Uma rights
No moaning, i promise. I just wanted to remind myself i'm going on to my second year without holidays, so i'm sure you understand how happy i am when i think of my Easter beach break coming up. Read on for details...

Four days down South, Cádiz area, where the wind blows and the sand glitters, where the wine is indulgently white and people look at life within a different horizon. We'll be staying at a guest house with our own little patio and fruit trees.

Four days to catch up on reading, chatting, planning, laughing. Four days of scriblling on my brand new kick ass red leather book, where i'm writing the first notes of my biggest personal project to date: a biography i shall keep you posted on.

It is so good to know i've bought a little time to relax and focus on the most important stuff. Because drinks by the sea are a basic Uma right. That wasn't moaning, was it?

Keyboad dictatorship
I've been sitting in at meetings for the entire day, happy to remain silent, satisfied to nod and smile every twelve minutes. I've been writing down names and deadlines and restaurant addresses and agenda points and foreign telephone numbers and quotes and authority comments.

Those words belong to others, it's stranger's vocabulary coming out of my pen. Those words occupy dozens of pages. I stare at my papers now and all i can think of is

my handwriting is getting dreadful.

Long day...


Does anyone else think a need a holiday?

Thanks to Deviant Art for this antistress gif...

Peeping Tom
As a kid, i used to think Peeping Tom was some wicked character fallen out of a children's storybook. I would imagine a creepy guy lurking from outside a window, waiting to get his chance to break into a home and grab all the naughty boys and girls. I shall skip the weird infant psychology that comes out of this train of thought and jump to my point.

Some years went by and i found out Peeping Tom is only a quite charming way of saying voyeur. *Sigh* We have an army of these Tom people at the new appartment. *Heavier sigh* No kidding.

You know how slow the process of moving in is. The actual boxes may be done in a day or two, but it takes longer for the new place to look like a home. In our case, we have a rather big window -from head to toe- overlooking a patio. This patio is surrounded by a corridor where most neighbours must pass. We have a curtain, but it's not the definitive one yet and sometimes i cannot be bothered to pull it.

People walk by and they see light. They walk by and they stare into our sitting room. It's not a quick unavoidable glance: they check out our furniture, the paintings hanging from the wall... and us (!) if we happen to be watching tv, for instance. Not only do i find this rude to the extreme, it also makes me feel like i live at the Official Peeping Tom Community.

Maybe it's that the Big Brother fever is getting out of hand. Sign of the times?

Time with Six
You all remember Six, don't you? I hadn't seen her for ages so we had a lot of catching up to do last Sunday, when we arranged to see each other for 'aperitivo' at 'El Rastro'. Right. What this actually means is we met for drinks at the bars around that well-known marketplace called Rastro. No actual shopping involved, just the wines and the laughter and the exchange of valuable information on international politics, the war on terror, vocational journalism and men.

It was a sunny Sunday morning (err... afternoon) and Six looked great in her miniskirt and permanent smile. There were four of us, and we wandered from bar to tavern around Latina, bumping into friends and strangers.

We ended up at a classic of the area, Casa Antonio, where we decided alcohol had to give way to some food. We ordered tortilla. The waiter was trying to remember where he had seen me before (i knew, but i wasn't going to make it easy for him!) when it happened.

The customers at the end of the bar crowded the entrance, with teary eyes and red faces. Someone had used one of those antirape sprays and obviously left right after that. Funny as hell. Pablo and Six's friend hurried us out but all i could think of was handing over the tortilla to save it from the poison, while Six dived for the glasses of wine.

That's how we are. I jump for the food and she protects the booze. Boy, was it good to see her again.

Wake up and smell the taxi
The week starts in an incredibly smelly taxi, where i wonder if the last customer left a dirty nappy on the back seat. I get to the office and the temperature is the regular tropical heat i'm already used to. I play my net radio and some crooners sing à la Sinatra. My work colleague is even more drowsy than i, so we don't try to pick up a conversation.

Yesterday the spring had positively invaded the city, yet this morning a silent wind is blowing all over the place. You think you have something, then it blows away. You start to think warm weather is utopia, then the short sleeve army walks around you for the entire Sunday. I should probably stop expecting things in general.

