Fire

There is a fire burning. I have sensed it from afar for a long time. I am circling it, but still at a distance. I am drawn to it because I am cold; chilled through. I'm attracted to it with a force of absolute necessity; a force I can only compare to the kind of irresistible magnetism that occasionally exists between a man and a woman.

Sevilla is close, and it does have something, like the cute title I chose for this blog from the Sevillanas letra. But Jerez has what I am looking for.

I was right there, in it, the other night.

I saw Domingo Rubichi last summer several times, accompanying cante in the outdoor theatre. He comes from another place than I do - some different kind of universe that I don't understand but can feel. His playing is rooted to the ground. It is solid like something you can hang onto, because you need to. There is space in it - it is not rushed. It takes what is happening seriously and doesn't pretend to be cool or laugh things off. But Eva, I understand. She takes what I feel that only ever dares to come near the surface, and she brings it straight up and out, into the air. She wears it on her face and it comes out through her hands. And that is why the other Jerezanos listening yell out. Because they know this; they don't try to stifle the things that it is pointless to try to shut off. They are burning too and they are part of part of what I've come here for, just as are Eva and Domingo.

The woes of plantillas, suffering for art

Dumb question: When you look up at the row of hanging ham legs and ask your friend who is a waiter (at a different place) if he has ever cut ham before. Especially when he has served you ham and tomato sandwiches numerous times. I think "duh" means the same thing here. They have the Simpsons.

I am told that pain is just part of dancing. This still isn't something I should be dancing on. But I was told that this kind of problem may be what I have to deal with, and that it is very common. Antonio Canales, she said, his feet would echar sangre sometimes. And La Chunga... she dances barefoot. (I am not sure if I was mistaken about this but I think she said La Chunga has come there for help). She has very bad feet, said the fisioterapeuta. I do not have metatarsalphalangeal instabilidad, which it really seemed like I had, from the descriptions. I have been assigned treatments of electric currents in my toe joints every day for 10 days.

By the way, Antonio Canales is really famous and appeared in the movie Vengo (where La Paquera sings as well). English has no equivalent for echar and I've started to use it sometime in my head when I'm thinking in English. Give off, spew out, throw out, put, dish out ... kind of a catch-all.

I practiced the abanico (fan) and castanuelas mostly today and only did a bit of bulerias in my cute new "running" shoes - those sporty kind that are not for running, that everybody has and I could never fit until I found an Italian brand.

The wearing of plantillas (shoes things, inside your shoe) that are shaped to your foot is complicated. The shoes you put them in get stretched, and then if you feel like maybe using plantillas is not helping, your nice new shoes are sloppy. One foot is developing a bunion which is caused by tightness, and that kind of deformation can cause complications of the joint. Creating the exact problem they're supposed to be solving. So you're told to go find some shoes that are deeper. AAAAARRRRGGGHHHH! I just finished finding the two pairs of shoes in this city that fit. I have no ganas to order a second made to measure pair of shoes right now.
My feet are extremely concave - very high arches and little area supporting my weight. So I stopped off at the shoemaker's and his son at the front counter greeted me while he yelled out gruffly from behind, "they're still in fabrication!" I started telling the son what I needed (arch support) and why, and the father came up front. The son did another impatient reprimanding of his father. Wow, seems like time for father and son to go their separate ways! Tradition... is not always good.

It is good to be living with people who are also spending their time perfecting physical movements that create art. I believe this is my thing. I was never cut out for expressing myself academically with complicated arguments about esoteric stuff, neither was I a physics person.

I've tried several things to help Alicia: analgesic oil that I use on my feet, and a heating pad. Her arm was so stiff from playing all day yesterday that it was almost numb by the time she got home in the evening. She showed me an x-ray of her back, which looks like a snake. Her skeletal deformation makes it hard to have relaxed neck, shoulder and arm muscles. I have to admire her courage to become a pro with a limitation like that. A while back, they both told me what they suffer with. Marta's neck hurts, as do many violin or viola players', and her fingertips have callouses with black, hard parts in them.

I am attempting to find heating pads (a chemical kind that are little pouches). I believe that along with Arnica and analgesic oil or salve, they could take the place of muscle relaxant drugs. Keiko gave me several, courtesy of someone who brought them over from Japan, to survive the winter here. They have a peel-off paper with glue underneath, so they can stick to clothing. I stuck it to my neck and tied it on with a scarf and went out with Kathy that evening to the bar. It was amazing.

Dancing, friends and animal noises

Que día...
I feel like I am alive again. I went to practice at the studio for the first time in 3 weeks. I practiced a lot of castanets and danced in running shoes.
After that I went to replenish my supply of decent tea at an excellent tea store, which also sells a few select artisan and ecological wines and a couple of other things. I decided to have a glass of wine - even the glass itself was a cut above the rest. I picked up a thick book on experimental soundscapes (or something), which discussed the history of progressive music in Spain through the 20th century and had some fascinating articles, such as how the digital age has changed views of social organisation (or something). For example, the internet has proven on a grand scale spontaneous organisation without a leader, which will influence the thinking of at least those young enough to have their understanding of the world formed since the internet. They discussed some fascinating phenomenon - how geese fly in formation without following a leader, and when people in an auditorium want to clap in a certain rhythm, it emerges unified after a short time of disorganisation, without a leader.

I had an unexpected call from Mika, who was in Sevilla. I got on a bici and went to meet her in Plaza Jesus de la Passion, where we had tea and she showed me her last big purchase before leaving for home - a flamenco dress made to measure. We both found it hard to believe she is leaving. I will miss her a lot. She has something that not a lot of people have...calmness, serenity, peace, it seems... along with an ability to do what she wants to do. A beautiful and confident person, but without pretensions. Like her, there are a few of my Jerez friends with whom the tension that has become normalized in my life stands out in stark relief. With whom if I allow it, there can exist comfortable silence in the conversation. It's as if there is no problem with just existing. I don't know if it's them or Jerez - probably both.
While I don't want her to leave, I am happy she is going home to dance there too. This is one person I am sure will bring something back with her of more value than what a few months intensive study or a bunch of cursillos with famous teachers will do, and am happy to think of my friend performing in tablaos in Japan.

My next experience of the night gave me reminiscences of China. Phoning to order essential things ... and feeling really stupid. In China it was the bottle of water. I'd call the number and say, "it's the foreign teacher", and that's all they needed to know. There was only one other female foreign teacher in Deyang and probably someone else delivered her water. This time it was the bombon of gaz (butano) which heats the stove and shower. I gave our address and then with great care, read out their phone number to them, as if it were ours. Alicia was in stitches listening to me, and took little time to point it out. When I finally got around to calling them to fix the problem, I nearly dialed our number, which she'd written on the fridge for me, and had a wavering voice trying not to laugh while reading it.

