Portugal -- Social life and customs; Spain -- Social life and customs
The working Madrileño's ideal of happiness is to go a little way along
one of the dusty _caminos reales_ (highways) to some little _venta_, or
tavern, or to take refreshments out in baskets. They will sit quite
contentedly in the dust by the side of the road, or in a field of
stubble or burnt-up grass, to eat and drink, and then the guitar comes
into play, and the dancing begins. It is always the _jota aragonesa_,
which is not so much dancing as twirling about slowly, and, it would
almost seem, sadly; but there is always a circle of admiring lookers-on,
who beat time with stamping of feet and clapping of hands, and watch the
performance as eagerly as if there were something quite fresh and new
about it. Occasionally, these parties go out by omnibus or tram, as far
as they can, and then start their picnic repast, to be followed by the
inevitable dance and song, just wherever they happen to be.
One of the most curious sights of Madrid is the great wash-tub of the
Manzanares. As you descend the steep bluff on which the city stands,
towards the river, you find the banks covered with laundresses, kneeling
at short distances from one another, each scrubbing the clothes on one
board, which slopes down into the water, while another board, fixed so
as to stand out into the stream, or a little embankment made of sand,
dams up the scanty supply of water she can obtain. As the Manzanares in
summer is divided into a great number of small streams, this scene is
repeated on the edge of each one, while the expanse of sand which
occupies the centre of what ought to be the river-bed is one forest of
clothes-props, with all the wash of Madrid hanging on the lines. On the
banks the children, in the intervals of school, are playing bull-fights,
or some of their innumerable dancing and singing games; the women are
one and all performing the gradual descent of the gamut with variations
called singing; and above all is the glorious sun, transfiguring all
things, and throwing deep, purple shadows from the high plane-trees
along the banks.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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