If you wait too long to do something, stopping yourself for various reasons, then sometimes if just comes out unexpectedly.
Last night I seem to have suddenly gotten myself to take singing lessons, in Puerto Real. It's near Cadiz, so that means a train ride. Probably a good idea to get out of Sevilla. There are many singers in Sevilla and several that I'd already thought of asking to teach. But it didn't happen until last night. I was sitting at the bar, because I went alone and wasn't having dinner. For some reason, in the intermission, I grabbed Rocio's arm and told her I really liked her singing and does she give lessons. I knew that asking this question is serious - it is not just a casual what if. At first she said no, and then her guitarist came over and said she can help me. So we talked a bit and then she introduced me to her daughter, Paloma, who is eight, and seems really curious about me.
The concert was near the port and in a long building with lots of rounded doors, for different venues. This peña was very typical, traditional. Tiles and coloured chairs and mantons hanging behind the stage. The roof was round, so it was a little like being in a cave.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Magic slippers
In Vancouver there are almost no shoes that are even close to fitting me. There are two stores that might have shoes that fit properly. They are always patent leather.
In Spain there are a lot of shoes that almost fit, but not that many that actually do. Tonight I discovered the spot. It is Antonio Orsillo or something like that. It has numerous brands I've never seen before, most of them Spanish.
I fit numerous pairs of shoes in this store, including stilettos of a sort no Canadian would ever wear. But the only summer sandals that actually fit in the entire city are of course the most exclusive - they make only one pair in each size. These magic ones are from London, called Audley, made in Spain. They are unusual - London style high fashion, you could say, and quality.
I apologise for my inability to just be a hippy, but if some hippy shoemaker somewhere would like to make me a pair of shoes that weren't two of my feet wide, then I might stand a chance, eh?
Of course they are outside my budget. But still cheaper than what I could find at home. I will probably buy two pairs. When you can search the whole world ... I wanted to cry. The salesperson went on about how comfortable they were and explained the 1 shoe in each size thing. I couldn't actually care less about that. For once I wish a shoe salesperson would take my problem seriously. They fit ME. That means there are very, very few other people that will fit these shoes. No wonder they only make one in each size!!!
In Spain there are a lot of shoes that almost fit, but not that many that actually do. Tonight I discovered the spot. It is Antonio Orsillo or something like that. It has numerous brands I've never seen before, most of them Spanish.
I fit numerous pairs of shoes in this store, including stilettos of a sort no Canadian would ever wear. But the only summer sandals that actually fit in the entire city are of course the most exclusive - they make only one pair in each size. These magic ones are from London, called Audley, made in Spain. They are unusual - London style high fashion, you could say, and quality.
I apologise for my inability to just be a hippy, but if some hippy shoemaker somewhere would like to make me a pair of shoes that weren't two of my feet wide, then I might stand a chance, eh?
Of course they are outside my budget. But still cheaper than what I could find at home. I will probably buy two pairs. When you can search the whole world ... I wanted to cry. The salesperson went on about how comfortable they were and explained the 1 shoe in each size thing. I couldn't actually care less about that. For once I wish a shoe salesperson would take my problem seriously. They fit ME. That means there are very, very few other people that will fit these shoes. No wonder they only make one in each size!!!
better late than never - Semana Santa visuals
My collection: Upper left and second lower given to me by Jose. Lower left from "Pepe de Jerez" - lol - Pepe was an older dude we met at Pena Buleria who had gotten a new cell number and this was his calling card. I am missing Virgen de la Dulce Nombre, who is being used as a bookmark.
Hermandad del Amour, I think. Giralda in the background, sorry can't see it. Jose's top pick of the processions.
Hermandad Estrella going over Puente Triana.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Mala pinta in tropical wonderland.
Tengo la peor mala pinta del mundo. I look terrible (not a very expressive translation but roughly eso).
The otro lado del río is like a tropical - well not really a tropical forest - tropical bushes-by-the-river. María told me to call Jose Luis if I wanted to go to the futbol campo (actually go to the field to watch a game), and they were all going for drinks beforehand, so I could go meet them, but to call Jose. Jose had texted me that we'll talk later, but I am not about to invite myself with someone when that specific person has not invited me. So I went for a walk by the river instead. Things may be different in this group... they know each other so well and know what each other is doing often, they were talking, and perhaps she related the invitation to me. I am guessing. I cannot apply my Canadian rules to social situations here. But when in doubt I'll be on the safe side.
I went over the pedestrian bridge and then through the gated gardens on the other side, in the "American" part. A sign said they have various riverside plants, including a chopo/chodo/choto/chupo tree from Canada. I am not aware of any such tree, but then again, I'm sure they have strange names for our trees. There were enormous mounds (bushes) of a various types of plants we think of as annuals in Vancouver, and can only grow in the very height of summer with our fingers crossed and our tongues held the right way. The honeysuckle vines are in full bloom, bougainvillea are crawling over everything, forming numerous enormous bushes beside the bridge entrance. The thing I can't remember starts with a "la-" and comes in red/orange and purple/yellow. It was getting towards dusk and there were some birds unlike anything I've heard since being in China. Their "song" (more like a teasing, witty dialogue) can be extremely loud and sharp, and at times can crescendo from nothing to a loud trill, but with personality. There is a large range of sounds they made. They seem far more human than bird, and remind me of some kinds of human only found here in the Mediterranean - like the guy I met the other night - teasing and unabashed and insistent; rascally. Like a very creative, loud kid, playing. The bird was exactly like that. Both the man and the bird are way outside the box of possibilities that I am aware of for men and birds. I looked for a long time before I saw one. It was very plain and fairly small, like the size of a finch, and looked similar.
It wasn't all that warm yesterday, as it had been raining and there was a small storm in the early evening. All this tropical splendour is lovely, but last night at 11:30 I involuntarily yelled when I saw a large cockroach crawling on our counter. Luckily for me, Alicia had gotten home earlier, and told me, "tranquila". No pasa nada... Then all night I could hear a mosquito buzzing and my only thought was, "just don't bite my eye". Wouldn't you know it, this morning I've got a hideous puffy, red eye.
