sun, and cinnamon dogs on a saturday

This is the first day I've not worn a hat in outside, in the house and in bed. Tons of hardy Spaniards are sitting outside in the plaza - in plazas all over the city, in fact. And most of them at the other smaller plazas are standing, not even sitting. Standing there with their jackets on in the cold, drinking at tiny, tall tables outside their favorite bar.

The weather is better and I am better but my head hurts and I don't feel normal. In fact I've felt disconnected ever since a few days after I arrived here. I keep pressing on an acupressure spot in my neck that hurts like hell. I missed three days of classes this week, and managed to pick up a fair bit of what I missed on Thursday and Friday but I am not really getting the full benefit of what I'm learning. Just too overwhelmed.

The other day our newly met bar friend said that he admires France for protesting when there is a problem. That Spaniards are too content to sit there with their beer and do nothing. Comparing unemployment rates, according to Gaetane and Sergio, France has about 11% while Spain has 20%, and 28% in Andalucia right now.

This morning I waited for about what seemed like 15 minutes in a tiny bakery, for the 4 people in line in front of me to be served, in order to buy some "integral" bread from a German style organic bakery. I figured I owed it to my body to give it some healthier bread, but am not at all impressed. Dry and tasteless. No wonder people here want to keep eating white bread, if that's all they have for healthy stuff. Want to bake my own in the tiny oven, but the kitchen is one thing that is pretty uncomfortable in my place. There really is no room for me to keep any supplies there. My two bottles of olive oil are in the way. I cannot live with only one. I don't feel like I can go buy spices, unless I were to keep them in my room. I can't see myself feeling comfortable enough there to carry on a "normal" life, that is to actually find a job while living in someone else's house, in which I feel like a guest. Need to move.

The people in this neighborhood are notably normal. Really, the whole world is kind of uniform these days. "Desaparacida perra labradora canela" Cinnamon coloured labrador (female) dog lost. That was a sign I saw this morning. It is one of those weird things that happens - a disconnect between the conscious and unconscious. Somehow I am amused and surprised to see humans having the exact same problems and doing the exact same things about them anywhere in the world. The other differences around me cause me to subconsciously feel that these people are different in some basic way, from me and then I see something like that which stops me. Or perhaps it is some kind of surprise to see the exact same kind of message in a different tongue.

As for me:

He I go to try it. I should had to say it is tomorrow. I it up, okay? You like yourself? It is easy for I. Yes, I keep the oil in my bed. I will to look for it on the internet. I am looking a little. No, I am a foreigner, I don't know much. I he go this afternoon. He they said it is that way. Yes, I am to put it there. It is ahead by the orange thing, how do you say it? Those one, yes, please. One of that, please. I can do. You have a good afternoon too. - (I will try) - Yes, I think so.

At least Gaetane and I are on a similar level with our Spanish, and we can sound idiotic together and not be worried.

Do you eat sand in Spain?

Do you eat sand in Spain? I like to eat sand for breakfast. 

I was talking to a guy who really wants to come to Canada, because he loves the cold. He was trying out his English after an English class down the street, and was in the bar with his other classmates. He insisted that I should speak to him in Spanish, and he to me in English. I have been singing about “arena” along with Camaron, for quite some time now, and should not have gotten it mixed up with “avena”, which I just bought the other day. I could see through the package, so knew it had to be either what I was looking for, or else a close variant, like rye or wheat flakes.
Gaetane set out to find us some amigos the other night. This is not something I would normally go to a bar to do. You have to look for the bars that are overflowing. If people are sitting down at tables, it is no good. You are not going to meet anyone there. We tried some orange wine and ordered two glasses of refrigerated, expensive red at a cute little hole in the wall in trendy Santa Cruz. But after having a smoke, Gaetane started to look bored and tired due to lack of friendly people around us. That's when we encountered el sitio.

The bartender was a skinny woman, with a sharp wit, and seemed to include everyone while she talked and poured beer. A minute later we found our amigos.

Gaetane is my housemate, and is on a gutsy mission, in my estimation: here from Paris for about 10 days in order to improve her Spanish, for an upcoming job change, she decided to enroll in a crash course in flamenco dance, rather than study language, per se, in some boring classroom. As she knows little about flamenco, I took her to the pena with me the other night. It was a proper concert, with two young performers, singer and guitarist. For a couple songs, they were backed up by palmeros, one of whom (in sneakers) danced a stunning bulerias at the end. The sneakers may sound less than serious, but this concert was puro (hence very little dancing). The young woman singing was incredible, and guitarist no less. 

I have a new hypothesis that Sangre Latino is just the same sangre as the rest of ours. It just gets heated up more in the summer down here by the Mediterranean. At this point in the winter, the men are acting like Canadian men. Neither of the guys we talked to last night tried to hit on us at all. We both talked to them for quite a while, and had great conversations that everyone was enjoying. They told us they always go there after their classes Thursday, but never asked for our phone numbers or told us we were guapa.

In fact, as I said earlier, hardly any men have even called me guapa. Part of that may be due to the fact that I've not been very guapa, with ratty hair sticking out below my perpetual purple wool hat.

One more...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDnehUAC5ZM&NR=1

Protestando con el flamenco

Today on the news, a woman who goes by the name of La Nin~a Ninja, and who is part of the Colectivo Flo6x8. This is probably the coolest thing I've seen in, well, a very long time.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wv5dh8v7mDs&NR=1


The words are something like: banker, banker, banker, with your cold heart and hot purse... I have no money..

The group's by-line (think that's the word) is "Cuerpo Contra Capital" (body against capital).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUzaeOEplnc&feature=related

No one (except kind of fringy, angry people that no one takes seriously) protests anything in Canada because we just never have any problems that affect enough people badly enough. Personally, I've tried, and wanted to be involved in protesting things I was really against, but I couldn't deal with the atmosphere surrounding most protests (both the majority of the people involved and the way the rest of our complacent society views me when I want to take a stand against something). On the other hand, here obviously, since last summer it is a "crisis" (same word in Spanish, which I saw everywhere in the summer).

Brings me back to the idea that you can't change people's hearts or minds very well by fighting or arguing, but you can get to them with humour and through art.

I love the one where they started a dance party in something like a unemployment lineup - not sure what INEM is...