The week continues as the morning goes by, but the morning doesn't really go by, it seems to be stuck somewhere around 10 am, and refuses to move forward. I wonder why i'm not stressed out by work, with all the pressure building up for the next two months. I shrug to myself and brush off my worries: i have other stuff on my mind.

The phone rings for the fourth time in the last four minutes and i get a pinch of stress, but it vanishes as soon as i try to name the top 10 coolest bars in Madrid. This blog is obviously open to suggestions. The phone rings again. I need my second cup of coffee. I linger on a recent memory: how the park looked splendid today, as i passed by on my smelly cab.

Other roads
Long weekend. Three good days to go out (happy birthday to the boy with the ponytail and the easiest smile), to stay in, to think, to sleep (finally!) and to wait for my very first (and quite vital) package from this place.

In other news, i may start looking up to the sky instead of down to the water in my professional carreer. What does this picture say to you?

If you...

1. ...owned a restaurant, what kind of food would you serve?
I'd serve fresh seafood at a cutting edge wood and glass space on the beach.

2. ...owned a small store, what kind of merchandise would you sell?
Stilettos and strange shaped buttons.

3. ...wrote a book, what genre would it be?
I'd write my own crazy little fictions.

4. ...ran a school, what would you teach?
I'd probably be the kind of teacher who draws weird sketches all over the blackboard to make myself understood. Literature?

5. ...recorded an album, what kind of music would be on it?
I'd rip off all of Carla Bruni's songs.

For the record
You know what? I don't think i owe any explanations. To anyone. I don't believe in this blind rage i've witnessed in the past hours (mine included). Ambivalence has never been a political weblog, not even a blog in the 'strict' sense of the word. This is my open diary and the place where i like to share things with you. Still, i feel a need to state my personal point of view on some issues, just for the record.

1. The massacre in Madrid was determinant to change the election results.

2. But it was the way the government openly lied to the population that caused such a turn over in power. They refused to speak the truth knowing that this truth could make them look terrible only a few days before the elections.

3. The fact that Aznar and his crew pushed us into a war we didn't want to take place in provoked the killings.

4. The concentrations that followed the massacre were spontaneous. They were spread through text messages on cell phones and one had only to be there to see it was mostly (but not only) young people, feeling both devastated and fooled. I did not feel the least manipulated by attending these concetrations.

5. The change in power is a good thing, no matter what. I understand many people are afraid of changes and of the unknown, but i grew up in a socialist era (i received a public education i honestly can't complain of and i feel a lot of social rights have been lost in the past years).

6. I do not feel bitter about the past government. I feel extremely deceived by some of its actions and i am outraged by their blatant lies, but i think political parties such as PP will learn a lesson of democracy and attitude towards the people after these past events.

7. I don't trust politicians, i trust the people. But if i have to choose, i will always go for a person such as Zapatero, who has so far proved to be a serene leader and open to dialogue.

8. It is now time to look inside and find some peace, but i will never forget what happened and i shall never forgive the killings.

Hope
The faces have changed. Their expressions show an infinite sadness, their eyes seem overwhelmed by so many different feelings but one huge emotion: sympathy and pain.

Madrid tries to go back to its original beat but nothing will ever be the same for those who have lived through this hell.

We have seen death (on television, at the railway station, all around us). We have also seen people united for truth. We have seen love in a way i hadn't seen it in my life.

That's why hope is the only word i want to work on now. Hope for a serene future. Hope for those families and friends. Hope for us.

We were all on those trains
Writing is a therapy. But you don't know what to write when the entire country needs therapy. The city i love was blown apart on Thursday. That beautiful, amazing and impulsive place called Madrid was shattered by bombs and blood and screams and oh so many tears. Indescribable pain shook us. As i write this there are over 240 people fighting to come back to life in hospital beds.

200 dead. 200 broken families.

We all needed urgent therapy. After the shock came the pain. Then, the questions. We needed answers and it wasn't only about the identity of the murderers, we also wanted an explanation to help us understand how so much hatred can burst the hearts of so many innocent human beings.

The children. The pregnant girls. All those victims in pieces. The missing ones.

People wiped their tears on the bus, in the streets, at the cafes. I cried my way back home that Thursday evening, until i bumped into a spontaneous concentration where mostly young people held hands and lit candles. It was the first of many to come. We needed to be together.

We were all on those trains. We are the 200 dead. We are the 200 broken families.