By the way, the nasturtiums near the Triana bridge have been blooming in huge mounds for quite a few weeks already. They may be just about past.
The otro lado del río is like a tropical - well not really a tropical forest - tropical bushes-by-the-river. María told me to call Jose Luis if I wanted to go to the futbol campo (actually go to the field to watch a game), and they were all going for drinks beforehand, so I could go meet them, but to call Jose. Jose had texted me that we'll talk later, but I am not about to invite myself with someone when that specific person has not invited me. So I went for a walk by the river instead. Things may be different in this group... they know each other so well and know what each other is doing often, they were talking, and perhaps she related the invitation to me. I am guessing. I cannot apply my Canadian rules to social situations here. But when in doubt I'll be on the safe side.
I went over the pedestrian bridge and then through the gated gardens on the other side, in the "American" part. A sign said they have various riverside plants, including a chopo/chodo/choto/chupo tree from Canada. I am not aware of any such tree, but then again, I'm sure they have strange names for our trees. There were enormous mounds (bushes) of a various types of plants we think of as annuals in Vancouver, and can only grow in the very height of summer with our fingers crossed and our tongues held the right way. The honeysuckle vines are in full bloom, bougainvillea are crawling over everything, forming numerous enormous bushes beside the bridge entrance. The thing I can't remember starts with a "la-" and comes in red/orange and purple/yellow. It was getting towards dusk and there were some birds unlike anything I've heard since being in China. Their "song" (more like a teasing, witty dialogue) can be extremely loud and sharp, and at times can crescendo from nothing to a loud trill, but with personality. There is a large range of sounds they made. They seem far more human than bird, and remind me of some kinds of human only found here in the Mediterranean - like the guy I met the other night - teasing and unabashed and insistent; rascally. Like a very creative, loud kid, playing. The bird was exactly like that. Both the man and the bird are way outside the box of possibilities that I am aware of for men and birds. I looked for a long time before I saw one. It was very plain and fairly small, like the size of a finch, and looked similar.
It wasn't all that warm yesterday, as it had been raining and there was a small storm in the early evening. All this tropical splendour is lovely, but last night at 11:30 I involuntarily yelled when I saw a large cockroach crawling on our counter. Luckily for me, Alicia had gotten home earlier, and told me, "tranquila". No pasa nada... Then all night I could hear a mosquito buzzing and my only thought was, "just don't bite my eye". Wouldn't you know it, this morning I've got a hideous puffy, red eye.
By the way, the nasturtiums near the Triana bridge have been blooming in huge mounds for quite a few weeks already. They may be just about past.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Cristina Hoyos and Antonio Gades
This is what I have to say today. If you happen to like this, anything these two do is amazing. They did a lot of theatrical productions or movies together. They are some of the most famous dancers of the last 50 years, in flamenco.
This is what I have to say today. If you happen to like this, anything these two do is amazing. They did a lot of theatrical productions or movies together. They are some of the most famous dancers of the last 50 years, in flamenco.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
chicos hombres chavales muchachos tios
I've been lucky so far. Haven't met any pesado men and only two really sweet guys. Trouble is they are so much younger than me. Big boost to the ego that at my age they are interested but that grows old after a while. It gets frustrating when you are no longer interested in some casual b.s. and when the cute guy who you thought was probably at least 32 and who thought you were only 30, turns out to be 28 and finds out you are 39. Isn't there a man here who is my age, and not looking for a sideline?
Well, I've just met him. Maybe the only one in Sevilla. He's nuts.
So due to not having the nerve to call my friends, I was walking past the usually proper and polite Abaceria on my way home. A guy was leaning down explaining to a child something about going onto the road, and looked up just as I was passing, using me as a random example of a passerby, to tell the kid something. Without skipping a beat, he segued directly into chatting me up and him and his friend asked me to have a drink. I appropriately refused a couple times, but was lonely and they were friendly and so I said yes. Unfortunately, I would have to call Andres pesao. There is a small sidewalk outside the Abaceria, and he kept pushing me down it, by talking to me inches from my face, and me continually moving away. At this point in my life, though I am not a lot less timid than at 16, I can handle it, and while I am in a situation like this, I am laughing at the hilarity of it, and treating it like a social experiment. I keep on hanging out, to see what he will do next, because I can't get my head around it.
Upon exclaiming that I could be his girlfriend and looking with super sparkling, genuinely excited eyes, he asked how it was that I didn't have a boyfriend. So I asked him, and since he was 42 and not married, how come? Ninety percent of the men here cheat on their wives, he said. I don't want to do that, so I never got married.
He is utterly unabashed and seems to just say or do whatever come to his mind first. This kind of man really and absolutely DOES NOT EXIST in Canada. It fascinates me because at home no one would ever do what he does, unless they were revoltingly slimy. I don't necessarily like his manner, but it is not slimy at all. It is like a child. He tells me to come to Portugal with him, he is going this week. Not that I need an excuse but I am going to Cadiz, and probably Jerez. He repeatedly says "dame la mano", because my hands are cold and he wants to warm them. He even sticks my hand in his back pocket at one point. He is pretty harmless, despite being over the top. But the worst problem for me is what this might appear like to the good and proper people of the neighborhood. In Anglo culture, a guy would let a girl suffer, or look after her own cold hands, unless he had a serious romantic purpose (which would have to come out very subtley and slowly, the hand warming being a fairly serious gesture, and agreement on both sides that something is going on - more like a pretext). Here, there wasn't any subtlety. So no real need to use handwarming for any purpose. In many ways he was being a lot more genuinely nice. His friend says that I've come along on this rainy day, from Vancouver, and look now, the universe has done something and the sun is coming through the dark clouds by the river. It's because you came along.