Jerez, Sunday

I am happy about one thing, and that is that I just spent a great time with three awesome people. Unfortunately my throat is now very sore, and I am running out of Gan Mao medicine... I also have an eye infection, most likely due to the germ infested and sickly, revolting cats at Alicia's house. It is kind of an automatic reaction to pet a cat. Better think twice before doing that here. Nobody would let these cats sit on their lap. Mika said the grossest one had been sick for quite a while and not able to shake it yet. Ew.

Anyways, aside from suffering with cold and gross cats and eye infections... and likely missing class tomorrow, I was extremely happy to be in Jerez, to see Keiko and Dani, and Juan Carlos and Mika. Keiko met me immediately after I arrived, in Plaza Arenal, where we went to tomar algo (drink something – coffee in this case). A while later Dani joined us and we went for a massive plate of varied deep fried fish, and a bottle of wine, as well as a revuelto, which is scrambled eggs and ham with algo (whatever else) in them. This one had beans and onion.

The air in Jerez was fresh indeed, as Bijoyini had predicted. It was raining and reminded me of home. The sky even looked like home. Was really nothing like when I was last here...

Juan Carlos was working until 5:00, so I waited at Dani and Keiko's and Keiko came with me to meet Juan Carlos at Alicia's place, where Mika still is living. Mika is one of the few other people I had to see, and didn't realise Juan Carlos and her would be living in the same house. He is due to leave this coming week so this was my only chance to see him. We had an excellent time chatting and Mika and Juan Carlos made us dinner of wine, Jamon, salad, pizza and french fries made from scratch. 

It is great, I think that four of us can manage to communicate all in Spanish for hours, with only Juan Carlos being a native speaker. I did, however, manage to mix up platanos and plata, and so described that there are artisans on Granville Island who work with bananas. I was trying to explain to Keiko that there is a sake maker there, and described the overall place and the types of things people do.

Juan Carlos is a very open-minded, aware kind of person, who said he did not feel much culture shock being in Boston. Keiko has seen this place from the perspective of an outsider making her life here. The two of them had some things to say about people here being closed. Of course, that depends about what. I am starting to understand that everywhere people are open in certain ways and closed in others.

Saturday night

Listening to a pot bellied man in a purple-ish sweater, and still black hair with a style like my dad's... he raised his hands, at times shook them back and forth. I found myself seeing images of desolate places in the hills of the pueblos blancos, a guy singing to a girl on a balcony, “your body that was in my bed,” “no te encontro...” (I can't find you)

I have not found myself caught up in any kind of art, song, music, story such that I have had powerful images in my head, like when you are are in a good story, for a long time. The few words I caught were enough, with the evocative power in this man's voice and manner.

As I sat there listening I felt like all the pain of the last week was worth this, and that my troubles about where I live are moot. I live steps from cultural treasure. The Pena Torre Macarena is on my doorstep. I walked in and without hesitating, Diego, who sang last time, and who I was introduced to, gestured to a seat. Everyone was squeezed into a space between a fireplace and the bar, with the singer and the guitarist sitting among others along a bench running the length of the wall, and people in front of them around 3 round tables. I sat along the adjacent wall, crowded onto a bench. The group gathered this time was especially small, and while people didn't particularly ignore me, they didn't pay particular attention either. I felt perfectly comfortable going there alone. I don't understand penas very well yet. I wondered last time if I needed to pay to join, if I wanted to come regularly. They seemed totally unconcerned that I order anything from the bar. All they were interested in was listening to the singing and chatting among themselves, and I think happy to have any interested new people.

The man who sang had a beautiful voice, which could also be considered so by people not used to flamenco singing. It was a sweet voice – there are all kinds in flamenco. Some of the most respected founding fathers had quiet, sweet voices, just as much as some have the roughest sandpaper in their throats. When I first entered, a woman about my age started to sing. None of these people would look like “flamenco singers” to you. She was blond and very average looking. Her voice was most of the time quite soft which made it all the more surprising how she could have such intensity... What is most real and not put on, obviously comes from within, and so it seemed with her singing – not some showy stuff – nothing in your face, but with depth. She had an unusually fast modulating, and subtle tremolo, which was judiciously used, and she likewise went perfectly off-pitch when it was necessary.

Another guy sang a Farruca. The guy with the purple sweater did a beautiful Granainas among other things, and ended with some pretty amazing bulerias. The guitarist there is obviously good, but had a bit of trouble keeping up with some unusual chord changes in the singer's bulerias. His playing would I believe, as a rule, be just doing whatever was required on the spot. He too, as others do at times, let a string of his guitar go really out of tune for a bit. What would never be acceptable in some kinds of music, and what the guitarist would have to stop for, is used to effect here.

Priorat

I am about to try Priorat.

For those of you not in the know, it comes from a very special terroir, somewhere north of here. I discovered it quite by accident when it came up on Epicurious as the recommended wine to have with a rather special slow roasted duck dish I made a year or more ago. It so happened to be the latest thing in wine, at that time. Until now, not a drop has passed my lips - you cannot come by it for less than $60 or $80 a bottle in Vancouver, from Firefly on Cambie, for example. The really good stuff goes for much more, I am told.

Priorat comes from an apparently tiny hilly region with exceptionally poor/sandy soil, that happens to get quite extreme heat and sun, if I remember correctly (check me out on these details), and up until recently, when some hotshot winemakers got ahold of it that knew what to do with it, it made jammy plonk. Well, my Priorat comes from the Lidl supermarket where cases of wine still in boxes are piled along one wall, and they unceremoniously dump your groceries down a little ramp where you bag them yourself, nervously watching to make sure the customer before and after you don't get your stuff mixed in with their E0.99 shampoo.

Loli gave me the tip to go to Lidl for wine. I think cheapness was the objective, though she said it was good. As I weighed the prices of Ribera del Duoros and Riojas against embarassment (despite my budget, tending more towards the expensive ones, at E3.50, rather than the ones for E1.69, but not wanting Loli to think I am some kind of spoilt snob) I noticed the misfit Priorat, and was surprised to say the least, but laughed, wondering if it would be terrible.

Well, it certainly isn't bad. I would say it is definitely decent, for E4.99 a bottle. Is a little minerally, has quite a mellow taste for such a cheap wine, and definitely a heavy berry taste, but I wouldn't say jammy, or fruit juicy like crap wine. The cork says, “wein, vino, wine” in spiralling, repeating print, diagonally across it, which does not normally give me confidence that the wine will be worth anything, and it has instructions in at least 3 languages on the back. I am sorry, Carol, that I did not let it breathe, nor did I wait to decant it for an hour, as it suggested, though I did think I might attempt to wait a while. That just didn't happen though.

