Not so long ago, Madrid wore its finest clothes in those days before Christmas to celebrate Christmas Eve. It has always been said that sea bream is the perfect dish. At home we are pularda. But today, it would be very surprising to meet the saleswoman … turkeys, a woman who walked with her group of live turkeys through Serrano and Velázquez, selling them at the doors of those who could afford them, not only to pay for them, but also to pluck and cook them for their people. I imagine that the same thing would happen with the pavera as with the apartment sellers, who have always had the doormen of the houses in these neighborhoods of Madrid as their best allies when it comes to selling turkeys or apartments. Umbral said that all the doormen in the Salamanca, Chamberà and Retiro neighborhoods were right-wing, because they read the ABC, a newspaper that they devoured even though it had already been read by the owners and “the ladies”, as the incomparable Paco called it.
Today there are no paving stones in this area and plenty of space to park cars on Christmas Eve, which says a lot about those who live in these houses. Twenty years ago, we passed through Juan Bravo or PrÃncipe de Vergara and finding a place to park your car during dinner was an impossible task. In fact, there was a certain pact with the municipal police because there were no fines, and the cars went up the sidewalks and formed double lines in the squares. Today, there is something devastating about driving through this area on Christmas Eve. But today, the picture is dark because we find our place wherever we want. It looks like a ghost neighborhood, empty, uninhabited.
Families in these areas of the city have sold their houses to millionaire foreigners who either spend Christmas in their other house in Paris or New York, or dedicate themselves to renting them to big businessmen or to that concept of “vacation” that so bothers the four neighbors who resist as if they were the last. And yet, it is enough to stop for a moment, perhaps at the height of Goya, when the tumult of the last race has already calmed down to remember what this neighborhood was like when it still smelled of freshly prepared broth and the brazier of picon.
The neighborhood, which was once a living postcard, has become a place where almost no one lives and there are almost no voices left who remember what it was like to buy nougat in the usual store.
Not so long ago, the goals displayed their little plastic nativity scene, proudly placed by the goalkeeper, who always said “this year, I put it better”, even if the numbers were somewhat mutilated by the passage of time. There were even some who left a bottle of anise wrapped in kraft paper with the doorman, who collected it with a ceremonial gesture, as if he were receiving a municipal reward. Today, these crèches are relegated to a cupboard, perhaps next to the raincoats of a family who only comes to Madrid when there is a direct flight from Doha or Singapore.
In those years, the neighborhood truly resembled a living organism. There was a constant murmur, like a beehive or a food market: the smells of the fishmongers met the wool coats, and the children repeated slightly out-of-tune Christmas carols while dragging bags full of wrapping paper. It was a neighborhood that knew it was important without needing to say it. But today, Christmas lights light up sidewalks that are too clean, too silent, as if they had washed away not only the dirt, but also the memory. And it is disturbing to see it completely illuminated but at the same time completely empty.
We walk through López de Hoyos or Ortega y Gasset on Christmas Eve and the city seems contained, suspended in a gesture that is neither decided by celebration nor by melancholy. So this neighborhood, which was once a living postcard, has become an elegant setting where almost no one lives and where there are almost no voices left who remember what it was like to buy nougat in the usual store or to ask the fruit seller for “the right dates, since today is Christmas Eve.”
Yet there are those who resist. An old neighbor, with a checkered scarf and the gesture of a retired inspector, continues to come down to throw out the trash at seven o’clock, as if his punctuality keeps in place the old routine of an old Madrid. Perhaps it is these last inhabitants, stubborn and silent, who maintain the memory of Salamanca, preventing it from disappearing completely in this imported splendor that has no roots, no accents, no memories. Next week I’ll drive through a neighborhood that refuses to sell out entirely and give me Christmas back in return.
About The Author