He says I will call you this week from Portugal, no I won't it's my company's phone. I'll call you when I get back. Can I call you? Will you go out with me? I say I don't know. He says do you want me never to call you? I say, I'm not sure. He gets upset, and says I've said I don't want him to call me. His friend comes along and he goes off for a minute. His friend says, Andres doesn't believe in God. He doesn't think he has a reason to live, and he was asking God to give him a sign and you came along. Now he has a reason.
Andres comes back. His phone rings and he drops his wine glass on the sidewalk in order to reach into his back pocket to get it. He doesn't bother about the wineglass. His friend comes back and says, in Vancouver, Grizzlies? It takes me a second to realise it is basketball he is talking about and not orsos. He mimes basketball (he is in the middle of the street - okay lane) and mentions his playstation. He says, is Andres giving you a problem? Andres says, if I give you a problem, he will hit me. And if he gives you a problem, I'll hit him. Then his friend (who is probably in his 50s) says he is an Angel (his name is Angél) Guardian. Angel is a lawyer, but has been a soldier, in Africa, Lebanon, Afghanistan, China. And everywhere he's been, he's taken this little figurine. He gives it to me and says if I ever have a problem to talk to it. It seems rather important - too large of a gift, having been through so much with him so I refuse. Andres, whispers that he has several of them, so I finally take it.
Well, I've just met him. Maybe the only one in Sevilla. He's nuts.
So due to not having the nerve to call my friends, I was walking past the usually proper and polite Abaceria on my way home. A guy was leaning down explaining to a child something about going onto the road, and looked up just as I was passing, using me as a random example of a passerby, to tell the kid something. Without skipping a beat, he segued directly into chatting me up and him and his friend asked me to have a drink. I appropriately refused a couple times, but was lonely and they were friendly and so I said yes. Unfortunately, I would have to call Andres pesao. There is a small sidewalk outside the Abaceria, and he kept pushing me down it, by talking to me inches from my face, and me continually moving away. At this point in my life, though I am not a lot less timid than at 16, I can handle it, and while I am in a situation like this, I am laughing at the hilarity of it, and treating it like a social experiment. I keep on hanging out, to see what he will do next, because I can't get my head around it.
Upon exclaiming that I could be his girlfriend and looking with super sparkling, genuinely excited eyes, he asked how it was that I didn't have a boyfriend. So I asked him, and since he was 42 and not married, how come? Ninety percent of the men here cheat on their wives, he said. I don't want to do that, so I never got married.
He is utterly unabashed and seems to just say or do whatever come to his mind first. This kind of man really and absolutely DOES NOT EXIST in Canada. It fascinates me because at home no one would ever do what he does, unless they were revoltingly slimy. I don't necessarily like his manner, but it is not slimy at all. It is like a child. He tells me to come to Portugal with him, he is going this week. Not that I need an excuse but I am going to Cadiz, and probably Jerez. He repeatedly says "dame la mano", because my hands are cold and he wants to warm them. He even sticks my hand in his back pocket at one point. He is pretty harmless, despite being over the top. But the worst problem for me is what this might appear like to the good and proper people of the neighborhood. In Anglo culture, a guy would let a girl suffer, or look after her own cold hands, unless he had a serious romantic purpose (which would have to come out very subtley and slowly, the hand warming being a fairly serious gesture, and agreement on both sides that something is going on - more like a pretext). Here, there wasn't any subtlety. So no real need to use handwarming for any purpose. In many ways he was being a lot more genuinely nice. His friend says that I've come along on this rainy day, from Vancouver, and look now, the universe has done something and the sun is coming through the dark clouds by the river. It's because you came along.
He says I will call you this week from Portugal, no I won't it's my company's phone. I'll call you when I get back. Can I call you? Will you go out with me? I say I don't know. He says do you want me never to call you? I say, I'm not sure. He gets upset, and says I've said I don't want him to call me. His friend comes along and he goes off for a minute. His friend says, Andres doesn't believe in God. He doesn't think he has a reason to live, and he was asking God to give him a sign and you came along. Now he has a reason.
Andres comes back. His phone rings and he drops his wine glass on the sidewalk in order to reach into his back pocket to get it. He doesn't bother about the wineglass. His friend comes back and says, in Vancouver, Grizzlies? It takes me a second to realise it is basketball he is talking about and not orsos. He mimes basketball (he is in the middle of the street - okay lane) and mentions his playstation. He says, is Andres giving you a problem? Andres says, if I give you a problem, he will hit me. And if he gives you a problem, I'll hit him. Then his friend (who is probably in his 50s) says he is an Angel (his name is Angél) Guardian. Angel is a lawyer, but has been a soldier, in Africa, Lebanon, Afghanistan, China. And everywhere he's been, he's taken this little figurine. He gives it to me and says if I ever have a problem to talk to it. It seems rather important - too large of a gift, having been through so much with him so I refuse. Andres, whispers that he has several of them, so I finally take it.
Friday, April 22, 2011
A discussion, a critique
I am trying to get my head around what it would be like to be passionate about things that come from one's own heritage, that have centuries of unbroken tradition. How would it be possible to be passionate about, and to spend a great deal of one's emotional and mental energy on traditions of one's own ancestors, and take great pride in them?
I feel nearly heritageless. I consider my heritage roughly Anglo-Saxon, but it really is a great percentage Celtic, and there is a big difference. The Anglo part has had more of a direct impact on my own life, I believe. All I know about the Celtic heritage is fiddling and ceilidhs and step dancing. That is all pretty cool, and I did love the culture in Ireland. It was the first place I ever went that didn't feel like a vacuum. But my connection to it is tenuous - it's more of a made up or forced connection. I discovered this stuff on my own, in my 20s. It held my interest for a short period of time.
I consider my heritage much more to be traditions of North America. I've heard the blues all my life. My mom even hummed or sang in a bluesy style. That's been around me since childhood. That and church hymns. Of course I knew nothing about the history of blues until I got older, but that's kind of similar to kids here with flamenco. It's in their blood though they may not know its history or much about the gitano community.
