No indication of size, scope, or even what they really what they did. Prepares interviews? Qu'est-ce que c'est?

So it was that I came to the office the first day, full of anxiety and trepidation, but enough curiosity to null the effects of either. I found Cameo in an alley off of Oxford Street, one of the main shopping districts in center city. There was a café and a few office buildings, all scrunched together and so clean and picturesque that they seemed pulled from a movie set or crafted by professionals building Epcot London. Fearing a lack of punctuality, I got there far earlier than I should have, and found the place locked and dark. No one would be there for another half hour, so I leaned up against the metal fence and waited, opening my copy of Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf and admiring the similarities between the book's theme and the bourgeois Mecca that surrounded me.

Eventually the gate was open and I went inside, meeting Tom, who carried himself with the air of some authority but was also clearly not the person in charge. He offered me a glass of water, which I accepted, putting down my backpack and taking a seat at the black leather divan in the corner.

The rest of the office trickled in until half-ten, and I met the other players. Hilary, a short older woman with a slight possible-Welsh accent ran the company. Shelly, the office manager, was a tall and pretty black girl with big brown eyes and an accent that liked to exchange "th's" with "f's." Ian, the webmaster, had a pale complexion and blue eyes, with a face that seemed to slope slighty downward toward his chin. Sam, a handsome and loquacious fellow, ran the sound booth. He had animated eyes, and, as I would learn, full of wild dreams and liquid ambitions. Tom, the second-in-command, was part bearish and thoroughly geeky, with a mostly-bald head, a beard that extended halfway down his neck and round spectacles. My first actual day of work we spent talking about comic books, video games, and Back to the Future.

The five of us (minus Hilary, who had her own office) sat at a big oval table with six computers and no partitions. Thus, my first days at Cameo were spent knocking out little bits of work (putting data into programs, proofreading documents, and writing questions for interviews) while everyone else chugged along, chit-chatting as they day went by at a relaxed pace.

All I could hope or expect for was to learn something and to have genuine work to do. While there is some "grunt" office work I've been employed at, in general everyone pitches in with this work under what seems to be an "everyone does everything; everyone can do anything" attitude. The upside of this is that I've found myself writing, editing, thinking of interview questions, giving input on audio selection, and proofing copy. So far, nothing has been hectic – the relaxed pace is quite refreshing – and yet things still seem to get done. If this is the status quo for the rest of the semester, I'd be satisfied.

1/31/07 - Impressions of London and an Encounter with a Cat

How I would love to detail in detail the places I've seen, people I've met, and every piece of newness and distinction I've discovered the past two weeks here. But then this would become a novel, and not a travelogue – nor very interesting to anyone but me. Instead, here are some initial impressions of such things.

What strikes one most about London is how truly cosmopolitan it is. No American city comes close to the incredible diversity of this place. On any given tube ride you might hear Spanish, German, Japanese, Scottish, English, Polish, or any of dozens of other languages. A popular catchphrase is "the world is in London" – and it's perfectly apt. As a result of this, the transition from American culture to European is not as rough as it might be. You are a stranger among strangers; a denizen among citizens. An oyster card might as well be the official I.D.

Not to say there aren't myriad differences. Pub life, thick accents, new coinage, variable amenities, and a poor exchange rate are just a few of the culture shocks; but the beauty of the architecture, London's emphasis on the arts (all museums are free), and the dazzling fashion and sparkle of youth culture are more than adequate to overcome any minor transatlantic quibbles. Have a pint, have a cigarette, make a friend, and talk about politics or cinema. It's been good.

Speaking of pub culture, here's something that happened the other night that would be unlikely to occur at any bar in the U.S.:

Dan, Katie, and I were at The Hobgoblin, the pub around the corner from Goldsmiths. It's a typical English pub in many ways, built with old wood – some polished, some rough – with wooden tables and stools set about the room. The barhands were college kids while the much-older owners of the establishment flitted about the room gathering glasses from the tables. It was full of smoke and conversation and yellow light; not too dim, but just right for warm feelings and relaxation. Dan and I had pints of Stella and Strongbow while Katie stuck to Bailey's and Amaretto.

When I returned from buying the next round, a black and white cat had taken my place on the bench. It squinted eyes and purred at me. I put the drinks down.

"Hey there," I said, crouching down and petting it on the head. Dan was leaned over doing the same.

"Whose cat is that?" I asked. As if in answer, and older lady appeared, taking our empties and eyeing the cat.

"Just move 'im over," she said, and disappeared.

I did as she suggested. The cat didn't seem to mind. A thin but muscular man with white hair and salt-and-pepper stubble came to the side of the table, smiling a kind of ghastly (but pleasant) gap-toothed smile at the cat. The other owner, I presumed. He said a few pleasantries to us I forgot, though Dan remembered to ask him the name of the cat.

"That there's Guinness," he said. The cat tilted his head back with satisfaction. Perfect.

I'll make the point that Dan made after the cat got up and left: it would be very rare for that to happen in America. While cats are liked and generally appreciate, I think it would be against the typical American sensibility to allow a pet to roam wild about his or her bar or dining establishment. Yet that cat was as much a part of the place as the barstools. I loved it. Guinness!

Arrival at Homestay - Orientation

Arrival at the homestay (1/26)

I've been in London for almost a week, so I guess it's time to tell a story. But from what angle? The room of the family I'm staying with has strange ones: a part that slopes up 45 degrees like an attic loft, but then curves unexpectedly where it should corner, and then equally surprisingly stops, leaving a gap and an extra 18 inches of ceiling before it ends at the opposite wall. The dressers and cupboards are all prim and geometrical, efficient rectangles standing at varying heights. Everything is white – the furniture, radiator, the desk lamp, the walls, and the door – save for some colorful bedsheets, a couple pieces of art, a black television, and the hardwood floors. It's not intimate, but it's not uninviting either.