I then took advantage of my roommates' help with some sentences I'd constructed in various tenses and verbs, and the conversation somehow degenerated into, "what does a rooster say in English?" "Ki-kiri-ki!" is the Spanish version, and Alicia also demonstrated the French, which she learned while studying there and thinks is really funny. But WAY more funny, was the English. I totally cracked them up with "cock-a-doodle-doo". It brought the Flinstones to Marta's mind.
Then there was "be-e-eh" and "ba-a-ah", "guao-guao" (the g is almost not pronounced) and "woof" (our versions of which were very funny). "Oink" is practically the same: "oinc", and meow is the same. Quack is the same (probably without the k), and neither they nor I know what noise a platypus or an ornitorrinco makes, or if it is the same animal. They did have me stumped about baby chickens: theirs go, "piu...piu" (in a high voice, of course) and I don't know what ours do.
A mermaid is a sirenita (probably "little mermaid"), just in case you had to know.
Spanish does not have an "h" sound like ours. Their h is silent/non-aspirated, but their j and g both have a gutteral h sound. They got to practicing "hello" and "house", which they did with hilarity, making an exaggerated sighing sound and exhaling a lot. If they don't do that, they end up with a very scary gutteral "hello".

From the rooftop Sevilla looks all white and orange with a generous sprinkling of churches towering above, and some green here and there. The golondrinas have decided to come over from Africa. They're circling around me up here.

I spent the day like a tourist. Went into the back end of Santa Clara neighborhood on a bike, and decided to stop for a sherry at a bar.
Thermometers in different parts of the city registered between 22 and 26.5. The riverside cafes were full, music playing. I took my time between Puente San Telmo and Isabel II. Paradise. Now I am really living in paradise. Green water, blue sky, palm trees, a small motorboat drifting, the passengers sitting back, and Triana on the other side. It would have been too hot for Vancouver people to be wearing jeans.
I had intended to take the train to a random nearby town - I had an intense desire to get near some mountains. I decided to do more research, after going to the train station and being unsure of which one would have a return train on a Sunday.
In Plaza San Fransisco I stopped for a while on a ledge below an ornate building and looked down the road past the cathedral, and at the horses and carriages lined up under the shade. They only have beautiful, spirited horses, and I was taken by an intense desire to go riding and briefly wondered in vain how I could accomplish that. Little kids were using fallen oranges as soccer balls and dogs were fetching oranges. There are still some on the trees, but most have now blossomed and the smell is subtle but beautiful.

I made pancakes for the chicas this morning. I don't yet have any "tree syrup" (may have to make requests for some...) so made do with jam. I had difficulty explaining blueberries recently, as they don't exist here, and the same word is used for them as for cranberries. They call people turkeys here too when they are stupid, and in fact call the teenage years the "ages of turkey/being a turkey".

In Marta's hometown of Segovia, they had running of the bulls whenever there was a fiesta in her neighborhood. Neither her nor Alicia think highly of bullfighting, though it was a quite normal event for Marta in her childhood. Alicia went once to tell her children someday that she went with her parents, but both her and her mother cried. Marta explained that one time it went very badly. All the bulls run towards an enclosure, where the gates are closed and they are all safely inside. But one time they split off, and didn't get there at the same time, so the gate couldn't be closed. Then the ones that have arrived run out again. One bull jumped off a bridge, others were loose in the city. The purpose is to eat them, for the celebration. In this way, killing them is not such a bad thing. They would traditionally make a huge stew, or bull meat with sauce or something. But after mad cow disease, she is not sure whether they've returned to eating the meat at the end. Neither of the girls knew whether there was truth to the accompanying cruelty to horses that is said to happen in the big bullfights. Their dislike of bullfighting has more to do with personal distaste than the politics of animal rights that has seeped into Spain, but is not at all apparent here.
Rabbit as a meat is quite common here, they tell me, and Alicia listed several ways she likes to eat it. In her town, it isn't uncommon for people to kill pigs themselves and she described having witnessed this, including taking its blood first, to make morcilla, a black sausage. They use all the parts of it as food here, and Alicia explained about pig's face, which I was surprised to hear sounds exactly like they do it in China (the entire face, flattened and cured). Here it is sold together with the trotters and I think she said the tail.

Juana beats any rock singer who has illusions of being tough or heavy - AND she wears a white dress.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tz-odMU7pLc
This is all I have to say today. Please watch. She is the Aunt of Antonio, who I studied with last summer.

Day in the life of Ana of Sevilla (hmmm... a bit grandiose of a name..sorry)

Eat tea and coffee both, and oats with bananas. Consider having bread and peanut butter too, but go to Osteopath. Wander through the neighborhood and buy some fish at the Feria Street Mercado. Dorado. The pescadero cleans it for me, as it is whole, of course.
I get fish guts on my shirt trying to clean the rest of the guts that he left, while it is in the frying pan. I do not really do it a la plancha like he suggests. I fry onions and stuff and semi-poach it. There are scales left too, there always are. fish guts - revoltando...? I ask my roommates.
I hang my clothes on the rooftop. I eat tons of honey from the sierras. I take the riverside to get way out into the subburbs to get my hair cut by Marie Carmen's sister and they plancha my hair just like I was supposed to plancha the fish. I don't think the haircut was a success... will have to see. I come across the sevici bikes way out there along paseo de somebodyorother and decide to take one home because it's getting dark. I stop in a Latin supermarket before that and step into a casual circle of three guys hanging out in there. I look to see if they have any pre-made tortillas like they have on commercial drive or any hot salsa. All they have is tons of corn flour and other strange corn products and meat and whatnot. I feel like an outsider here together with them, but they probably don't feel that way about me.
Anyways I get back and try to make potatoes for dinner cause my dad sent an e-mail reminding me to drink green beer or green wine. I guess the only green thing I eat is olives and olive oil. Eat dinner with Marta and tell her about my pancake disaster and about Irish people drinking green beer.
Then I hermit in my room as they go out to plan a trip with their friends.

