El Ano Nuevo

A new year. A new melody. A new chapter.

Mine began in Spain.

Dawn arrives late in Madrid, and the mornings generally feel like obligatory mouthwash. If the madrilenos could do away with the A.M. in totality, I get the impression they would. This is the city where the people live by the adage: "we kill the night." And if we're striving for exactitude, "annihilate" is probably more apt.

Temperament is rarely a coincidence, and Madrid’s current disposition is a byproduct of the past. Franco kept Spain on lock-down from 1940 to 1975, and locals have been making up for lost time ever since.

In particular, the late 1970s and early 80s equated to an "anything goes" era in Madrid -- full of sexual exploration, artistic innovation, and irreproachable gaiety. The period became known as La Movida Madrilèna. Imagine California of the 1960s but with a more hip -- less hippie -- joie de vivre. And while the movement tapered when more conservative political heads prevailed, Madrid's magnetism to all-things-night lingers on.

Last week I joined the fracas, challenging the Madrid night until it bled into day. But you don’t come to know a place via all-night discotecas. You have to walk the sidewalks and feel the pulse at street level. Observation is a continual commitment to curiosity regardless of what, or who, happens along next.

In this realm, know that nose rings and nicotine are prospering in Spain. The surgeon general has work to do.

Black is the color of choice when it comes to apparel, and women in knee-high boots are everywhere.

The Virgin Mary’s popularity hasn’t subsided in two-thousand years, but the Organismo Nacional de Loterias y Apuestas del Estado (National Lottery) would give her a run for her money in the “longest line in town” competition.

The egg is faring well. It is served with numerous partners, in every imaginable position, every meal of the day. Still, if the subject is Spanish edibles, the conversation begins and ends with jamon. There´s even a Museo de Jamon (museum of ham) in a popular, tourist-laden barrio (neighborhood) where hind legs of pork hang from every inch of the ceiling´s inner walls.

Perhaps Michigan Avenue in Chicago needs a museum to deep dish pizza. Oddly, the idea doesn't seem that far-fetched.

Independent bookstores abound in Madrid, a reality which pleases me more than a little. Then again, Spain is not a country of megastores or one-click shopping, which is also to admit that Jeff Bezos probably picked the right continent for Amazon.

Unfortunately, like the U.S., a recession has taken hold of the Iberian Peninsula; its tentacles are far reaching. My hotel was four blocks away form Spain´s equivalent to Times Square over New Year´s, and my last minute reservation was only $120 a night.

Local cab drivers estimate the economic downturn is costing their business between 15 – 35%.

I was also reminded that Europe is a land of goods then services. In America it's the other way around. Europe perfects an entree or a V-8 engine. America refines a process or an innovation, but always with an eye on suing the innovator for infringement.

Another realization from this trip: I’m done with peopleless photos. What are the chances that I’m going to capture a mountain or stone fountain in a particularly acute light? If anyone wants to see a picture of Plaza Mayor, I’ll nab one from the Web.

A correlated reality is that I’d rather tell you about standing next to Christopher Columbus´ tomb in a 500 year-old cathedral in Seville. We can share a glass of vino tinto de verano (sweet red wine with lemon soda), a favorite of local residents, and ponder life in a world that was flat. Surely that conversation would tip the scales if the opposition was a snapshot from my iPhone.

Said another way: I want people with my places. Let’s capture our moment in time.

Thus, I will immensely treasure my pictures with Guillermo and Elena, my incredible friends from Spain. With an extraordinary generosity that can only be described as genuine, they opened their doors and offered me a place at their table amidst four generations of family members. They even brought me good luck into the New Year, inviting me to join in the Spanish tradition of eating twelve grapes at midnight.

My gratitude to them is endless.

With each New Year comes a tendency to reflect on time’s passing. We look in the rear view mirror at the road behind us; we enter hopeful coordinates for the journey ahead; and we contemplate how fast we’ll have to drive to do all that remains.

My own trepidation has less to do with time and more to do with sensation. My fear is that euphoria is becoming less and less likely -- that the ecstasy which accompanies first love, or inspiration, or success, is a thing of my past.

In this realm, when my anxiety gets the better of me, I try to remember the timeless words of Dylan Thomas -- the President Emeritus in my attic -- who mandates: “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.”

More than anything, that is why I love traveling to new places. Unfamiliar terrain keeps the good night at bay. A trip becomes a voyage and your vantage point changes forever. A stamp on the passport becomes a line of demarcation: life before and after.

A new chapter is rewritten before it ever begins.