España, Día 8: Almodovar y Garcia Lorca

On Monday, Emi and I got up at 9 am to watch the Cowboys-WFT party, which we recorded while we slept. We were up 42-7 at the half, so that was a good time. I'm thrilled that they broadcast the game in Madrid.

At noon Mari and I walked to Cine Ideal to see Almodovar's latest: Madres Paralelas. It was good to see a Spanish film on the big screen and affirm that I didn't need subtitles. We saw many films in this venue before we got married, and at least one afterwards (before today)!

While we were out, Gerardo took Nina and Emi on a long walk. Pablo opted out.

At night, Mari, Gime, Gerardo and I went to the Teatro Real to see a theatrical performance based on poems, notebooks, and letters (?) written by Federico García-Lorca about his experiences in New York. 

Before going in to the theatre, we stopped at the bookstore next door, and I took photos of a few books that I considered buying (but didn't). I read all of Anais Nin's diaries in the late 1980s, after Amy Stewart recommended them to me.The book above is a graphic novel inspired by Nin's writings. I think the appeal of Anais Nin's diaries is that they offer a glimpse into the turbuluent, interior life and relationships of a complex, intelligent woman, but a few articles I've read about Nin since I read the diaries suggest that the diaries remained silent on the most sensational aspects of the author's life.

A brief glimpse at this photo book reveals powerful images from the time of la Guerra Civil in Madrid that showed the enthusiasm and commitment of the city's Republican defenders. But when I went back later to look at every page, images of the Fascists, celebrating the arrival of Franco's troops in the capital city felt like a slap in the face. The last third of the book is dedicated to portraits the photographer took of celebrities in the post-war period: a real let-down.

This Spanish-language translation of the French-language original was wrapped in plastic, and I didn't look inside. It looks great online, though. I wish there were an English-language translation (or that I had access to the Spanish edition of the book through the library).

We had great seats: first-row, balcony.

Spanish poet and dramaturg Federico Garcia Lorca spent ten months in New York city, and it sang to him. I identify with the deep affection he felt for the first foreign city he lived in. Throughout this trip, it became increasingly easy to imagine myself moving back to Madrid and living happily there.