Alicia comes from a pequeño pueblo near Granada. Every little pueblo has a few of their own words that no one else in Spain understands, but apparently Alicia's pueblo has more like a hundred. Alicia would have done fine as an actress as well, I believe. I normally don't think of girls of twenty-two being "characters" but she already is. She's really a cute and pretty girl but mischevious. Even Marta has trouble understanding her when she speaks in her pueblo tongue. She conjured an old person from the village pretty well, showing how they don't know anybody's name, and would ask, "Antonio who?" to which the answer would be, "the son of the good looking sister of the baker", "Oh, him...!"
Or the bar called "C'e Caballo" (It's probably not written that way on the front, it's just what people call it). "C'e" is the way they contract "casa de". This guy's real name is Carlos but everyone knows him as "horse" (caballo).
Flamenco is fully of nicknames, but I suppose in any little town you'll find them. Some guy has the name of "espanta-coche" (coche meaning car). Espantar is a word I just learned and didn't recognise it, so she demonstrated shoe-ing birds away, "if there are a bunch of palomas here and I do like this... or espanta-pajaros like they have in the countryside", and she stood with arms straight out like a scarecrow. That just made me more confused, "scare-car?!" I said. "Yeah..." One can only surmise how a guy came to have the name "scare-car" (probably closer to "shoe-car" like "shoe-ing" it away.)

The bands practicing in some nearby street for Semana Santa were coming through the open window. Marta explained that her first year here, her sister visited for that week, and one day went out with a list of places to stop and see different processions. They went out the door wearing jeans and running shoes and immediately realised they were extremely out of place. Everyone was dressed in flamenco dresses and suits, extremely high heels. Marta and Alicia both shook their heads and said, "that's Sevillanos".

The fabric shops on my stroll through the center were filled with hordes of women ordering dresses or buying fabric. They are called flamenco dresses but are worn by all the women here, and probably by many people who don't know much about the kind of flamenco I'm interested in. This kind of dress has the characteristic ruffles of dancer's dresses but the function is rather different, and the look a high fashion, stylized version of what dancers traditionally wear. They are always hip-hugging to the point of making it difficult to walk, and they always have multiple layers of ruffles on the bottom, as do the sleeves. Along with the dress, a shawl, flowers in the hair, and big earrings are usually worn. But aside from this, the styles vary widely. Some are nearly hippy-ish looking, although a hippy dress of this style is pretty much an oxymoron. In general, they look like cakes. It would be cool to wear one once, I suppose.

Farruco

In the last few days posters have appeared on the corners, advertising subscriptions to the season's bullfights. It lists the seats and the prices per show per seat, all the way from a little over 1€ to around 800€ (in the sun to private box). The bar where I took coffee while reading about Farruco this afternoon has several black and whites of some old bullfights. That is nothing special as numerous bars do. What they did have though, were several sticks that have a flag attached, and appear to have a tiny bull-dagger on the end.

What I didn't know before coming to Spain was what a connection there is between bullfighting and flamenco. Of course every flamenco student learns that dancers employ certain moves that mimic a torero, but I didn't think it meant much other than the fact that both were separate parts of Spanish culture existing in this country together. There have apparently been many flamenco musicians who were also aficionados of bullfighting and considered these two arts to be akin. I suppose that they have something deep or fundamental in common involving a lack of fear of death or willingness to face it head on. The other commonality would be the primal aspects of human nature that they both call on. I have been sensing this recently like I never have before. There is a wildness in a few of the performances I've seen here that most of what I've seen previously has only hinted at. And yet these aren't even thought to be "pure" or like they used to be. I haven't even told you about the most recent one, because I don't want to spoil it. You cannot get even half the effect on Youtube, and I saw this dancer in a small place, closeup.

This morning after actually making a concerted mental effort to do something (keep straight the conjugations of the imperfect subjunctive with the conditional and the future, while still struggling with the preterite and imperative) I settled down with reading the next chapter in the Historia Social de Flamenco. It was on Farruco, who I believe I've suggested that if you have the remotest interest, you should look up on Youtube.
A gitano who believed that only his people could do decent flamenco and learned to dance by virtue of living alongside it, drew his feeling for compas (rhythm, feel for things, timing) from the rhythm horses kept while they transported him continually, as a child, while he looked for shelter under bridges (directly translated from book). His father had been orphaned due to his grandfather having committed a murder and put in jail (including time spent hiding in caves). His father was taken in by liberal aristocracy and given an education, then joined the military and died fighting the fascists. His mother, a gitana, wore military uniform and short hair, and dug trenches in Madrid while it was beseiged during the war.
Farruco was incredibly proud and seemed to have no apprehension saying what he thought or asking who the heck somebody was right in front of them, before continuing to converse with them. He apparently did not know how to read or write, but travelled the world dancing. One story related a concert in Belgrade, which was attended by many Romani people, who may come from a similar or related stock. They apparently were nearly unable to end the show, they had to raise and lower the curtain "tens of times"; the applause seemed to go on forever. The book describes his dancing as emptying himself out in gushing torrents (sort of), which the people there responded to, as their dancing had become a lost art. After this he spend the night dancing on a tabletop in a bar full of Hungarian gypsies.
He was extremely critical of the young new flamenco dancers, and once told Joaquin Cortes, "son, what you're doing means nothing/has no value (sounds better in Spanish - "no vale na' "). Farruco said he would create something incredible using a third of the effort these dancers use; they look like they're fighting against the floor.
Apparently he had no use for instrumentation other than the guitar and palmas, and said, "what would I need a flute for, I am not a snake charmer!" "And the young dancers that do six pirouettes could fall on their backs and break seven ribs" (paraphrased).

Corpse, skeleton... lots of deathly stuff involved.

I have Reynaud's Phenomenon. That means if someone were to see my hands these days without catching a glimpse of my face of other exposed skin, they would bury me immediately without bothering to check my pulse. Normally it is not this bad but I approximate a dead body very well for someone still typing.

I got out of the Traumotologo's office at 10:45 pm. He was running late tonight and myself and three couples in his waiting room - all older and dressed like they had enough money to be in this posh office - waited for an eternity before the next one was let in. The receptionist, who is super nice and chats with me, played what sounded like the Celtic Ladies, probably for my English-speaking benefit.

I don't think his analysis is complete, because I do think it is a musculoskeletal problem, but he did give me good advice and informed me that the Reynaud's would influence what is happening. Combined with habitual jamming of toes in the front of the shoes, it could cause the problem.

I get to keep my x-ray. It's pretty cool, and kind of freaky to realise I really do have bones in there that look like a skeleton's.

D means "derecha" - right

I am toying with the idea of starting a blog with which I would intend to make a bit of money, involving information on feet problems, injuries involving strange and complex causes, and fitting shoes. This would take a lot of work so I'll be thinking about it carefully first.

An Irish Esqueleto

I went out for a walk around 8:00. I ended up walking behind a band clothed in ancient looking costume - white tight pants, red and black knickers and jacket, and really crazy looking hat with yellow on it. They were practicing for Semana Santa, as everyone seems to be doing. Earlier on I passed yet another group of men taking a break from their frame (not yet a float) which was parked in an alley with some kind of digital sound system resting on it, while the guys were inhabiting the bar across from it, with their towels or cloths still wrapped around their heads. Well, I followed the marching band down Cuesta del Rosario and into Plaza del Salvador, where the crowd of drinkers that usually fills the plaza parted for them. There were a pair of super-guapo guys I noticed ahead of me, who asked me to take a picture of them following behind the band. The band stopped and I somehow misunderstood that they were asking me to go for a copita with them, so I said, "Me? No." Not sure how I managed to screw that up, but it's probably for the better.