Bluegrass came to me later, but it feels like part of me. The only other thing would be Black Gospel, or hymns of the deep south like Sacred Harp. I don't want to live in North America again without regaining a connection with some of this. The connections are more tenuous in Canada, I feel.
I've always been an outsider with pop, "alternative" (cooler, more intellectual form of pop) music and culture. I couldn't care less about music coming out of my culture. My immediate culture (what's around me in Vancouver) feels like a vacuum to me: it is cynical, reactionary and has little in and of itself. It can only pass comment on other things, usually coolly criticizing them. I would rather be wrong, naive, simple minded: I need something with a soul.
It is a paradox. Some people don't realise how positive the gains are that North America has made in culture and breaking traditions. Faced with married men feeling bound to tradition and seeking affairs on the side, I have great pride and thanks for the freedom that happened in the 60s. Seeing some remaining macho attitudes here, I am extremely happy I have been spared dealing with men that could order me around. It is invaluable that I can choose to follow what is truly right for me, and to look inside myself or around me for other options, in order to find relief from negative behaviour patterns in my family. This is what my culture has made possible, and it seems people here are only starting to do that.
I feel nearly heritageless. I consider my heritage roughly Anglo-Saxon, but it really is a great percentage Celtic, and there is a big difference. The Anglo part has had more of a direct impact on my own life, I believe. All I know about the Celtic heritage is fiddling and ceilidhs and step dancing. That is all pretty cool, and I did love the culture in Ireland. It was the first place I ever went that didn't feel like a vacuum. But my connection to it is tenuous - it's more of a made up or forced connection. I discovered this stuff on my own, in my 20s. It held my interest for a short period of time.
I consider my heritage much more to be traditions of North America. I've heard the blues all my life. My mom even hummed or sang in a bluesy style. That's been around me since childhood. That and church hymns. Of course I knew nothing about the history of blues until I got older, but that's kind of similar to kids here with flamenco. It's in their blood though they may not know its history or much about the gitano community.
Bluegrass came to me later, but it feels like part of me. The only other thing would be Black Gospel, or hymns of the deep south like Sacred Harp. I don't want to live in North America again without regaining a connection with some of this. The connections are more tenuous in Canada, I feel.
I've always been an outsider with pop, "alternative" (cooler, more intellectual form of pop) music and culture. I couldn't care less about music coming out of my culture. My immediate culture (what's around me in Vancouver) feels like a vacuum to me: it is cynical, reactionary and has little in and of itself. It can only pass comment on other things, usually coolly criticizing them. I would rather be wrong, naive, simple minded: I need something with a soul.
It is a paradox. Some people don't realise how positive the gains are that North America has made in culture and breaking traditions. Faced with married men feeling bound to tradition and seeking affairs on the side, I have great pride and thanks for the freedom that happened in the 60s. Seeing some remaining macho attitudes here, I am extremely happy I have been spared dealing with men that could order me around. It is invaluable that I can choose to follow what is truly right for me, and to look inside myself or around me for other options, in order to find relief from negative behaviour patterns in my family. This is what my culture has made possible, and it seems people here are only starting to do that.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
It is dawn and I am getting into bed. Usually getting to bed later than I should makes me tense. That happens just about every night.
It makes me tense not to be out in the middle of the day, aprovechar-ing the light. There is this rigid sense of time that I am slave to, and it's not just due to schedules imposed on me from commitments I have. But here, there is so much intense light, for so much of the year, who cares if you miss some? Getting out in the light, because you feel down if you don't, and keeping yourself sane with schedules you set up - neither of those things matter all that much if you are around people. In fact I feel like I could stand a lot, if I have warm, friendly people around me. I can hang out in ugly or boring places, I can survive a certain amount of deprivation.
Spanish people are amazing. This group of friends absorbed me like a sponge. I meet new people every time I go out with them, roaming around to different bars, there are other friends in their extended group present every time. I am always introduced with a kiss on either cheek. It was Jose Luis who first gave me his phone number. But the first time after that, that I went out with them, three more people exchange phone numbers with me. Everyone is nice to me, makes an effort to talk to me. It's fascinating watching how they are different from us, socially. They're pretty similar in what they talk about, in the way they joke around. Everyone in this group is part of a couple. They don't always have their partner with them. The interesting thing is that they are really close with each other. A girl whose fiance is sitting across from her will put her head on the shoulder of a guy friend beside her. A guy will put his arm around a girl that's not his girlfriend, as they're walking down the sidewalk, and affectionately give her a big hug. They aren't stuck to each other's sides. The guys who have girlfriends will walk and talk with me, and nobody is worried about that. They seem to be very "loving" with each other.
Spanish people call each other "hija", "hijo" endearingly (child - daughter/son). Even strangers, some my own age, have called me "hija" (like in a shop). Girls will call each other guapa. Usually between men and women, without necessarily any romantic attachment, they might call each other "corazon".
I wouldn't take a stranger so quickly into my group of friends and don't know anyone at home who would (I guess not surprisingly with the exception of my Italian friends, and their group of non-Canadian friends). I was even invited to go to Noelia's bachelorette party. (She is getting married in a month).
Madrugada was a bust. I called Maria and then Jose Luis to see if it might be possible to at least go see in the churches, and see if there would be any Saetas sung. The lineups would have been enormous and in the rain. I met them at one bar and we went to the next, where a big group of us had tapas. It seems that the guys pretty much always pay for the girls. And nobody would let me pay for anything, any of the times we've gone out. Jose Luis seems to be the only single guy, and when people are not wandering and milling around talking to whoever, or the girls aren't talking all together, I am with him, which suits me fine, as he is really sweet, and cute. I don't know if it means anything really. Also he is quite a lot younger than me - Spanish people look older than they are, I think. Probably because they act more mature, more responsible.