A cylindrical paper lamp (white, with black rims at top and bottom) aids the light coming from the window above me, as the sun recedes towards five o'clock. It is grey here, like they say, but not despairing. The day fluctuates between puffy clouds and grey clouds, specks of rain, and the occasional dash of color coming through the blue of noon or the oranges of sunset. I find it pleasant; like a good wallpaper, it matches the country utterly.

I stretch out and put on some Bartok, starting to feel settled in after a short nap and a few minutes watching the schoolchildren in their plaid skirts and ties run after each other down the road. There is a comforting consistency about the sound of children playing; something universal. If given a chance, kids will always gravitate to mischief and giggles.

The scene changes – the rooftops are different, everywhere slanted roofs with weathervane television antennas sprouting from mushed together houses, more a giant condominium block than individual buildings, and the shape of the electrical outlets is different, and the bookshelf behind me has as many Dutch titles as English ones – but the principles remain.

A little about my homestay family: The husband, Prem, is a tall, fastidious black South African, with a thin figure, a likable face, and salt-and-pepper hair. His wife, Anna-Metta, is a Danish lady of shorter stature, white hair, and round glasses. She reminds me a little of one of my English professors, Dr. Dole, but that might wear as time goes on. Both are kind and accommodating, and I anticipate little trouble in the next few months, although given the location of their flat and the distance of Ealing Broadway to center city, I hope I do not feel hemmed-in. On the other hand, the distance might give me the space and clear-headedness I need to write, and the long tube-trips are perfect for digging through a good book.

1/28 – looking back to yesterday

I awoke at 8 a.m. to the steady beep of my alarm. It grew more insistent as I lay in bed, contemplating the merits of consciousness. Throwing aside top layer of the duvet I stumbled across the room and shut it off. It was cold; one seemingly pervasive quality about English housing was its lack of an American standard of proper heating. I hadn't yet seen a home with a single baseboard, rather the heat consistent of a large, flat and ridged metal plate with a pipe apparatus that resembled (albeit less bleak) those large grey radiators you used to see in school and old hotels. This was true of Katie's dormitory, my nice room, and (as I found out later) most of the student homestays. Cold? "Throw on a jumper."

I gathered up some clothes and went across the hall to the bathroom, careful to flip the glowing switch outside the door to the "on" position, as it somehow powered the water and/or heat for the room. What it didn't do was turn on a light. Luckily, on the left, there was a string hanging from the ceiling which turned on the bulb (this was also somewhat common), and to my right a heating drying for the bathtowels (not as common). Both the sink and the shower pipes went through nearly-identical square-shaped plastic units. They had white casings and matching dials that went from one to ten with a red-to-blue graphic around the knob to indicate hot or cold. Maybe there was a lack of a central water boiler or this was simply more economical – I had noticed during the week that London, and indeed probably most of Europe was far more "green" oriented than we were. In any case, the water was hot enough, but the pressure was lower than I was used to, kind-of like running your hands through an extremely languid brook.

So I got dressed, had a piece of bread and left the house. Normally, it would be simply to take the bus from down the street to the tube station, but since orientation was this morning and I didn't fly in with the rest of the group, I hadn't gotten my oyster card (the equivalent of a metro pass) yet and didn't have any loose cash on my for the bus fare. No problem, I'd walk.

Forty-five minutes later, and after much circuitous wandering, I made it to the Ealing Broadway tube stop, found out that the 20 pound note I had in my wallet was out of date (1993) and no longer good, paid a single fare on my credit, and hopped the underground toward Notting Hill Gate. But wait – the excitement doesn't end there! District and Circle lines were closed for engineering works (the only way I knew to get to the CAPA center), so I'd have to hoof it. And thus I learn the joys of public transit and gain something to complain about with other Britons.

I got my oyster card, and took a seat next to Georgia. We labored through some orientation activities of a spirited sort ("Give us your name and where you're from and something unique about you!") from a young gentleman named Kieran. The only truly embarrassing part of the presentation was a fellow Ursinian, who had some unusual gall:

"Thereare some retail shops, such as Mark and Spencer's, which I recommend," Kieran said, gesturing to the projector display.

A hand shoots up. It belonged to a pony-tailed brunette in the front row. "Um, I think you mean Taylor's," she said. "because I was in one yesterday and it was like that."

A pause, and the patience of angels. "Yes," Kieran said. "Taylor's is another shop like that."

Yes, that's right, she saw fit to correct the CAPA leader on his presentation to the group because she'd been in a store. Once. And they say Americans are arrogant...

After the orientation, the group left en masse to find lunch, many students choosing the nearby KFC and Burger King (and I'll admit it's more tempting when you're abroad to eat American "comfort food" -- too bad it's crap). Georgia, Ivy, and I went to a charming baguette shop two doors down. It small, well-decorated, and busy at lunchtime, with a host of women busily getting sandwiches and teas and talking to each other in French. I got a salmon, tomato, and cream cheese baguette and an Orangina and munched on it with Georgia back at the CAPA center while we waited for the tour bus.

Then we toured and bused around the city of London, with a cheerful and witty ex-police officer Nigel at the mike, and a wonderfully scabrous and hard-nosed bus driver Errol, who kept lighting cigarettes and switching on the Chelsea match whenever we left the bus. We saw the major monuments, as well as Buckingham, Westminster, and the Old City – not properly – just with enough time to whet our appetites and let us know where to look. It was a beautiful day, and by the time we returned the lights at Harrods were switched on full-beam.