Tag Archives: Paris

Bits & Pieces: the Manzanares

Manzanares

There is a river that runs through Madrid. It’s called the Manzanares River, and he’s right. It is ugly.

“It’s not like the Seine, Tracy.”

“I know, I know. But I’m just curious. There’s got to be something to see. Can we go anyway?”

“No, there’s nothing to see. It’s ugly and you have to take the Renfe Cercanias.”

So, I go alone and he’s right. It is ugly. Maybe he told me to get off at Principe Pio. Maybe it was Alto de Extremadura. I can’t remember now. But I walk quite a ways through low-income, orangy brick tenements, with green awnings before I see the river and cross it. It’s nothing to see. And I cross it pretending it’s the Pont Neuf or the Pont Alexandre III. I speak French to myself, “bien sur,” “absolument,” “oh la la,” and remember the nights Karen and I crossed at the Pont St. Michel on our way back home at three in the morning from Le Violon Dingue. It hurts to do this. But the Manzanares is ugly, and I am trying to be happy anyway. The water is murky. The air is cold. And there are huge concrete cinder blocks left like trash on the sides of the black water.

I head back down the subtle arc of the overpass. It’s late in the afternoon and  I don’t want to be alone after dark. But I end up lost, looking for the entrance to the Metro, wandering down streets where old widows still wear black and sing sad old Castilian songs of lost love and broken hearts.

Clair de Lune

I have been listening to Claude Debussy’s Clair de Lune for three days straight. Over and over and over and over. There’s something about this song that brings me to a very sacred, dreamy place inside me. Back to Paris. To Karen. To Rue Rimbuteau. To the ghosts in my head that are still strolling up and down the rue Saint-Jacques on the way to the Violon Dingue.  To sitting in my tiny apartment in Les Halles, during the summer of ’89 dreaming up dreams of Africa and Les Sables-d’Olonne.

I am now certain that I will return to Paris this coming Spring or summer- an old lady. It will have been 20 years since I’ve been back. That’s a lifetime. I know it won’t be the same and that is what I dread. I dread going and erasing everything and everyone I’ve carried with me for all those years and turning them all into something dirty and profane.

Dirty and profane.

It’s like the memory of S. All those years you carry with you this wonderful, sacred feeling for someone and then one day, in a blink, it’s undone, and something else takes its place. And no matter how hard you to try to get it back, you realize that it’s lost forever…