This was the biggest night of Semana Santa. I was really looking forward to seeing and hearing some of the processions. Jose Luis spent quite a bit of time during tapas listening to a radio station on Jose Pablo's iphone, that gave up to date information on whether each hermandad would be going out. He was pretty disappointed. It was raining off and on all night, so none would. We went to the same bar as a few nights before, with the TV. That was the saddest of all, as the TV insisted on showing Semana Santa, even though it wasn't happening - they were filming the empty streets with rain pounding down... they just kept showing them. And some people were actually watching this. We finally went to another bar (we were attempting to stay up till around 5 or 6 when we could go look at Jesus del Gran Poder - the most important Jesus in Sevilla - in Plaza San Lorenzo, and I suppose the one that Kathy and I saw being taken down the other night).
Finally after various members of the crowd had drifted away from us, we had three Joses, Agu and Noelia. The church was closed and nobody was trying to do the same thing. We went to Jose and Noelias place for another drink. This is rare, as people don't invite others to their homes here, so I understand. There were just no bars available.
Throughout the night, when the guys weren't fixated on talking about something else, they would hum the Semana Santa tunes, or stick a box of napkins from the table on their head and pretend to be carrying a float, or walk funny, in time to the music, real or imaginary or on their iphone or TV. At Noelia and Jose's place a very surreal moment was watching a program on health, with subtitles telling you how to eat better or how to protect your back, and a woman demonstrating stuff, with the sound turned off and Semana Santa music on the stereo really loud, and Jose Luis doing the costalero walk, in time to the music and humming along, right beside or in front of the enormous TV (they have a gorgeous apartment).
Jose Luis is the most fanatical about it. While the others shut off the Semana Santa part of their brain during the rest of the year, he does not. I don't understand. Well, there is understanding and then knowing in some other part of yourself besides your brain. I don't get it. It's impossible for a Canadian to "get". Not everyone here knows about or likes flamenco. But Jose Luis suddenly started doing bulerias palmas and then rapping it out on a chair. He seems to be a traditional Spanish culture buff - flamenco, bullfighting and Semana Santa are all passions or at least interests. I've tried several times to explain how strange this all is for me and how much it differs from North American or Anglo Saxon thinking (people here all know this, or have their reverse stereotypes of us, just like we do of them). He explained to me something very similar to what I've heard other people say to describe Andalucians. Living with heart, instead of logic, is the only way to do it. Living for the moment, because you could be dead next year. I said my roommates even didn't like bullfighting because the bulls die. He said, "I am an animal, you are an animal, we will die too."
It makes me tense not to be out in the middle of the day, aprovechar-ing the light. There is this rigid sense of time that I am slave to, and it's not just due to schedules imposed on me from commitments I have. But here, there is so much intense light, for so much of the year, who cares if you miss some? Getting out in the light, because you feel down if you don't, and keeping yourself sane with schedules you set up - neither of those things matter all that much if you are around people. In fact I feel like I could stand a lot, if I have warm, friendly people around me. I can hang out in ugly or boring places, I can survive a certain amount of deprivation.
Spanish people are amazing. This group of friends absorbed me like a sponge. I meet new people every time I go out with them, roaming around to different bars, there are other friends in their extended group present every time. I am always introduced with a kiss on either cheek. It was Jose Luis who first gave me his phone number. But the first time after that, that I went out with them, three more people exchange phone numbers with me. Everyone is nice to me, makes an effort to talk to me. It's fascinating watching how they are different from us, socially. They're pretty similar in what they talk about, in the way they joke around. Everyone in this group is part of a couple. They don't always have their partner with them. The interesting thing is that they are really close with each other. A girl whose fiance is sitting across from her will put her head on the shoulder of a guy friend beside her. A guy will put his arm around a girl that's not his girlfriend, as they're walking down the sidewalk, and affectionately give her a big hug. They aren't stuck to each other's sides. The guys who have girlfriends will walk and talk with me, and nobody is worried about that. They seem to be very "loving" with each other.
Spanish people call each other "hija", "hijo" endearingly (child - daughter/son). Even strangers, some my own age, have called me "hija" (like in a shop). Girls will call each other guapa. Usually between men and women, without necessarily any romantic attachment, they might call each other "corazon".
I wouldn't take a stranger so quickly into my group of friends and don't know anyone at home who would (I guess not surprisingly with the exception of my Italian friends, and their group of non-Canadian friends). I was even invited to go to Noelia's bachelorette party. (She is getting married in a month).
Madrugada was a bust. I called Maria and then Jose Luis to see if it might be possible to at least go see in the churches, and see if there would be any Saetas sung. The lineups would have been enormous and in the rain. I met them at one bar and we went to the next, where a big group of us had tapas. It seems that the guys pretty much always pay for the girls. And nobody would let me pay for anything, any of the times we've gone out. Jose Luis seems to be the only single guy, and when people are not wandering and milling around talking to whoever, or the girls aren't talking all together, I am with him, which suits me fine, as he is really sweet, and cute. I don't know if it means anything really. Also he is quite a lot younger than me - Spanish people look older than they are, I think. Probably because they act more mature, more responsible.
This was the biggest night of Semana Santa. I was really looking forward to seeing and hearing some of the processions. Jose Luis spent quite a bit of time during tapas listening to a radio station on Jose Pablo's iphone, that gave up to date information on whether each hermandad would be going out. He was pretty disappointed. It was raining off and on all night, so none would. We went to the same bar as a few nights before, with the TV. That was the saddest of all, as the TV insisted on showing Semana Santa, even though it wasn't happening - they were filming the empty streets with rain pounding down... they just kept showing them. And some people were actually watching this. We finally went to another bar (we were attempting to stay up till around 5 or 6 when we could go look at Jesus del Gran Poder - the most important Jesus in Sevilla - in Plaza San Lorenzo, and I suppose the one that Kathy and I saw being taken down the other night).