I went into the big round church in Plaza San Lorenzo when I got back, and there was already a band from a procession inside. It is a thunderous, grandiose, and maybe primitive sound. There must have been something like 20 trumpets. The drums don't follow an easily identifiable time signature, if they are following one at all. It's 4/4 time with an extra little bit thrown in every two bars, where the drums wind up for the next bit (unless I've lost all my ear training ability completely...)

I stood for a moment in the long church. They were giving mass and the Virgen way high up at the front was surrounded by a myriad of really tall candles arranged in a beautiful formation. Again the place was filled with incense.

Then I hung out in the living room with a whole bunch of classical music students, and one social work student. Two of the girls who happened to be pianists invited me to come with them to the Feria and dance Sevillanas. The one Sevillan girl was insisting that her friend from farther north get a flamenco dress (the skinny kind that you can hardly walk in). The social work girl, from Cadiz, told several stories at breakneck speed (which I pieced together), about her time in Ireland where her fellow language students were constantly doing stupid things. She spoke in a concerned yet tough air; not as a nasty gossiper, and in a serious tone explained how on Halloween a fellow student had appeared at her door the morning after, I think in a cat costume saying she really had a problem. Then the word "esqueleto" kind of clung on sideways in my mind and gradually gelled that it meant skeleton. She had slept with an esqueleto and in the end got pregnant. This was about all she knew about him, besides his name and that he had a job, when she wanted to go look for him around Belfast.

Blue-hand, running shoe dancer

It was getting pretty bad. I was going to have to go work in El Muerte serving copas with the cadaver. My hands were regularly turning blue as death, what with laying here on my bed and reading, and no dancing for over a weak.
Today I went for a run and regained some sanity I didn't realise I'd lost.
It was beautiful out and I wore a skirt over my tights because I don't want to look indecent here. I also wasn't sure if I should be running alone by the river. I am never afraid of that anywhere else I've ever lived including the backwaters of China. Anyways, there were only a couple of construction workers taking a break way down the river who whistled hesitantly at me. I went over the Puente Almallo or something like that, and saw grass. Randomly growing weeds too. That side of the river had something that felt like true naturaleza. At least something approximating it. I didn't say buenos dias to a lone man exiting a little pier thing, and felt rude. He didn't say anything to me either but it could have been because I was looking straight ahead like a cold Anglo Saxon and walking quickly. I am still trying to understand what is normal here, and I think it would have been more normal to say hello, quite unlike if I were walking on the dyke in Richmond!
I lay there (a little concerned about my comportamiento) and stared at the clouds and listened to birds. It was very slightly secluded from the path by some willows, and there were not many people around so I think comportment wouldn't have mattered as much. Anyways I saw some people including women rowing or kayaking on the river, which is a popular thing to do. It doesn't seem like Sevillan women would do outdoor sports, if they do any at all. I know that is a really dorky thing to think or say, but they are just always looking so lovely and wearing heels and stuff, and seem very un-sporting. Perhaps riding horses. I've seen women at least 3 times in the city wearing jodphurs. I wasn't sure if it was a fashion thing or if they actually had gotten off a horse, as the rest of their clothing was polished and nice looking.
It was 4:00 when I finished my run and I needed some bread before the stores closed, so I went directly to the Abaceria and felt like I was breaking all the rules standing there with a sweatshirt tied around my waist, disheveled hair, my shirt sticking to me, and God forbid, ugly running shoes. I just about walked away but at the last moment decided to go look for the server, who was in the process of carrying a gorgeous looking dish of goat cheese to a table of decently attired people. The place was packed with families with grandfathers with little girls in wool dresses on their knees and couples more casually dressed but not in running shoes.

Marta is playing some unbelievably beautiful piece of viola music that is familiar. I am about to cry. Alicia ducked her head out the door and said, "vamos a volverte loca" she is going to start practicing too.

If I keep listening to Marta I will have to go down to Calle Baños to the luthier and spend my last euro on a violin. Perhaps I should have brought it with me.

I think I could dance in running shoes. I will perhaps start to do that. I might have to traer them along in a bag to the studio though. They are just kind of ugly to wear around the city.

comedy troupes of Cadiz

Mira, my search for baking soda in the tiny little Supersol on Calle Alcoy turned up nothing, so now I am watching the comedy troupes from the Cadiz festival. This is an old one, but I wanted to post it as a sample of this type of thing. These bands of comedy guys (always men) are an institution of Cadiz, the city known for its humour, and birthplace of the style of flamenco known as Alegrias (happiness). They are always dressed up in ridiculous costumes and usually use the kazoo in their music. They usually are ridiculing something pertinent in their music. I don't know the whole range of subjects but it can include politics or famous people or just general everyday life.
Some troupes feature young men - again, this is a cultural tradition that crosses all barriers, and is very popular - not just some kind of dorky thing on TV that a segment of the population with nothing better to do watches.

This is called "What my wife said" (note the audience clapping in 3/4 time)

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

In the first part they talk to her about the groceries, the second haven't quite got the overall gist, the third part is about walking the dog ("it's always my turn to walk the dog when he needs to take a poop... and at 9:00 in the morning when it's raining...").

Niños Jesus, Hua Jiao no hay, Sam se lleva Daisy

My big toes will not tolerate anything but one pair of exclusive shoes, that give them total freedom to move around. I have not yet figured out why but I am more clear on what is happening. My big toes are going out of joint at the slightest provocation (with stiff toed shoes that touch the ends of my toes in any way) and dancing with them out of joint is not possible. Walking is intermittently painful.

So today I walked to the ... I don't know what to call it, "mercado de... basura (garbage)". "Mercado de abastos?" said Marta. "No, no, mercado de viejos, baratas cosas". I don't know how to say junk or flea market. It has everything under the sol. Here is a random sample of the cosas it had:
Books - "Por Quien Doblar el Campaña"; Ernest Hemingway. A book on Flamenco in German. "En Forma con Olivia Newton John", with obligatory pictures of her showing you how to stretch your piernas, and flex your cadera. "Enigmas de la Naturaleza", "Iron John - a book for men", Mao Zedong, una bibliografia, and movies like "Mi Nombre es Harvey Milk".
I was looking for a tray to put my teacups on and a mirror. I saw some options but in the end only bought two tiny paperback books with trashy wild west pictures of cowboys saving damsels in distress, and obviously translated from English, "Sam se llevaba Daisy de la plaza." "¡Vive tranquilo, Steve! - replicó Daisy." At the last minute I bought a movie from a girl who was a really good salesperson. Over-enthusiastic and a former speaker of English, I think she just wanted to talk, as much as try to hardsell me something. I was charmed by her and bought a copy of "Torrente", a Spanish made cops and bad guys kind of film, which she explained would help me understand lots of slang, however I should not think the way they act is normal for Spanish people. She ended our conversation by saying that if I get a boyfriend here I should be careful. "Deep sea" she repeated several times. The men from the north are okay but the ones from here think differently. Deep sea.