Anyways, I am sitting here having it with the only bread available on a very dark, cloudy, late Saturday afternoon, and with some of the E12 for 200grams Jamon that I got early this week. And of course a heavy drizzle of olive oil all over the bread. I am listening to Fandangos, and thinking about going to the Pena that is really near me, tonight, but not feeling much like venturing out on a day that is almost as cold as Vancouver might be. That is mostly due to the wind. Sevilla is below the magic line and was not due for negative temperatures today, though most parts north of here are, and there was even snow blowing behind the announcer in Mallorca (or whatever island is off the coast by Barcelona).

Mentiras, mentiras, casi todo en este mundo es mentira... el hombre mas importante.... en el espejo.... di..iii...yeee iiii.... ayyyeeeee.... (a rather dark but very cool letra)

I am fighting a cold still, and Loli keeps plying me with medicine, which I would normally not take, but feel I cannot refuse. She tells me it is natural, though it is obviously not, as the name has “...idol” on the end. At least it is not antibiotics, so I am breaking a rule I have not broken for probably 10 years. I have probably taken pain killers once since 2000 or 2001 when I had my tooth surgery, and not a single piece of western medicine has passed my mouth other than that, despite time in China, and all sorts of germ issues there!

I have gotten ahold of Juan Carlos and Keiko and will try to see them both tomorrow in Jerez. Hopefully the weather is better, and I will not have to be facing walking around in cold wind. This morning I sat at Cafe Hercules to do my blogging and answer a few e-mails. I apologise for the ones I still haven't answered. Poor Zhang Kun in China is not going to get answered for some time still as that means downloading Chinese character capability which I don't think I put onto this computer yet.

The pate aromatizado de vino de Jerez is a fail. If I realized it was going to be canned I would not have bought it. They actually carried it in the really exclusive Jamon shop, so I thought it would be good (had previously bought it in a slightly less exclusive specialty shop). Anyways, at Carrefour in Jerez last summer I used to get a really awesome French pate in a tiny jar. The pate here is higado de cerdo, which is a bit weird for us: pig liver.

I took a break and am now waiting for my tortilla to cook. More bread, this time with raw garlic and oil, and some really smoky chorizo. And manchego, more wine. This time it has at least breathed for 15 minutes...

Today I woke up and had a shower, which is not normally how things have been going. Last summer I showered always, before going to classes, even when I sweat like crazy. This time, I've finally realised the stupidity of that. Now I go to bed with the tights and underwear on that I am going to wear the next morning. Disgusting. Yesterday I hung around in the afternoon in gross clothes that I'd worn all morning for dancing – well, changing to an already used tank top once – until like 8 pm, when I finally got done with all the sweating for the day.

Anyways, the point was that today was different, being Saturday. I had some Pu Er tea and toasted a small piece of gallega loaf on Loli's toaster, which is a small flat pan with ridges and a sticking up handle, that you put over the gas flame. Then I went down to Cafe Hercules with my computer and got the only table that has a plug in the wall, beside the toilet and the storage room. Had a cafe solo (varies between a large espresso and a small americano) and a tostada enterro (whole toasted bun) with tomato and aceite (oil). Cafe Hercules is definitely cheap for Sevilla: only E2 for all that, and several hours worth of internet. Cafe Hercules is on an odd-shaped corner about a block off the Alameda de Hercules, and about 2 blocks down from my place. It has a lot of windows and is fairly traditional looking. The clientele seems to be populated by Commercial Drive-y looking people. I feel pretty comfortable there in a wool hat, without makeup, which is a bit unusual here.

Showering, showering, showering...

Sevilla tiene una very disgruntled Canadian girl bumping around in its northern half. 

Someone tell me to get my head examined next time I decide to go live in a "temperate" part of the world in the winter! As if I hadn't learned already...

3:30 am. Knew I should have brought my Chinese dictionary. Trying to read the pamphlet that comes with my GanMao QingRe Keli. I highly regret that I didn't stock up more on this before I left.

The other thing I wish I had right now besides internet and a hot shower, is a Chinese doctor. That is why I am reading the pamphlet – for comfort and for something to occupy my mind, because I am a bit scared. To be stuck in a foreign place and sick without knowing what resources are available or where to find them is one of the worst things.

I really rather would be in China, at this very moment. I think there are probably better naturopaths in Europe than there are in North America but I'd bet on a Chinese doctor any day over a naturopath. And I shouldn't have been bending to some pushy motherly person simply because I'm living with her, and we don't share a language we can fully communicate in. Stupid crap with “dol” on the end of it and codeine, more than likely weakened my body so I ended up this sick.

Anyways, here I am. Sick in a place that is not up to par with my very rich part of the world, in normal everyday things like the ability to take a plain old hot shower!!!!

Como se puede ser? Even the worst apartment in Vancouver has a big hot water tank that doesn't fail when the wind blows.

Okay, at least I am laughing now. Right now I feel like criticising Spain terribly. What the @#$% did I come here in the freaking winter for? Seriously, I don't ever want to live in a place that isn't either within 5 degrees of the equator, or outside of it by at least 40, in the winter, again.

These places halfway in between that are masochistic enough to make do in miserable weather, so everyone has to go around with chillblains and going, “que frio...!” every day. Places where it is normal to leave the door of the house open in January, while you sit there with your hat and coat and scarves on, and you might as well, because inside is just trapping the cold, while at least outdoors a bit of warmth might be circulating from some corner of the garden where the sun shone on a stone for a while or something.

What kind of priorities. I couldn't care less that every woman in Sevilla has beautiful hair and makeup and that there are these unbelievable dresses for sale, why can't they put some importance on taking a decent shower.

Cut to this morning:
After 2 days of not showering, because I didn't want to get even sicker, I finally took the pressure cooker and heated up some water on top of the stove, while the ladies were out. I turned up the heat on the water but not enough to do any good, so I had a miserable lukewarm shower and then poured some hot water over myself at the end.
Grrrrrrr... Keiko tells me this is normal. That is why when I arrived the other day, Dani didn't want me to meet Keiko at their place, cause he was doing the same thing I've been - avoiding dealing with the issue of showering. The lack of central heating sucks too but doesn't bother me that much. I can survive that by getting under some blankets or getting more clothes on, staying in my room where I can turn on a heater, but ... hombre! I'd rather be in China right now! At least my hot water heater there worked!