Friday came and Madrid cried harder. The great march for peace happened all around the world. Crowds in Barcelona, Sevilla, Zaragoza, Lugo... they all said 'today we are Madrid'. The sky gave us silent rain throughout the night. I fell asleep later on, on the couch, with a shrinking heart.

Pain, despair, emptiness, frustration, you can only imagine. Then, rage. If it was Al Qaeda, as the entire world was saying, why was our government working mainly on the investigation of ETA? They were trying to divert attention, trying to make us believe that getting us into an unwanted war was not directly linked to these killings.

Their war, our deaths.

Phones began to beep. Concentrations were called upon by sms. The people had had enough. We marched until our feet were sore and yelled until our mouths ached. It was beautiful and sad to see all of us joined together in one feeling. It was the day before the general elections. Tears of rage, tears of grief.

United in pain.

We voted. We kicked them out. We are tired of crying. We will accept no more lies. Violence brings more violence. Revenge. The future looks cleaner now but the present still has the memory of 200 dead people lying on the railways. All of us, on those trains.

Nightmare
Someone must stop this rage.

Black day
My deepest sympathy to the families of the victims.

Three women
1. The strange girl sat up straight on her stool while the young boy -so fragile looking, so far away from reality within the girl's eyes- talked to her: I always felt two steps behind you. They were sharing tapas and probably trying to kick start the new stage of their relationship: an evolving camaraderie. Her neck was giving her hell and she closed her eyes without really closing them. She had also felt two steps before him at times.

2. The tough girl had lost too much weigh: she felt light and heavy at the same time. It was as if her body had decided to let go of the travelling boy long before her mind did. Then it happened. As usual, a lot faster than expected. It took him a little over half an hour to sit on her couch and vomit lies to cover up the mess he was running away from. Only the mess was himself. She breathed in and out. She realized she could breath herself out of this.

3. The hard working girl sighed. Her toddler son had been intermitently ill for the last two months. Her husband sat on the sofa, not actually watching the television glaring in the sitting room. He didn't really see his wife and son, either. The girl felt cold and a little scared. She was through with complaining and yelling. She was tired of being tired. She looked at him again, knowing things would eventually get better.

Back to those tests


Who 's Your Inner Sexy Cartoon Chick ?
brought to you by Quizilla

So, who's surprised?
Hey, if you can have Peter Pan syndrom, i can flap my wings through Neverland!

Public transport, private trip
An electronic panel tells you when the next bus is coming and which one it is. I looked up and realized i had just missed mine and i had to wait 15 full minutes for another one. I sighed and got ready to hail a taxi, but then my bus showed up out of the blue. It opened the door in half a second, i jumped on and in a flash we were speeding down Alcalá.

There was just me, my novel and the driver, who was being told off about something through his radio. Apparently, he wasn't supposed to let any travelers on, but it was too late now that i had comfortably taken my place. Still, the angry voice on the speaker yelled and yelled so the driver and i exchanged looks on his massive rearview mirror.

As i was going back to my book (ever hear of Stendhal's syndrom?) the driver raised his voice: "Hey, princess, where is it exactly you're goin' today?". I smiled and told him. He said he wasn't taking any one else on the bus because he was late, so he would drop me off wherever i wanted. Which he did. And incredibly fast.

I didn't feel like Sandra Bullock on Speed but it was brilliant to hear the motor roaring while taking a huge curve; leaving all the stops behind with puzzled faces and open mouths. My own private trip on public transport. The driver and i wished each other a good day and i got off. I was early to work, for once.

The spring manifesto

1. We have a right to look forward to spring

2. We have a right to get itchy for the sun

3. We are allowed to even get a little tense when cold wind blows in March

4. We have a legitimate right to wear short sleeves after a bloody long winter

5. We have a right to shop for miniskirts and sunglasses with matching weather

6. We have a right to go to parks as if we had never set foot on grass before

7. We have a right to take up an activity just because 'spring is around the corner'

8. This activity can be aerobic, roller skating, artificial sun tanning or even pet show off

9. We have a right to physically fight with one another in order to get the sunnier table at a terrace

10. We have a right to get/feel a spring preview NOW

Local sightseeing
I became a tourist in my own city yesterday. It was fun to walk about with a new set of eyes, blending in with the crowd, pointing the camera to the obvious places and feeling extremely comfortable in my low key profile.