Finally after various members of the crowd had drifted away from us, we had three Joses, Agu and Noelia. The church was closed and nobody was trying to do the same thing. We went to Jose and Noelias place for another drink. This is rare, as people don't invite others to their homes here, so I understand. There were just no bars available.
Throughout the night, when the guys weren't fixated on talking about something else, they would hum the Semana Santa tunes, or stick a box of napkins from the table on their head and pretend to be carrying a float, or walk funny, in time to the music, real or imaginary or on their iphone or TV. At Noelia and Jose's place a very surreal moment was watching a program on health, with subtitles telling you how to eat better or how to protect your back, and a woman demonstrating stuff, with the sound turned off and Semana Santa music on the stereo really loud, and Jose Luis doing the costalero walk, in time to the music and humming along, right beside or in front of the enormous TV (they have a gorgeous apartment).
Jose Luis is the most fanatical about it. While the others shut off the Semana Santa part of their brain during the rest of the year, he does not. I don't understand. Well, there is understanding and then knowing in some other part of yourself besides your brain. I don't get it. It's impossible for a Canadian to "get". Not everyone here knows about or likes flamenco. But Jose Luis suddenly started doing bulerias palmas and then rapping it out on a chair. He seems to be a traditional Spanish culture buff - flamenco, bullfighting and Semana Santa are all passions or at least interests. I've tried several times to explain how strange this all is for me and how much it differs from North American or Anglo Saxon thinking (people here all know this, or have their reverse stereotypes of us, just like we do of them). He explained to me something very similar to what I've heard other people say to describe Andalucians. Living with heart, instead of logic, is the only way to do it. Living for the moment, because you could be dead next year. I said my roommates even didn't like bullfighting because the bulls die. He said, "I am an animal, you are an animal, we will die too."
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Tomorrow is the night to be up - I was mistaken earlier. Tonight my new friends invited me to watch the futbol game, the only thing that could take attention away from Semana Santa. I am extremely tired. I opted for a short stint of several hours watching the Panaderos. It was in a sitio near my place, and I felt bad for missing Jose's other hermandad the other day, so I wanted to see this one. The crowd wasn't insane like Domingo de Ramos and I survived it quite nicely alone. The misterio contained a real tree, with Jesus standing under it, a total of 9 statues, 4 ornate candelabra, all with numerous real candles. I watched it come out of a tiny street, turn a corner, go a short distance and enter another narrow lane. The tree and the plumes on the headdresses of roman guards danced as the costaleros shifted back and forth, manouvering around the corner.It is a cosa rarisima (raro = weird) to see a float carried by many feet underneath, practically dancing. It is beautiful, in a kind of way that bypasses my mind, and is only slightly recogniseable by some other part of me. Something in your soul does a double-take.
I waited, as I remembered Jose saying he was a devotee of the Virgen, in this hermandad, whereas he likes the Jesus of the other one better. The Virgen always has her own penitentes (guys in the pointy hats). They wore burgundy robes and black pointy hats. They always carry huge candles. There's nothing at all scary about them, and they'll never again have the same negative association. Not when they pass you close enough to breathe on them, and every once in a while they catch your eyes. Sometimes it's a young, really sweet pair of eyes. Other times it's a young guy checking you out. Sometimes it's obviously a girl. They are all ages. They have to adjust their hats sometimes so the eye-holes don't stray too far. One guy had a pair of narrow, squareish rimmed glasses sticking out the eye-holes of his capirote. Other times you see them strolling home with their girlfriend/husband/kid afterwards.
I spotted Jose just before the Virgen float came to the corner. Must have been a change of plans as he was wearing a suit and tie instead of wearing a towel on his head under the float. There was only one line of people between me and the float, and we had crowded in while waiting. This float was larger had to push our wall of bodies back to get around the corner.
A break for a vuelta and to see Hermandad de la Buen Fin (lives next door) coming down the familiar streets I inhabit every day. Can still hear the music of the last float coming back to the church, at 1:30. There is nothing reasonable about this. It makes no sense. Sevillan people devote a huge amount of their time and energy and attention, (throughout the year) to something that is totally ridiculous by the standards I grew up with. There is nothing logical, efficient or sensible about an entire city being beset by dense, impassable crowds in numerous places around the city for hours a day for a whole week. Neither is there anything reasonable about carrying a heavy float on your neck for 7 hours within 13, or walking barefoot on city streets for anywhere from 5-13 hours, carrying a wooden cross on your back with a hood over your head.
I watched young, good looking men of about 20 - the kind with their hair gelled up into a point and jeans perched below their hips - staring with rapt attention, and something like a wistful gaze, at the float as it went around the corner on Amor de Dios. I saw little boys with huge balls of wax that they'd laboured to create, by asking passing penitentes to add a little more wax from their candles.
Semana Santa paso from last year
Here's a link to a youtube video of one of the hermandades last year. This is typical of what is going on all week.
I waited, as I remembered Jose saying he was a devotee of the Virgen, in this hermandad, whereas he likes the Jesus of the other one better. The Virgen always has her own penitentes (guys in the pointy hats). They wore burgundy robes and black pointy hats. They always carry huge candles. There's nothing at all scary about them, and they'll never again have the same negative association. Not when they pass you close enough to breathe on them, and every once in a while they catch your eyes. Sometimes it's a young, really sweet pair of eyes. Other times it's a young guy checking you out. Sometimes it's obviously a girl. They are all ages. They have to adjust their hats sometimes so the eye-holes don't stray too far. One guy had a pair of narrow, squareish rimmed glasses sticking out the eye-holes of his capirote. Other times you see them strolling home with their girlfriend/husband/kid afterwards.
I spotted Jose just before the Virgen float came to the corner. Must have been a change of plans as he was wearing a suit and tie instead of wearing a towel on his head under the float. There was only one line of people between me and the float, and we had crowded in while waiting. This float was larger had to push our wall of bodies back to get around the corner.