Yesterday

This evening walking home the long way across the Puente San Telmo and by the cathedral, I started crying when I heard some native South American guys playing the pan pipes. They had a t-shirt for sale with a cheesy picture of a stereotypical North American Native, with the feather headdress. They reminded me of my own continent – not that they are even from it, but at least their continent is attached to mine, and somehow, well... I don't know.

It is not that I am unhappy to be here. It's just that I have come planning to stay a long time, and it's not been easy so far, and I am scared. While I was still staying at the hostel, I heard a guy playing blues and it made me feel a kind of relief – familiarity. Something that is mine. Something that comes from my tradition, because a lot else around me is not.

I am at my wits end with walking across the city twice a day, both ways. My feet ache. I tried to rent a bike, but the bike place didn't open in time for me to find out that it was too expensive and the bikes that are part of a program of the city that are parked all over the place, you need a subscription that has to be bought on the internet. I was late and then had difficulty taking a bus. It is like being handicapped not to have internet at home. I have to squeeze in time in a Wifi cafe, after walking and walking, and needing to eat and sleep. I feel as if that is all I am doing – dancing, walking, eating and sleeping. Finding out how to buy a second hand bike or where to rent one is difficult without having the web at my disposal easily, and so I got myself into the situation of being just about crazy from walking.

I got through the Siguiriyas class well today. It is an absolutely killer siguiriyas. I feel like soniquete is my second name, when I am dancing this. Which means it sounds incredibly cool. Now the issue is to get it fluent enough so that the siguiriyas rhythm actually is discernible in the complicated sections. Ha ha. Two days I've crossed Puente San Telmo walking weirdly, trying to sort out how a pattern that repeats in 4s can fit, in triplets, into the two beats of 2s, 2 beats of 3s and one more of 2. To figure out on paper is fine and dandy but what matters is making your body do that and hearing and feeling it. Math is not very helpful.

I'd scheduled several hours of practice today, since I am not going to do any on the weekend (at the studio at least. Maybe on the rooftop, though). So immediately after class I went across the street to the Bar Remesal, which was just opening up, and sat down while one heavily made up and coiffed older lady was talking on the phone, and another more matronly one was dusting bottles of alcohol on the shelf. Neither of them attended to me for quite a few minutes. One does not get offended by this in Spain. One would have to just go back to one's own country and forget about it, if one was inclined to do so. Anyways, I finally got a montadito (tiny sandwich) of spicy chorizo, and a small beer, because I was intending to do another hour of dance, and had just done 2. And it would be 3 pm before I could make lunch. After my practice, I went for a quick beer with Elin, the girl who organises the scheduling of the studio. I originally felt she was a bit odd for a Spanish girl and indeed she turned out to be Swedish.

This is the second time now after my evening practice that I've decided to take a slightly longer route and go over the Puente San Telmo and through the centre of the city, by the cathedral and the touristy area. Again I stopped in at a side chapel and sat. It seems this has been my only real time out. And both times, I have felt like I used the cathedral for the purpose it should be use for. I left my burdens there, at least until the next day. Tonight I wondered before I entered, if I should cross myself. But I've never really been taught how, and I would only be copying strangers and it would kind of be fake, because I am not Catholic. Tonight I felt the same. To look at me people must have thought I was a religious person, because I was crying. It's really the only time I've taken to myself, to do nothing. A bit too emotional right now.

After that I walked my favorite way back to my neighborhood and in a sudden urge, decided to stop for chocolate and churros. This was the first time I've had it. These churros were different from the Jerez kind and I liked them better. Long deep-fried dough sticks, they actually are squeezed out of something like a soft ice cream type machine, and then fried. They usually come out in circles, because of how the dough falls. You dip them in chocolate that is actually good. It is not very sweet and not milky and has a slightly puddingy consistency.

The bar was narrow and had a mixture of really typical older and younger men behind the counter, rushing like crazy and yelling out orders to each other. There were a couple of really old pictures like the kind you see of people's relatives, on the wall. Then a picture of one of the Jesus statues that gets paraded around in the festivals, some very dusty alchohol bottles upside down in holders, a wooden model of the store-front, with a figurine standing in front, eating. Behind me were high glass doored shelves with many extremely dusty bottles of unusual alchohol.

I've been watching the news, because that's really all its possible to do if I am not in my room when Loli and Marie Carmen are home. Marie Carmen sits in an easy chair and Loli lays on the couch. There is a table with a glass top and a plate of varied cookies and chocolates in packages, and one of those oil-electric heaters under the table, with several heavy table cloths coming to the floor. You pull up to the table and stick your legs under the table cloth to keep warm. That's where they stay, all the time, just watching TV. I kind of feel like I am living with Auntie Evelene and Auntie, when they both used to live at Beulah Gardens. Except calmer. And younger. And I get a bit of a feeling that they are a couple. Neither has children and though I'm sure Spanish ladies hang out together if they have no family, these two are inseparable, and in pictures together.

Anyways it will be helpful to my Spanish to watch the news and interesting to know a bit more about the country, once they get to the local news, that is. Unlike us, they have a large amount of fairly in depth international news here, which is all pretty horrific right now, unfortunately.

Por La Calle

How to walk in the street in Spain: look at everything, you cannot go around being too aware of where you are going. Stare at everything, curiously. Shops, and stuff you are passing, without worrying if there are people you are about to crash into on the sidewalk. You worry about that when they are in front of you, then you just narrowly squeeze by them without worrying about them or what they are doing or whether they have enough room – they will take care of that. You aren't totally oblivious of them to the point of rudeness, but just don't really worry about them. On the other hand, you might as well stare at them too, just with whatever thoughts happen to be going through your head at the time, not putting on a sort of proper face for being in public. If you're thinking about something intently then you can just look at the person passing, with your intense expression on your face; it doesn't matter. And you can almost cut people off, or walk up beside them quickly; it means nothing, it is not taken as an aggressive kind of action. Basically you just do whatever you feel like doing, and you really don't care one whit what anyone passing by thinks of you and how you look or what you are looking at or how much you are stopping and staring or falling off the sidewalk or whatever.

I am trying to get the hang of it. It is weird to not worry about how you look at people. To look at them with whatever look happens to be happening to you, and not worry that they will take offense, and want to punch you out. You can look at them with an almost bitchy look, or stare at their clothes if they are nice, thinking of something that is bothering you, and they will not care that you are looking that way. They are them and you are you and who cares what someone else feels like or is thinking?

I have started staring in stores, looking all around me, and worrying about whether I will run into someone when they get to me. I have given passing men looks of not caring whether they exist, if they happen to catch my eye. I don't know what I do at home, but somehow it is different – it is more careful, polite, calculated, all in fractions of a second, at a subconscious level. I think here, it is just that nothing is calculated.