There are a significant number of shops dealing in religious figurines. "Reparamos Niños Jesus" says the sign in the window of one shop. We repair babies Jesus / baby Jesus's. After walking by some of these I encountered the Chinese grocery store and because I noticed a wok in the house the other day after letting Alicia try a piece of raw ginger (which was quite shocking to her), I thought about trying to cook some. "¿Hay Hua Jiao?" - "¿Sichuan pimiento? Si, normalmente hay hua jiao". There wasn't any today. I stopped for a second and considered getting a Diccionario Chino-Español, since I'd left mine behind at home, though I had considered bringing it. I could not help laughing when I looked at a textbook with Spanish translation under all the characters.

On a serious note, I read an incisive discussion in the paper on the influx of Chinese into Spain, and what is really going on. I judge that the writer was pretty much right on. It is a fact that China has a deal with Spain to let its citizens in and give them big breaks starting businesses and that there are many Chinese doing so, while the Spanish are struggling. His take was that China intends to do this so as to have an economic foothold here, and has somewhat sinister intentions - the government, not the poor average Chinese guy opening the corner "tian da" (Ha ha, inside joke, you have to understand both Spanish and Chinese) - especially considering the weakness of Spain at the moment. I was told that the once healthy local shoe industry has been completely drowned by large companies - I believe owned by Chinese - who now have big factories on the east coast here.

I am fine with understanding the accents we secretly liked to copy as kids. Most of them speak pretty well, actually, but just try understanding a guy speaking Spanish with a strong Chinese accent! ¡Hombre! No way. I am doing okay with Andaluz and Castellano but don't give me Chindaluz.

roommates, doctors, toreros - a jumble of stuff

I got home from the traumatologist, and the chicas were practicing. I could not have asked for a more perfect apartment. Alicia is like a lively bird. She must be one of the most vibrant people I've ever met, but still grounded. She seems like one of the most genuinely happy people I've met. The clarinet suits her, and I love listening to her play it. Marta is more serious in comparison, though not overly so. She is a really solid person; someone who seems totally trustworthy. I get the feeling that she is unusually talented. She was in Madrid for the weekend, playing a concert.
I feel I am doing pretty well with my Spanish; hanging out all night talking about culture and society, seeing three types of doctors and explaining my issues to them and getting their instructions in Spanish. But sometimes I mess up simple things.
Pablo, Alicia's boyfriend, was over and they were making strong coffee and eating sweets around 5:00. I understood that they were about to take an exam (in sociology and aesthetics of music). As I ran out of the house I wished them good luck for an exam they'd already taken.
I have to quit calling myself a male foreigner. "Perdon, soy extranjero," I say. The other day someone noticed, "Ah, eres extranjera," and I realised what I'd been doing all this time. Another one of my well used favorites is, "oh, yes, I will want to do that the other day but I couldn't,"... I need to study some verb tenses.
When I moved in last week, I had to ask if toilet paper could be flushed. I know numerous ways of saying, "where is the bathroom?" but have never had the need to refer directly to the toilet itself. I stopped in mid-sentence, "can I throw paper in the ... cosa (thing)?" They rattled off whatever word meant toilet and I didn't hear it. I tried again to make sure I'd understood that I could indeed flush it, and Marta said very kindly and without making fun of me, but with a smile in her voice, "yes you can throw it in the cosa".
I don't think my foot has any fractures, but I am still going to get an x-ray. The traumatologist is the guy with lots of degrees, who does the least for you, but costs the most. The podologa analysed my walking and made insoles that are significantly affecting my overall body posture. This was a mere E130. The osteopata adjusted my neck, checked my skeleton over in detail and massaged my neck and shoulders in a style which cost him great physical effort, and only charged me E30 for 1.5 hours! The traumatologist bent a few parts of my body, wiggled my toes a bit and wrote me an invitation for an x-ray. That cost E120. Will be E70 for the follow up and then more for the x-ray itself.
I've visited them between 6 and 9 at night because those are normal working hours, since the afternoon is not. Also notable is the total lack of receipts for money paid. Neither the podologa, the osteopata, nor the traumatologo gave me any receipt at all, and in each case, I paid money during one visit that would partly or wholly cover the next one coming up (I had the option to pay during the first visit or the second, whichever I preferred, in two out of the three cases).

In totally disparate news, I think one of the most attractive men I've ever laid eyes on (well only on TV or in a magazine) must be Fernando Rivera, the torero. Before I came here I had a hazy idea of bullfighting and didn't think they necessarily still did it or at least took it as seriously as they do. Anyways, he is a terribly good looking guy who has the most glamorous, dangerous and romantic job (not that I actually even agree with bullfighting being an acceptable thing to do, due to the cruelty!) I was fortunate enough to find a copy of "Hola" in the waiting room of the traumatologist, a trashy rag dedicated to celebrities. Perhaps part of the attraction is how sweet of a person he appears to be juxtaposed against the profession. I think somewhere in the back of my head, the part that might have ever stored any ideas about bullfighters, is an idea that they would be really rough and dirty with scars all over. They had a picture of him in his sleek and modern living room with his brother and two paintings of bulls on the wall between them. One was like a splatter painting - more like a suggestion of a bull, but with lines that made the horns obvious; and the other was a kind of primary colour minimalist red cape with bull horns behind.

Jorge and the air quality in Sevilla

I just don't have the motivation to get on the train to Jerez this weekend. I was going to see El Torta tonight, and am probably missing big things like Manuela Carrasco's group... If I get too bored or lonely later on, maybe I'll go at the last minute.