It's a pity our guide turned out to be some Prozac overdoer, incapable of saying one sentence without cracking up with laughter three times. She made so many mistakes along our route that i decided she had invented her own Madrid to fit her dreams. Which is fair enough.

Mr. Johansen is something
It was one of those few CDs that land on your hands one day and you don't really know how it all happened. A friend of a friend recommended him and i was suddenly inmersed in Kevin Johansen's world of guacamole, hindy blues and tango addicts.

Last night i had the chance to find out the fan club is only growing. He played at a relatively small club with part of his band, The Nada, which includes seven musicians with broad smiles and impressive technique.

He landed on stage wearing a rather fucked up suit and pulled out his string of songs, jumping from English to Spanish to French to Spanglish to Argentinian with an accent.

Mr. Johansen is something. He's a secret, a sexy treasure and a very funny man. If he's playing anywhere near you, don't you dear miss this first class gig. He can swing you, make you jump into his world of Daisies, guacamole and laugh his way out of broken hearts.

Plus, he's cute as hell up on the stage.

Serious
I voluntarily missed the Oscars this year, due to lack of interest and, let's just say it, a pinch of bad karma knowing i couldn't do my regular work with the Oscar special this time. This is what you get when you decide you've had enough of your job and you take a year off from the newspaper.

There are certain things of my 'abandoned' job i miss, such as the creative process of coming up with the Oscar special. Or the coffee machine talks in the early afternoon. Or the way i used to feel slightly feverish with breaking news.

Then again, i close my eyes to imagine being back there and i see all those Resident Evil bosses not knowing if they're coming or going, ignoring every freakin' journalist rule ever written and busy being incredibly smart-assed, thus creating a disgusting atmosphere all over the office.

I'm not looking forward to going back, yet i don't really know where my so-called career is going after this break. I suspect i'm ready to quit journalism once and for all, get my life together and start some serious fiction writing.

No matter how many Oscar specials i miss, i figure there's nothing as rewarding as finding your own red carpet in life.

Bonfire neighbourhood
The people walking up Puerta del Sol have a hard time trying to get through the people walking down. Chaos keeps everyone looking stressed, wearing an expression that says: I wish I were elsewhere.

The others, those who are simply standing around, permanently smile to themselves. They look up at the huge clock that marks the new year in December; they lower their eyes towards the big fat wallet coming out of the tourist’s back pocket.

Colour blind ladies tie purple scarves over their pink coats, adjust their multi-pattern cardigans and flash you their golden earrings as they come down from Mayor or Arenal, carrying a cake in a cardboard box or enough material to make matching curtains and tablecloths for their niece’s apartment.

Music is found when you cross the plaza, starting in Preciados. A string quartet plays Vivaldi among the shoppers and a television crew asks the same questions to the same tired neighbours.

Go back to the other side, look for Esparteros, the street where taxis and buses are the main vehicles in sight. Junk food, souvenirs and three religious paraphernalia shops are on the left side; ‘mantillas’ and other traditional embroideries are found to your right.



Three teens from Michigan are hysterically laughing their way into Plaza Mayor. You suddenly notice that haven’t seen a dog in hours, just feet wearing trainers and looking for a terrace on the coldest day of February.

Off the plaza you see a street called Botoneras, where the button sellers, all women, used to have their stores back in the 19th century. Latoneros gathered all the brass workers, Cuchilleros was the knife artisans street.

This is the burning heart of the city, the bonfire neighbourhood that harbours me now: a place where nothing changes despite the ever changing life unrolling around its corners.

Scents
I can smell spring about to turn that corner. I can also smell the paint (white) ready to cover the furniture, and the freshly washed sheets waiting to dry. I get the scent of vanilla burning in an incense stick, the wooden cupboard becoming a kitchen counter, the food being cooked somewhere down the patio (yuk).

Then i smell the usual chlorine overdose, the stress leaking out of the staff: "two months, we only have two months left for the event", not to forget the smell of paper everywhere. It crashes onto my desk, it comes furiously out of the fax, it piles around the office.

I smell coffee and cigarettes. Frozen air hiding the smell of almond trees in bloom. Monoxide coming out of family cars. Hair gel getting into the bank offices. Baby powder in the public toilets. All the scents of daily life.

And then i indulge myself by smelling Coco on my wrist. It's March again.