It is almost stressful for me, trying not to worry about it. Letting it all hang out. I think I still fear looking at someone the wrong way.

Tranquila, like they say. Relax.

Anyways, the sometimes bitchy looking women are usually really nice, if you actually talk to them. They even call you guapa, “pretty/good looking”. Which is a pretty normal way of addressing someone.

Thanks guapa, says the guy at the meat counter, after cutting my Jamon. Hola guapa, says the man behind the bar, to a girl that comes in, at the tiny, old fashioned bar near the escuela at breakfast. I think if I could afford it, I would go out for breakfast all the time, just to sit in the little, atmospheric bars, with an often old-ish male proprietor, who is genuinely coridal to everyone who comes in, who orders bleach and 5 kilos of whatever over the phone while toasting your tostada.

Mi piso, prices of things

That means apartment, or flat (floor). Loli finally arrived back home, and she is indeed truly lovely. She is almost never without Marie Carmen. They work together, in real estate, and Marie Carmen is "family" of some sort. They are in quite a few pictures together. Yesterday they offered me two small curled up, deep fried, whole fish that they'd made for lunch, and a glass of wine. The fish were excellent and because I am used to asian deep fried prawns, I ate the entire thing, head, bones and all, and was later told I should not have done so. I really didn't notice any bones as when they are deep fried, it doesn't matter. I said I thought it was Calcium and she said, but it goes like this in your stomach, and made a circling motion.

The hot water problem has nothing to do with Loli being stingy. It is simply a matter of poor water pressure. I learned last summer that the wall mounted hot water heater in every kitchen doesn't fire up if you only turn the tap on a little bit. So when the heat gets turned up a lot, somehow the pressure goes down... hmmm that is not really logical. Anyways this particular building, at least on its 3rd floor, has poor pressure, and so we can't have very hot water.

The price of food in Sevilla is about the same as at home. I'd say both groceries and eating out. Possibly breakfast in a cafe is cheaper: you get a coffee and sandwich with ham for E2.50, which would be ... wow, it took me a few minutes to do some really wrong math in my head (am losing it)... somewhere around $3.80. The price of apartments is from E130,000 to E230,000, with most of them being in the lower part of the range. That is one bedroom.

But there are some other things that are notably cheaper, such as haircuts, which I still haven't managed to get, and keep looking at every peluqueria that I pass. They are about E10 - E16, in most places. Here, cheap clothing seems even more plentiful than at home. Before I left, I made sure I had some leggings for dancing, but I couldn't get any for less than $30, so I made them. Here, I just bought some for E3. There was something else (besides wine) but I can't think of it right now.

There are some really old fashioned ways that are cute. I bought some socks at a sock and underwear shop. The man wrapped them in a piece of brown paper that had his name and the shop address on it: it said "so and so, corseteria y calzatura (or whatever socks are called)"
It is a weird exception here if you pick your own fruit and vegetables when you are shopping. Normally you ask the guy behind his fruit, for what you want. If it is something soft, he/she makes a cone out of stiff paper and puts your strawberries or figs in that, and closes the top. The meat shop too, wrapped my breaded chicken in paper, with a fancy kind of folding to totally close it up, so I couldn't replicate it.

Other stuff... words that are parecido to ours: una novella de intrigue, la farmacia, una cafeteria. By the way, the most beautiful farmacy you will ever see is in Triana.

Enforced relaxation, sort of

I could only do the Tangos class today.
My feet started to rebel on me, even in that. It is a pretty doable level for me, but I'm not feeling too good.
I have been dragging myself 40 minutes each way, twice a day, that makes 2 hours and 40 minutes of walking each day, plus 3 hours of dancing.

I am unhappy about living in La Macarena and going to Triana for both school and a practice studio. I don't know if buying a "bici" is going to do it. I almost feel like forgetting about the 25 days left of rent I've already paid and getting a place in Triana. This is when I get down on myself, feeling like I never make the right decisions.

I am sleeping an hour every afternoon and would rather be right now, but I had to try to do something about a bike, and also had to try to decide whether I should move or not, so I am in an nice cafe with Wifi, on the Alameda de Hercules and just finished looking up just about every other dance school to see where they are, and wondering if I would want to take classes with them too, in which case it would be reasonable to stay in La Macarena.

I feel like I have no time to do anything and can barely get basic necessities done (changing my computer cord, as essential as it is, not included), despite only having 3 hours of scheduled important stuff to do each day. I am going to bed really early. I am fighting a cold as well as whatever else - stress from a long time.

Anyways, the good news is that Pili Ogalla is really great. Raphael very suddenly told us he would be away for a couple weeks and the next day we had Pili. Look her up on Youtube. I felt like I finally learned how to dance, the very first hour she was teaching us. I've learned some important basics at home but spent too little time in classes where the details of each movement were explained. My fault, I guess. Also she is just cool - explains really well and is nice. She taught us a huge amount of choreography too, right away. However, the second class (the medio-alto one) is a bit too much of a challenge for me right now. Raphael's medio-alto level Alegrias was okay for me. But the Siguiriyas de Pili is too fast. Actually it would be fine, but there are some students in the class who keep the pace of the footwork way too high, from the outset (even though they can't get the "sentido" - the overall sense of the very complicated rhythm). That doesn't work for me. I am totally capable of obtaining the same speed, but not the 3rd time I do the paso. The first few times you do something complicated, your brain, of course, has to be helping out, and mine does that only grudgingly.

Yum - I just ordered an Empanada de Atun (tuna). I need to take it easy at the moment and am not going to rush home and make lunch.

Logistics

Hola, I am in Cafe Hercules, near the Alameda de Hercules, where it seems like the whole eastern or northern part of Sevilla goes on a Sunday afternoon. I saw them all sitting there yesteday in outdoor cafes. It is a narrow square but so long it seemed to me to rival Tiannanmen in length! The whole thing is paved with paving bricks and there are some sort of deciduous trees in the middle of it, that look nice in the hazy light in the morning.
Cafe Hercules is close to my apartment and it and the "Ilustre Victima", another nearby bar, have Wifi.

I believe it is warmer outdoors than in my apartment. After getting out from under my quilt, after siesta, I felt the need for quite a few layers, which is a bit difficult because I only brought two sweaters which don't go over things very well, and had to juggle around my layers of summery looking clothing until I found a combination that worked.