Yesterday I got up and went for breakfast at a bar at the corner of Teodosio and Marques de la Mina, the same place I saw the guys labouring under their float. The bar seems to be lively late at night and appears to have some tapas that would suit my foodie friends. It is small, as most are, but decorated in a modern but tasteful style. An older lady was sitting at the bar eating her tostada, and a couple with a weiner dog were at the only high table with stools. The weiner dog was a puppy and got the attention of everyone including the owner/bartender who left an employee behind the bar while he went to play with the dog. An old geezer in one of those hats that European men wear, walked in and livened up the conversation even more, with quite raucous laughter and teasing of the dog. I listened to everyone else talking and was worrying myself about trying to join in, as I can't go through my time living here and be afraid of interacting. Anyways it was morning and I hadn't had enough coffee and didn't really feel like it. I had no need to worry though, as Jorge walked in (pronounce "Hor-hey"). Jorge as well, was wearing one of those caps, thick glasses and carried a cane. He started talking to whoever would give them his attention, which would be me. "Apocalypse..." he said. So many cars, it's like Africa here. And smoking. For goodness sakes. Where are you from? Cana-DA... Yes, in your country... "Apocalyptica Now," he repeated several times, to which the young woman behind the bar laughed, probably aware that he was Spanish-izing the title. I didn't understand what he was exactly talking about, but I believe there may have been a good deal of sarcasm involved, and possibly it would have been about the smoking laws, as he appeared to smoke. He kept saying things were going down, and motioned with his hand like going down a steep slide. I don't think he was crazy; he seemed like a pretty with-it guy who was just annoyed at the world. I have a feeling it was about the vast number of cars that are putting off pollution, yet he is not allowed to smoke. I think he was trying to say the air was clean in my country. Possibly one reason for a person like him to actually be aware of air quality is a large digital readout on the corner of the circumnavigation road, and Calle Resolana. It gives the current percent of particulate and of other bad stuff in the air and then gives the air an overall rating of fine, to not so bad to really bad.

After that I went to the iglesia again and took in the activity, then returned via the same street, and stopped in at the Antigua Abaceria San Lorenzo, where I picked up tiny croissants and very nice bread, and more goat cheese covered in a thick, variegated blanket of mold, as well as a more cured type, covered in rosemary. It is a really cool, atmospheric place that is both a specialty meat/cheese/bread/olive oil/wine shop, and a bar.

Hot men stuck in an upside down boat

Spain is a trip. After listening to the church bell striking midnight, I headed down past a few lively bars and heard some muffled music. There were a bunch of really hot looking men all about my age, mostly with white towels wrapped around their head. The majority were stuck under the wooden frame of an unfinished float, wedged in tightly as if they were poverty stricken European pioneers in the hold of some dreadful ship bringing them to the new world; except it was upside down, wedged onto their heads and braced by their arms. They shuffled slowly and in time to the music, and looked like they were a sort of chain gang or bunch of prisoners in matrix configuration (a rough guess would be 7 men wide and 10 or 12 long ...would mean 70 men squashed into a tiny space, which seems unbelievable, but perhaps necessary, considering the weight of the thing on their heads...) Ha ha - would have been hard to tell they were a bunch of attractive guys my age, looking like that, but the ones walking alongside or in front helping to direct the practice session, brought that to my attention.

After writing my last post, I left to meet Kathy and Savas. I was going to be early so I stopped into the other church in Plaza San Lorenzo, the older one. It was about 8:30, and the church had a lot of people sitting, as well as others entering. This one had Jesus. There was a man waiting to wipe his hand off as people kissed it. A small string orchestra and choir were playing, and incense was fogging the place up. Jesus was in a kind of alcove, and this time he was standing straight up, with his hands crossed in front of him; not the normal hunched over with the cross on his back stance. Behind him were him again, and a Virgen. All of them were surrounded by loads of precisely lined up and mounded fresh red flowers. The Virgen and Jesus behind were strikingly clothed (statues with clothes on - as they usually are here). The place was really alive. But alive with such an ancient and odd thing. I have never seen any kind of church, anywhere like this. It didn't really seem like a mass or service in particular was happening. There was just stuff going on inside the church and people were listening, walking in, sitting, kneeling, praying, paying limosnas (alms or whatever). Protestant churches of all descriptions are so orderly, even the hallelujah-ing ones. They always know what they are supposed to be doing there, and it is all very clear in their minds - either singing hymns or getting crazy, directed by someone and extremely purposeful, and starts and ends properly at an identifiable point in time. Here, maybe there is order, but it felt like something else was going on. It is like our friend last night said; this is some gut level human expression. It is about the art, not about theology. It is about the beauty of the statue that expresses so clearly the feelings of Jesus as he was carrying the cross down the road for miles, about the intensity of the red flowers and the care with which they've been placed there by the people. It is not a mental thing that is happening here. It isn't a belief system that comes from the mind, like the religion I am used to.

We got to Torres Macarena on the dot, like a bunch of foreigners. They told us at the door that the show would be starting 3/4 of an hour later than what was advertised. Again I was riveted by the cantaora. I liked her Tientos and Siguiriyas best.

Jesus and the Virgen are everywhere. Just up from Cristo del Buen Fin street is Jesus del Gran Poder, a much larger, longer and important street. I think I would translate this as "Almighty Jesus" street. The word poder can mean power, but it is a multi-use word, most often meaning "to be able to" or "can". Santa Ana street is the closest cross street to my apartment on Cristo del Buen Fin.

Posters say "Hermandad of our padre (father) Jesus the ... (fill in the blank with a quality of Jesus)". As far as I know, Jesus was the son. I think they're a bit confused here. Often the posters advertising some kind of religious function involving the Virgen, say "(something - the type of function) of the Virgen in her solemn sadness".

De la Pipa de mi Conyo

I don't know if I've gotten the saying right, but this is what Spanish women say to end all discussion, to top everything, when they've had enough. They win.
Fernando was trying to explain to Kathy-Carmen how to be a Spanish woman, how to strut her stuff and so on.
This phrase means: "down the passageway of my vagina..." and basically refers to the capabilities that women have, that can't really be beat by anything else, and in particular, those women who have already born children. This was one part of the conversation I didn't understand perfectly. I believe women may use it in different circumstances, but possibly in particular when talking to children... "I gave birth to you, you came out from down there, so shut up!"

La cultura explained

Last night was worth years of study. What I found out straight from the mouths of two men who had no reason to tell me anything other than how it really is, explains it all. I feel a little in shock but have almost no more questions. Most of what they told me, I have read, or heard second hand from others outside the culture that seem to know, but that for me is only a tantalising thing that makes me wonder, "is all this really true?" Like in China, I have to see it for myself, or hear it directly from the people about whom it has been told.

Fortunately, I shared this experience with a similarly reserved, Spanish speaking English girl, and the free-spirited, not even remotely reserved Susanne, who interjected irreverent and hilarous remarks in English. The English girl was working on a new name, at the behest of one of our hosts, Fernando. She has the similarly odd and difficult to pronounce name of "Kathy", back in England.