A break for a vuelta and to see Hermandad de la Buen Fin (lives next door) coming down the familiar streets I inhabit every day. Can still hear the music of the last float coming back to the church, at 1:30. There is nothing reasonable about this. It makes no sense. Sevillan people devote a huge amount of their time and energy and attention, (throughout the year) to something that is totally ridiculous by the standards I grew up with. There is nothing logical, efficient or sensible about an entire city being beset by dense, impassable crowds in numerous places around the city for hours a day for a whole week. Neither is there anything reasonable about carrying a heavy float on your neck for 7 hours within 13, or walking barefoot on city streets for anywhere from 5-13 hours, carrying a wooden cross on your back with a hood over your head.
I watched young, good looking men of about 20 - the kind with their hair gelled up into a point and jeans perched below their hips - staring with rapt attention, and something like a wistful gaze, at the float as it went around the corner on Amor de Dios. I saw little boys with huge balls of wax that they'd laboured to create, by asking passing penitentes to add a little more wax from their candles.
Semana Santa paso from last year
Here's a link to a youtube video of one of the hermandades last year. This is typical of what is going on all week.
Lagrimas from the sky, from the people
(somehow this didn't post, due to my connection. it's from yesterday)
Semana Santa can bring grown men to tears, and today it did. I don't see that as being very macho. Jose told me the other night that sometimes he cries when he sees a particular float go by. It had something to do with time passing and nostalgia and maybe just a love for this festival (sometimes a bit gets lost in translation).
But today they cried because it rained and not a single hermandad could go out on their paso. They told me the people waiting to see a particular hermandad cried, but other people told me that the costaleros would cry - they have waited all year for this, and practiced for it. It is an experience they love - to carry the float.
For my part, I was relieved, because that meant I had an excuse not to go out. After feeling lonely and depressed at my lack of friends, I suddenly have been absorbed into an instant large group of friends who are inviting me out every day. That is because its a festival, of course, though I think I will remain friends and just not go out every single day.
But I went to meet Jose in Plaza San Lorenzo anyways. As soon as I left it started to pour. The entire Plaza was covered in umbrellas. The streets around the Plaza were almost as busy as the sunny day before. A procession that had gone out for just a short bit, had returned and there was a bit of music. Despite the weather, they had to do something. They were letting people into the churches to at least take a look at the floats.
Due to the intense rain, we all met up at a different spot and then did rounds to a couple of bars for more drinks and tapas, and TV watching. Agu or one of the Joses pointed out a beautiful charcoal drawing of a man's head on the wall. It was the head of Judas, and a drawing of a statue on one of the floats. Each hermandad has a float with a Jesus either on the cross or carrying one, or in an actual scene with other people. Then they all have a second float with Virgen Maria. But each hermandad's floats are always the same - some of them for 500 years - well the statue at least. One statue of Jesus on the cross is very old and made of some kind of paste. This paste (how one of the Joses explained it) gradually shifts over the years so Jesus has continually become more and more twisted.
People comment on how beautiful certain aspects of the floats are, or how beautiful it is to see them turn the corner. The guys every once in a while start whistling in unison along with music from the TV. Other times when we're getting close to a float and there's a band, they've done the same. They bring out their ipods and show each other their recordings of some particular float passing, and whistle along to the music. The one most completely devoted to Semana Santa is Jose (okay, Jose Luis). I expected him not to be up to going out today, but he said he wasn't tired, and he didn't look like he'd been carrying something very heavy on the back of his neck for 7 hours, and walking for 13, the day before. He is about to do the same thing over again tomorrow, in another hermandad. He knows someone who has gone out 8 days in a row, carrying floats. I've told him several time he'd better go to the chiropractor after.
Jose Luis says, "you don't understand, do you." It is a statement, not a criticism. I've already explained how strange this all is for me, and how it differs from my culture. I was talking to the girls about Noelia's upcoming wedding to one of the Joses, but Jose Luis was watching the TV all alone so I went to talk to him. The TV was showing Semana Santa processions from a previous year. I tried to explain to him my first impressions of the guys practicing under the frame, what I wrote a while ago in this blog.
It is tradition, is what he told me the other night. He carries these heavy things for hours for penitence, but not really. The real reason is for tradition.
I better not put words or thoughts into anyone's mouths, but I tried to imagine what would happen if I were to discuss tradition or doing something for tradition with Canadian males of a similar age. I believe most people I know would probably give me a well thought out answer. It might be thought out on the spot, but it would be intellectual. Possibly even quite deep. But intellectual. I cannot even imagine any Canadian men I know acting this way. These people are western, but they are not like us. They are not like those of us from English speaking countries. There is nothing intellectual going on in their connection to this. It is all corazon. They know that, and I try to tell them how different they are from North Americans. They ask me if we are more superficial. I explain that this is not the case at all - it is simply that the mind and heart are separate, and the mind rules. You can tell me I am making too big of a generalisation, you can say whatever you want, but you have to come here and experience this first. We are steeped whatever cultures we are brought up in. Even the most integrated (heart and mind) ones of us in English speaking countries operate within a society, within a structure of, within a prevailing attitude or inside a matrix of supremacy of intellect over heart.
North Americans are cynical. Our culture is cynical, our general way of thinking is cynical. I am not criticising it entirely - there is a huge amount of good in thinking about what is going wrong and changing it. If I could point to the biggest difference between men in Andalucia and men at home, it would be that at home they try not to care very much about anything. This is a big generalisation and a lot of men I know are not like this. But overall I think it's considered cooler or important for men to act this way - to look this way on the surface at least.
Semana Santa can bring grown men to tears, and today it did. I don't see that as being very macho. Jose told me the other night that sometimes he cries when he sees a particular float go by. It had something to do with time passing and nostalgia and maybe just a love for this festival (sometimes a bit gets lost in translation).
But today they cried because it rained and not a single hermandad could go out on their paso. They told me the people waiting to see a particular hermandad cried, but other people told me that the costaleros would cry - they have waited all year for this, and practiced for it. It is an experience they love - to carry the float.