I have finally found a practice space and hope it will work. It is across the city, near where I take lessons. So I'll have to get a bike or walk 40 minutes each way, several times a day. Maybe wasn't the best choice of apartment, but we'll see. I had wanted to also take advantage of other dance schools at some point, and there is a very good one about 15 meters from my door.

I don't understand why I get so discouraged when everything doesn't go perfectly right away. It is something I have to work on, I guess.

Soy Ana y vivo en La Macarena, en Sevilla. I just found the apartment yesterday. Macarena is far from Triana, but I think I like it better. I am living with Loli, who came highly recommended by Elena, which is how I came upon the apartment in the first place. I have not met Loli yet, as she is away on business and will be often, so I will sometimes have the place to myself.
One big problem is that there is no internet in the apartment. I thought that nowhere would have it, because it wasn´t common in Jerez, but most places do. I could get a quick connection for E30 a month... depends. There are not really any cafes or coffee shops with Wifi here. Besides, it would ruin the ambience of the awesome, social places these kinds of bars are. I saw one in Jerez last summer, but it was a really modern type of tea and coffee shop. That would be nicer than sitting here in the internet bar (just a room full of bad computers that are straining my fingers to type on.)
Anyways, it does have an oven, which is rare, though I managed to find a bakery like none other today - one that I think probably uses an actual wood oven (which people talk about here as being the proper way), and which makes awesome rye bread and croissants.

I am a little nervous about one thing, and that is the hot water. There are signs around the apartment asking the constantly revolving flamenco tenants to please observe certain things, all of which are reasonable. But there is a big "No" painted on the hot water heater pointing to the button that turns the heat up. It was set at such a low temperature that I might as well have been showering in cold water. As you know, I cannot survive in coldness. So I am hoping she will be nice, and not mind me turning it up.
The problem in Spain is that in general, people are much more frugal than we are used to being. They do not have enormous hot water tanks constantly being heated. They have a tiny thing that they ask you to please turn off after showering, in this case (so you have cold water to wash hands in the rest of the time), or at the end of the day, as last time I was here. I mean they even want the pilot light turned off, and the switch at the gas tank flipped.
There is no kind of heating except plug-in space heaters and the house is not warm. That doesn´t bother me - I can wear a sweater and plug in the heater, but cold water for a shower is unbearable.

Anyways, not a very interesting post, as typing is very rough going. Talk to you later.

Ana

Congeniality

You don't walk into a room here without saying hello, even to strangers, and in a sometimes somewhat impersonal setting. It is markedly different from home. You also don't leave without saying "hasta luego" (see you later - often pronounced something close to "da-lueGO" or just "lueGOOO"). Specifically, I am in a hostel with people who sometimes are only here for a day, and many who I've not met yet, but the Spanish ones and I think Portughese too, always say "hola" and sometimes "buenas dias" as well. In stores or bars, this isn't super common but it can happen even, that a total stranger, another customer, will say hello to you. I mean, in a situation in which it would be unthinkable at home.

You also may be kissed on each cheek by a complete stranger that either is introduced to you or that introduces him/herself, even though you may never meet again, and are only meeting for a few minutes. That doesn't always happen but it may.

Anyways, I far prefer this than what has become almost common at home: you can end up at a party, and sometimes not a very big one, where you will not be introduced to everyone, or even anyone, and no one will introduce themselves to you. And you feel like a weirdo or like you're being overly formal or like you actually "care", which might seem lame, if you are so "earnest" as to introduce yourself, in some situations.

Here it goes in the opposite direction to what may seem like overkill to us: if you don't kiss everyone on both cheeks when you leave a party, it's kind of rude. It is a bit of a hassle by our standards. I don't know how to do it, even, because it means you have to kind of announce that you're leaving, which means that you have to first feel that anyone might care, and then have to interrupt people's conversations to kiss them, which means troubling them, and which for me, is rude and something I can't easily do.

But why would I question that people care... I don't know, but more than the odd experience at home has led me to feel that way. I'm not talking about my good friends, but just about general situations I have been in. It just does not work that way here. Basically the reason it happens at home is that it is just more common for people to keep up a cool exterior, and to not want to be the one to reach out to the other guy.

The only certain thing ... and a rabbit with compas

I wish I could understand Raphael better. He tells stories that are obviously funny, and says a lot of important stuff about how to move. I've been pretty proud of my Spanish, but on the phone it's kind of rough going, or in a room that has weird acoustics, and a person who talks fast with a certain tone of voice and strong accent.
He imitates us fairly often to emphasise how not to move. It is actually pretty instructive. Much of what we do lacks control. That's the major thing in flamenco. It takes an enormous amount of core stability - keeping your torso often pretty calm while making explosive motions with legs and arms. Then some other movements are just way more subtle than we tend to do them. Toning things down takes control. Taking fast short steps is harder than big sloppy ones, where your hips are tilting all over. The "wrong" way to do it looks like other types of dancing. When he imitates our bad flamenco, at different times it could be breakdancing, reggae or bored rock band dancing.

I feel like I am learning a ton. The way he dances is so different from anyone I've learned with before. The other day we learned a Farruco classic - just a little piece. He explained about how Farruco once danced this in some sort of famous show. Today he mentioned a Paco de Lucia show where Paco started with a different palo (style of song) than what was planned and the adjusting that had to be done - how you can adjust footwork from one style to another.

This is a video of Farruco dancing, with guitar and singing of several other flamenco giants:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GR4IAOGmxXA&feature=related

I have one friend. She is Russian and her name is Elena. She's been here several times, and is on a winter break from her work in the tourism industry, which slows down in Moscow in January. A warm person whose expression of genuine emotional response to several professional performers managed to break through their jadedness and connect her with them. One of these people has become her teacher and she told me about a visit to Isabel's house. Isabel is gitano, of course, and everyone in her family is flamenco. There are 11 dogs, and I couldn't quite manage to understand whether the one Elena mentioned specifically was the duck of the house or the dog of the house, but whoever it was had a very flamenco way of carrying themselves, as demonstrated by Elena, with a proud sideways glance. They apparently worked on some footwork in the house, and a thumping noise went along with them. Elena said the rabbit was in compas.

chicharones and uncertainty

Well, I was just writing a post that was the written version of yelling in the streets in Chengdu. Not quite, I guess, but suffice it to say I've sat here crying my head off, and Francesca and Simone both suddenly were on gmail chat so I chatted with them which helped a lot. People who have gone to live on another continent.