Kathy, Susanne and I met at Bar Alfalfa, and Kathy and I immediately bonded over some intense issues surrounding differences between our culture and this one. At the bar full of sandwiches around the corner, a bit later, we stood around an up-ended keg-table spilling out onto the sidewalk, with two men and a dog. Fernando, a grey haired, spectacled man with a hot pink scarf, and otherwise normal clothes for a respectable man his age, started off the conversation with Semana Santa. With some intense gesturing and big, excited looking eyes, he explained that it is the primitive things that are within humans, that Semana Santa is all about; that religion has appropriated them. That civilisation is an accord, among us all, that is fragile, and that what is underneath is the strongest. He mentioned the veneration of the virgen, and how Jesus is there, but possibly a bit of a side note.
He told us a line from a famous Sevillan poet: Seville would be great without all the Sevillanos. He said, "We know it. Sevillanos are classist, people that are always looking around them at others, not very open."
Fernando explained that modern art is not possible in Sevilla. When you see Semana Santa you will understand. Art installations and whatnot all fall flat - there is no need for anything else to be said - in comparison to Semana Santa (this was the gist, anyways).
Javi (a young man in his 30s, probably) and Fernando took us to three more bars. The first one, they apologised, would be some word none of us understood and they could not find a way of explaining. Dirty, they said... but not dirty, dangerous? not really dangerous. It is where all the flamencos go. I should have told them they do not need to explain that to me. We stayed for a while, but no random guitar or cante was happening that early. A bowl of smouldering coals was pushed back and forth in the little alleyway, and after standing around it with some other young guys, listening to jokes about Australian animals smoking joints, in Spanish, we had to leave, cause the police were coming and the alley had to be vacated. The bar was too small of a little passageway to fit many inside.
Fernando told us we were going to El Muerte next. The owner, amigo mio, looks like a cadaver serving copas, he said. El Muerte was their name for the bar, because it didn't have a name - it was an unmarked, corrgated metal door pulled down below an archway in the brick, during the day. Again, it was described as a dirty place, but this time in a different way. Indeed, it was a place with ugly brown paint peeling off the walls, that looked utterly ancient, with barrels from which the wine was taken. High on the wall were extremely old bottles with a fur of dust so thick it might keep you warm if you could collect and put it on. The proprietor was indeed a rather unattractive looking and pasty guy; a fat cadaver, I suppose.
Some young, cool looking dudes with gelled up hair were looking at an article on something to do with some of the hermandades and Semana Santa in a magazine, and discussing it. We stood while Javi and Fernando proceeded to explain Spanish society. It might have started with a question of mine, when Fernando got tired of whatever we were previously talking about and asked us to choose a subject. "La FAMILIA," said Fernando, in a deep and ominous sounding voice. They are like the mafia, he said. Javi explained that in the family of a former girlfriend, he had to find or build his own place within the family. That this would be what is expected. Over the course of the next several hours I began to understand stuff I've been wondering about. We talked about the differences between Anglo Saxon culture and theirs, and on the subject of physical distance, and touching others, Fernando expounded in more depth than I had previously discussed this topic. We grow up being told to kiss our cousin, kiss our uncle, kiss so and so. We play close together and we are always touching each other when we talk. He said it is nothing for him to grab an amiga around the waist and give her a big hug. It doesn't mean anything. Fernando told us that in Anglo culture, we are very careful with physical touch, and that it borders on the sexual, whereas for them, it is just part of life. I don't know if you would all identify it that way, but I agree with him. He said the Spanish don't get it when they watch English films, in which the touching of knees is supposed to be erotic.
"Comportamiento" is one that scares me. The Spanish live outside. I can't say this too strongly. It is part of who they are. Their society has evolved from the casas de vecinos and neighbours always meeting in the streets, to the point where essentially, the rules of the house, have to a certain extent been taken out into the street. For this reason, it is very important how you behave in public, in the street, because you want to behave yourself properly when you are in someone's house. This is why they do not appreciate the behaviour of foreigners at times, and specifically stated rowdy groups of drunken English young people. It is just not acceptable for Spanish people to be drunken and rowdy in the streets. There are rules against singing in bars, due to the tendancy for people to start singing loudly and unpleasantly when drunk. So I asked him if this importance in comportment includes things I do, when I want to sit on a bench in public and feel like relaxing, with my arms and legs stretched out and slouching down, perhaps leaning my head back to look at the sky. "No, no, no...!" he said, you're a woman!
Javi explained that divorce is getting more and more common; it is quite normal. It started with his parents' generation, but only became legal in 1985. Fernando told us a different story; that no, even now, it is not something people do much. Javi is certainly correct, but relative to our culture, Fernando's take is more accurate.
We moved to a bar which Fernando explained was a "bar of homosexuales". Well, it was run by some, anyways. The way it was decorated might have had something to do with that, but less so than most Canadians would think. The entire places was Semana Santa themed (as are other bars in Sevilla). There was barely a bare inch of wall, everything being covered by framed pictures, statues, hanging lanterns, and a lot of red velvet with virgen statues and fresh white flowers everywhere. It was like walking into an iglesia. Around the neck of one of the virgens were several ornate and heavy necklaces that would have been worn by someone in a hermandad, while marching in the religious processions. (The first experience of a Semana Santa bar was a place I dragged poor Savas, a Cypriot classical guitarist here to learn flamenco. He wasn't so into the "church-like" bar, that all the rest of the locals of all ages loved. They were playing videos of Semana Santa processions, and burning incense the whole time, which by the way, is utterly heavenly and unlike any other incense I've smelled.)
In this ornate, dark, velvety, religious, antique decor, was playing some very modern, pulsating music, as if we were in a disco, though reasonably quietly, so as to add ambiance and not disturb the locals discussing who was cheating on who. Or the locals explaining to the foreigners how all of that works. Fernando told us that he met a woman he fell in love with more intensely than ever in his entire life. She was a widow. But eventually, she forced him to choose: his family or her. It seemed as if there were no choice to make - of course he chose his family - he had to. Then his voice rose, and he came close to our faces as he said, almost as if he were angry, but it was just pure passion and intense pride, "how do you think we bear a 22% unemployment rate?!... THE FAMILY. The children, get help from the uncles, the parents tell them to come home and stay." It is true, I've heard the rate is 28%, and there are extremely few people begging on the streets or sleeping in parks. Everybody is still going to the bars, living what appears to be normally.
Adultery is bad, but it is not looked upon badly, they said. The most important thing is for the children to grow up in a stable home, to have all the grandparents and relatives there for their birthdays, to protect and look after them well. They love their wives, but when they no longer are in love, they sometimes find a little of that on the side. 
Javi explained Semana Santa and how it works. That it originally was a publicity campaign for the various artisans guilds, and today, the hermandades are often connected by the work they do. And that the difference between the celebrations here in Sevilla and in the North, is that in the north they are truly religious - they take it very seriously and solemnly, and it is all about doing things properly. Here it is all about emotion. It is just a gut level thing. The actual religious aspect of it is symbolical. Many people who march in it are not religious at all. These two were obviously very liberal minded people.
It was also explained to us that the Rocio, a pilgrimage in which about a million people walk from somewhere, to somewhere in Huelva, is where the most enormous sale of condoms takes place, and where it is easiest to pick up a married woman.