I have to keep reminding myself that my ancestors did this. In reverse, of course. This thought came to me on the train crossing the border the morning I left, when I had a sudden terrification come over me. I thought about my mom taking a trip to Chicago on the train, and about my grandfather leaving home to go to the states when he was only 13. On the flight from Reyjavik, there was a trashy paper from London that said that people that are undergoing some sort of stressful event (it was studied with students writing tests) do better when they think of things their ancestors had done. Weird coincidence that I had discovered that for the first time, for myself, earlier that day.

I suppose my ancestors cried, and they were not even lucky or rich enough to have any makeup to cry off. I guess they were cold too, when they came to Toronto or New York from Ireland or wherever else. I have no reason to be cold right now, except that I think I got chilled when I went to drink a beer outside after showering after my class. I went to the bar that's just down the block from the hostel. I usually see a bunch of people my age and older, in conservative clothes and suits there, probably working for some sort of government office or whatever. Anyways, I love it. Was there for breakfast one morning and like that best. Take away all the particulars and I guess it wouldn't be any different from a coffee shop at home - one where there are a lot of regulars and the bar people know them. But pretty much all the details are different. Ham legs hanging. The usual bullfighter pictures and one of Camaron. Glass tumblers with small cafe lattes. Toasted buns with meat inside, olive oil, pureed tomato. And smaller. Lots of people have to stand - either at the bar, which only has a few stools, or around the small, high tables, which don't have enough stools for all the people that come.
This afternoon I ate a lot of pork fat. I got there just before the rush. By 2:30 the waiter was shouting "cinco cervezas!" as he ran back and forth. I had a big beer, a montadito (small sandwich) with tuna and red pepper, and a plate of chicharones - Thick chunks of pork back fried crispy. Look like our bacon, but in chunky pieces. Mamie Mackie, as my sister used to call it... don't ask. I wasn't intending to eat that much fat - the chicharones I had in Jerez with Keiko last summer weren't as fatty - or else they disguised it better. After that I went and got a gallega (the only kind of decent white bread here) and doused it with olive oil.

It's dark now, and I'm going to forget about calling the woman who called me back with a free room in an apartment for E400. I'm thinking more like E250 this time. This one was with one other girl, and a swimming pool, in the center of the city - nicest but most expensive.
I got myself into a state yesterday that only a few other people reading this are capable of getting themselves into by trying to go see apartments that didn't really sound all that feasible to start with. The trouble with my ancestors is that they may have been capable of coming to the New World, but some of them were also capable of working themselves into a lather over whatever it was they had to do... the state of self traumatisation I managed to acheive was remarkable. Luckily, Spanish people are incredibly nice, kind and helpful, without wanting anything in return.

The complete uncertainty of my life is the problem. That and the total disillusionment with the way the normal economy works and the refusal/inability to return to my previous work. I feel like a chasm is waiting for me when the money runs out, and not finding an apartment right away kind of put me in a pretty bad place, as I'm failing to go by my strict plan of how everything should work.

Raphael y Manuel

I was super nervous. But the receptionist was super nice, Raphael was awesome and cute, all the students in the class seemed nice, and the level was bordering on easy for me. I stayed for the second class which was a higher level and managed it okay too.

It is pretty awesome to be able to watch Raphael (Campallo - in case you want to look him up on Youtube), in person. He's a small guy, but not as thin as he looks on Youtube. In fact, sans flamenco shoes, and in exercise clothes he would appear to be a soccer player or athlete of some sort. The absolute control he has over every movement is really something to behold.

I had quite a bit of trouble understanding him, but when I met Manuel (Betanzos) after class and he advised me on whether I should take both the Tangos and Alegrias classes, I understood everything.

I just had a brief interlude to dance tangos to a Nin(y)a Pastori song that the owner (or something) of the hostel came along and played on his cell phone.

After lunch I practiced on the rooftop in a tank top - it was a gorgeous sunny day - with the Giralda in front of me.
My other major errand today was to go to the Policia or Gobiernamento or whatever it was. This mixture of government things called the Junta Administrativo, which was rather unclear to me was in one of the most incredible buildings I have ever seen. Maybe the most. It is a huge semicircular edifice with a covered walkway with many columns, two ornate towers, and tiles everywhere and unbelievable lanterns, carved tiles in the ceiling. It is called the Plaza Espana, in case you are interested - sorry I didn't get a picture. I have to go there early so I sign off now.

La ciudad

Its a cloudy day but warm enough for for a light sweater and fall jacket. The sidewalk of Puente San Telmo was full of people going for a Sunday stroll across the river. Oranges are overflowing off all the trees. Since they are used as landscaping trees along all the streets throughout the entire city, it´s a pretty awesome sight right now. Jasmine is in bloom. There are enormous trees of the sort I´ve only seen before in Nepal or Hong Kong; the kind with roots hanging down off the trunk, and thick, rubbery leaves. Noisy and exotic sounding birds seem to be hidden in them. The architecture in Sevilla is really stunning. I have not been a lot of places in the world but the only one that rivals it would be Katmandu for fascinating and ornate architecture. The trees, shrubs and vines are part of what makes Seville even more beautiful than Florence for me. The buildings are more colourful too.

It is so quiet here. Triana was especially so. I had to move from there today into a hostel steps from the cathedral, as they were closing the Triana one. But even here, in the very center of the city it is quiet. Partly due to there being a lot of pedestrian only areas, and all the rest are just too narrow to fit more than one or two cars down at a time. Anyways, people are busy just walking or sitting at restaurants.

Yesterday I sat in a square for a while after I did some errands. The scale here is human - small squares with benches and a central statue or whatever for focus, beside a church, perhaps, surrounded by small shops. Grandparents were crossing the square to the church, people were meeting in front of the pastry shop, and doing errands or buying a newspaper from the stand.

Sevilla image from the window to my left: horse (they are all stunning specimens) pulling a carriage with yellow wheels, with a backdrop of rich green leaves scattered through with oranges.
Both the hostels are casual but beautiful - and not quaint in that people still decorate like this - at least like the first place, which was smaller and originally a house. Couches the size of a bed, with cushions, under the skylight and on the rooftop, where I listened to Jose and Roberto before going to the peña last night. Hanging plants and more plants below, colourful patterned tiles. I just came down from the rooftop here, which has an unobstructed view of La Giralda. Sorry no pictures, as no USB port is readily apparent on the front of this computer and I do not feel like making the effort to look for it. I will not make the effort to do much else today; not even to go back to the peña for dinner and more music.

My challenge for the remainder of the day is trying to figure out how to eat something other than meat, cheese and bread. As I did last summer, I again found that the sweets are too sweet and will not tempt me since the amount of sugar literally makes me ill. I am not worried about going to live in Jerez, as it is pretty great here. In fact it seems difficult to worry here. It would be too much of an effort, and what for?

Peña Torre Macarena y lo puro cante

It´s taken me 2 days to find what I´ve been looking for. Courtesy of Pedro, I experienced Peña Torre Macarena last night. Pedro is the dad of a hot young guitarist, and the uncle of an equally hot young singer. I use my adjective in two ways: these two young men, who look to be about 19, are both guapo (attractive) and excellent musicians. Manuel was a comforting link between my culture and theirs; a Mexican who´s lived in Vancouver.

Peña Torre Macarena, as I learned at the end of the evening, is where Camaron and many others started, and was founded by Manuel Torres (an important flamenco cantaor, long dead now). According to Pedro it is the most respected peña in Sevilla, and he was determined to get Roberto and Jose an audience there, as he is attempting to set them on the path to becoming another Camaron and Paco de Lucia.

It´s taken me several days before I´ve had a glass of wine, and not one man has called me guapa yet or been pesado with me, despite them looking the macho part, with long pointy cowboy boots and earrings. After the peña, we all went to the Carboneria, a huge barn of a place, which lived up to its reputation as a touristy joint with tons of young people and many of them tourists. The main attraction for most here was the dancer, who was certainly good, but lacked something less tangible. The focus at the peña is on a bunch of old men singing, with a few young men and women thrown in. We had a leisurely paseo at 2 am from the Carboneria to the hostel, and Pedro and I discussed various canataors (singers). That was fun, as I don´t know many knowledgeable people with whom I can discuss my hobby - well, not the part of it that involves listening to the singing. Especially not one who claims to be friends with some renowned singers. This was a perfect language immersion, and I found him easy to understand.

My understanding of the cante is improving - I can get quite a bit of what they´re singing at times, depending on the singer and how much he blurs the words. Last night when we arrived at the peña, another young man sang Moraito como un lirio (purple/bruised like an iris), to which I know all the words, and often go down the street singing, so it was exciting to hear it live. It was amazing to me that there were such a number of excellent singers randomly gathered in a casual manner. That was of course until I found out that this was an important peña, so it was not really random. Manuel (who does post production for movies) was asked to film the chicos, but once we got there, they kept asking him to film more. They explained that they rarely are filmed, and this is a concern, as they feel their art is endangered. Recently, flamenco as a whole was declared an important cultural treasure in the world in general, and flamencos these days use the phrase ¨Patrimonio de la humanidad¨.

To sleep, or to hang about eating and drinking...

Listening to Paquete and Duquende relentlessly again. This particular piece of music is like Kim-drugs.
Have already eaten a huge number of aceitunas. And white bread.
Got up at 8 am this morning. Sat around till 1 pm doing nothing. Then went shopping at Dona Aceituna ("Mrs. Olive" as I understand it). I was in a daze not quite realising where I was. Then I passed the shop full of only olives - all in open jars, to be tasted - and I suddenly came to and realised I am in Sevilla, in Espana! And I was kind of overjoyed.

Que fantastico sitio no hay better place en todo el mundo. I do actually need my sweater, light jacket and boots, but it is completely comfortable to sit outside and everyone was doing so this afternoon, if they weren't already snoozing. How can you beat these two options for a weekday afternoon: sleeping or hanging out with people in a little alleyway drinking a little bit of beer and eating a little bite? I was quite sleepy but I sat down at a high table and ordered a coffee and then something I'd never tried before: flamenquin (something like that) con cheddar y canela. If I'd had such an intro to Spanish food last time, I may not have pronounced it all bad. It was just a morsel, but a beautifully presented one: ham with cheddar and cinnamon inside it, breaded and fried to melt the cheese, with lovely stuff all around and beside it.

I lazily crossed the bridge but saw some sort of Calle de Cristoforo Colon (think that's the Italian name sorry) with tons of cars on it which was kind of a shock, so I stood by the river on that side for a few minutes and read some graffitti on a board: "Tus ojos son mi conjuro contra la mala jornada, te quiero por tu mirada...", the rest was unreadable.

Back on the quiet side of the river, I slept from 4:30 till 7:00, and then found the high-end grocery store with huge advertisings for legs of ham on the doors. I stocked up with incredible marmalade, along with some cheese and chorizo.

Like Sichuan, the previous place I chose to live for a year, Sevilla slows you down. I think this place would have a calming effect on anyone. You'd have to be disconnected to the point of being a machine, not to sense the relaxation.

Sevilla, tiene una cosa...

Well I was nerding out last night as I arrived at the Sevilla airport. I had to stop myself humming that as I have been wont to do lately down the streets in Vancouver (the title is a "song"). I was thinking of what Scottish people probably thought when they saw the tourist wearing a big tartan shawl, or what the Spanish think when the tourist just wants crappy sangria. Come to think of it now, I suppose that singing Sevillanas probably wouldn't fit into that category...


The journey:
Taking the train across the border to Seattle was a gentle way of leaving for a nervous person. Seven hours to Reykjavik was an easier flight than others I've taken in recent years. But my trip to London essentially was 24 hours, since the time I got up on Tuesday morning.

The journey in quotes:
"Hello, how are you today? You have a lambchop in there?" Very cheery London airport security. So pleasant I thought he was making a joke, and laughed. Then he pulled my laptop out of my bag for me.

"Why would I go to a gay ba(r) when I can go to a tranny ba(r)?" Cute transgendered lady with a clipped British accent enjoying showing off in a Soho noodle joint.

"Have you seen anyone you don't recognise in here? What is this building?" London cops and their dog, in the washroom of the hostel. The back door had been open. It appeared some other cops that arrived minutes later knew what was going on. London cops are nicer, smaller, not intimidating and carry no guns.

"I'll come to Sevilla if you invite me." Latino guy living in Lyon that I met in Fuller's Ale and Pie House. A place that uses ethically sourced ingredients for fantastic pot pies with unusual ingredients like beef with Stilton and pears with pork. 

"Dressage. I coach the Olympic team in Germany". A tall and distinguished but friendly looking man on the almost empty flight to Sevilla, who said he sometimes teaches in Seattle. He lives in Australia but his home is Jerez, where he was one of the first riders, or teachers or something at an equestrian school there.