That was last night, and I am continuing in a state of utter fascination with this culture. Like I said at first, I am in a slight bit of shock. When you begin to understand how utterly different a culture is and you are surrounded by it; living in it, it can be like that. Most of the time it is easy to overlook, here. I can pass for one of them, in the street. Unless you are an insider here, you would miss a lot of it. This has been a more subtle reaction, but a similar one to when I entered the small towns in Tibet and saw the cow poop smushed onto the walls of all the houses with a hand print in the middle. Shock at the mind-boggling differences.

I am getting ready to go to an evening at the pena tonight, but I just got back from doing an errand and on the way, went into both churches in Plaza San Lorenzo, along with a stream of people. The churches don't usually have much activity, but there are posters out today saying that it is the "besamano (kisshand) of the virgen" and something about our "padre jesus". In the more modern church I went in and bought a pin of Jesus bent over, carrying the cross, and was given two cards, one of the face of the virgen statue with tears, and one of the face of Jesus, with his characteristic gold rays emanating from his downcast head. I watched the stream of people going past the virgen at the front of the church, each one kissing her hand, as a lady wiped the hand between each kiss. I sat for a moment. There was a series of some quite beautiful works of art lining the domed walls, each one an important moment in the few days before Jesus' crucifixion, and up to and including his burial. I have never seen anything like these, and thought of being a child hearing bible stories. These pictures were very moving and very immediate - it would have taken me right there. I went around the raised up stairway behind the "pulpit" area, and watched the old ladies and the young high heeled, tight jeans and frizzy haired ones touching the foot of the statue of Jesus, and crossing themselves and kissing their own fingers afterwards.

Podologa, Osteopata, Traumatologo

The day I moved in, I went to the osteopath, who is like a chiropractor. Except that he works in his own house, with Indian music playing. He had degrees and diplomas on the wall, and seemed like a trustworthy person, but it was a weird atmosphere compared to Dr. John in his Broadway and Pine highrise office.
The shadow his advice cast - that I'd better get my foot x-rayed - was somewhat lessened upon arriving home and hearing Mozart's extremely famous clarinet concerto coming out of the bedroom of Alicia. Marta was playing the viola too, but the clarinet kind of drowned her out. I got in the shower to wash off the sweat from the dance class that pushed my foot over the edge, and just about cried to hear such music.

The days in between then and now have been pretty eventful, compared to life in Vancouver, but nothing of a lot of note, until last night. But I'll make you read the next post, because the subject is quite different.

Actually I guess there is a lot that needs to be told. I've been limping around the streets looking for a "traumatologist". I should have done that immediately, when Manuel recommended it. I grabbed him before he was leaving for Jerez last Friday, with the Japanese TV crew milling around, and questioned him about everything possible to do with feet problems and what kind of doctors to see, and about getting decent shoes made.

I have no idea how long I will be unable to dance, but I don't think I will ever wear the shoes I've been wearing all fall, again, for dancing. I am also completely sure of what I need now, and what is and is not a proper fit for shoes. And that many salespeople and even some professionals do not understand how to fit shoes. Essentially, my left big toe has been hitting the front of my shoe every time I do a full foot "stamp", due to shoes that are too loose. That may not cause a problem practicing an hour here and there for years, but it will ruin you at 3 hours a day. I now suddenly am completely unable to wear any shoes that press my big toe inwards in the slightest. Imagine a joint that is either being pushed sideways or pushed inwards, and then required to rotate. Like a ball-bearing with too much pressure, it can't sustain that kind of abuse.

So last night I found a little old man with a newspaper clipping on his wall saying that he was one of the last remaining people in Sevilla who make shoes the time-honoured way; that people come from the surrounding towns to get shoes made to measure. I questioned the poor man quite insistently to be sure that his shoes were going to be made on a last that was made for my foot, and that these shoes would fit me perfectly when done. Between his son yelling at him to speak slowly so I could understand, and the father gesturing back with his hands in the air that I was understanding perfectly well, and me begging their pardon for my questions, the son traced and measured my feet and they assured me that I would try the unfinished shoes at least once, and that a last was indeed being made according to his measurements. They are only going to cost E300-400. Ten years ago in Vancouver rock bottom minimum for shoes fashioned this way was $600.

Right at this very moment, I am wearing my new insoles, made by the podologa, who analysed my walking last week. These insoles will correct my "pathological" foot and leg posture, she says.

Home on Cristo del Buen Fin - (belatedly posted from Tuesday)

I am sitting at a nice desk, in a big, nice room, on the INTERNET – yay!

I kiss-kiss-ed Loli and Marie Carmen goodbye just as they were galavanting out the door to Malaga, and I took my last load of bags across the Alameda, down Santa Ana, and over to Cristo del Buen Fin. That's where I live. When I first came to see the place, I said to Alicia on the other end of the line, “you mean Cristo as in Jesus Cristo?” to be sure I understood the street name. Indeed there is a typical Spanish picture of Jesus's head looking appropriately in pain, on a big tile, with the title of the street, “Christ of the Good End”, up high on the building at the corner of the street, where all the street signs are.

There are only two girls that I'll be living with, but them and the third one, who is the one vacating the room and leaving for Italy tomorrow, all got together in the kitchen for pre-dinner around 9:30 and had cheese, chips and stuff. Alicia just got back from somewhere in Andalucia, where her hometown is, and Marta was already here taking about six hours of classes today. She explained them just after I'd moved my stuff in and we pooled together our vegetables and weiners and whatnot to make lunch. She had classes playing in a symphony, a chamber orchestra, a baroque group, among other things. She was in Segovia, her hometown, where it was snowing, for the weekend.

I have been constantly meeting a revolving set of foreigners from the Taller Flamenco school, thanks to Susanne, my flat-mate at Loli's. Within that group are one or two that are staying for 4 or more months.

I forgot to mention Oscar. I think we might have gone on a date, but it was pretty low key. Oscar is a really cute Mexican boy with big black eyes who talks super fast. He's been living here for 9 years. He works at the most awesome bar on the bridge in Triana, and wears a formal white shirt and black pants while he works. He could speak awesome English, if he could remember it, as he took subjects like biology and history in English, for many years. He seems to be a language person, and has studied Russian as well.