For my part, I was relieved, because that meant I had an excuse not to go out. After feeling lonely and depressed at my lack of friends, I suddenly have been absorbed into an instant large group of friends who are inviting me out every day. That is because its a festival, of course, though I think I will remain friends and just not go out every single day.
But I went to meet Jose in Plaza San Lorenzo anyways. As soon as I left it started to pour. The entire Plaza was covered in umbrellas. The streets around the Plaza were almost as busy as the sunny day before. A procession that had gone out for just a short bit, had returned and there was a bit of music. Despite the weather, they had to do something. They were letting people into the churches to at least take a look at the floats.
Due to the intense rain, we all met up at a different spot and then did rounds to a couple of bars for more drinks and tapas, and TV watching. Agu or one of the Joses pointed out a beautiful charcoal drawing of a man's head on the wall. It was the head of Judas, and a drawing of a statue on one of the floats. Each hermandad has a float with a Jesus either on the cross or carrying one, or in an actual scene with other people. Then they all have a second float with Virgen Maria. But each hermandad's floats are always the same - some of them for 500 years - well the statue at least. One statue of Jesus on the cross is very old and made of some kind of paste. This paste (how one of the Joses explained it) gradually shifts over the years so Jesus has continually become more and more twisted.
People comment on how beautiful certain aspects of the floats are, or how beautiful it is to see them turn the corner. The guys every once in a while start whistling in unison along with music from the TV. Other times when we're getting close to a float and there's a band, they've done the same. They bring out their ipods and show each other their recordings of some particular float passing, and whistle along to the music. The one most completely devoted to Semana Santa is Jose (okay, Jose Luis). I expected him not to be up to going out today, but he said he wasn't tired, and he didn't look like he'd been carrying something very heavy on the back of his neck for 7 hours, and walking for 13, the day before. He is about to do the same thing over again tomorrow, in another hermandad. He knows someone who has gone out 8 days in a row, carrying floats. I've told him several time he'd better go to the chiropractor after.
Jose Luis says, "you don't understand, do you." It is a statement, not a criticism. I've already explained how strange this all is for me, and how it differs from my culture. I was talking to the girls about Noelia's upcoming wedding to one of the Joses, but Jose Luis was watching the TV all alone so I went to talk to him. The TV was showing Semana Santa processions from a previous year. I tried to explain to him my first impressions of the guys practicing under the frame, what I wrote a while ago in this blog.
It is tradition, is what he told me the other night. He carries these heavy things for hours for penitence, but not really. The real reason is for tradition.
I better not put words or thoughts into anyone's mouths, but I tried to imagine what would happen if I were to discuss tradition or doing something for tradition with Canadian males of a similar age. I believe most people I know would probably give me a well thought out answer. It might be thought out on the spot, but it would be intellectual. Possibly even quite deep. But intellectual. I cannot even imagine any Canadian men I know acting this way. These people are western, but they are not like us. They are not like those of us from English speaking countries. There is nothing intellectual going on in their connection to this. It is all corazon. They know that, and I try to tell them how different they are from North Americans. They ask me if we are more superficial. I explain that this is not the case at all - it is simply that the mind and heart are separate, and the mind rules. You can tell me I am making too big of a generalisation, you can say whatever you want, but you have to come here and experience this first. We are steeped whatever cultures we are brought up in. Even the most integrated (heart and mind) ones of us in English speaking countries operate within a society, within a structure of, within a prevailing attitude or inside a matrix of supremacy of intellect over heart.
North Americans are cynical. Our culture is cynical, our general way of thinking is cynical. I am not criticising it entirely - there is a huge amount of good in thinking about what is going wrong and changing it. If I could point to the biggest difference between men in Andalucia and men at home, it would be that at home they try not to care very much about anything. This is a big generalisation and a lot of men I know are not like this. But overall I think it's considered cooler or important for men to act this way - to look this way on the surface at least.
Semana Santa irreverence, the hardest part of dancing flamenco, buying vegetables
One Jose yesterday and two Joses today will be going out as costaleros. Looks like no tears will be shed, as it is a nice day, with some big fluffy clouds. Despite what these men devote to carrying the ornate gilded things full of flowers and topped with dramatic statues around the city, and the seriousness with which they take the festival, we had some bad jokes last night. In reference to the rain, one of the Joses mimed the Lord (el Señor) blowing his nose. On the TV in the bar, a boy had gotten under the long trailing gown that the Virgen always wears, which in this case hung way down the back of the float. You could see the feet of the costaleros below the float and the boy's feet outside of it. The virgen might be pregnant after that.
All else pretty much takes back seat these days. Even flamenco... kind of.
I think after Monday I might finally look like I am actually dancing flamenco. Not a girl with arms of spaghetti and rhythmic feet. Moving my arms properly is 1000 times harder than the most complicated footwork. It is so difficult I cannot do more than 5 marking steps without being exhausted. It is possible I have something wrong with me (extreme shoulder and neck tension which other people just don't have). I believe this might be the key to dancing well, with aire. I feel all the pena and dolor they are talking about in the music - in my shoulders, neck and back, just as much as my corazon or alma!
Monday I had a private lesson with Pastora Galvan. I learned some extremely important basics long ago but they were incomplete. Somewhere between my teachers' knowledge and my dancing, the information was lost. I blame that on too many choreography classes. And feeling like I wasn't good enough to take private lessons with Kasandra. So here I am now, really not good enough to be taking private classes with someone over here, but am doing it anyways (so are a horde of rich Japanese girls who don't even have basic footwork yet!)
I am hoping I have the energy to do my stint at the studio with my arms straight up, elbows behind my ears, and shoulders down - try that and then swirl your fingers (floreos), it's nearly impossible - I thought I simply couldn't do it, until Pastora told me to just do it and I realised it was possible but more challenging than lifting very heavy weights. Then I'll go out in the middle of the night for Madrugada. All the other days, the processions start from noon on and the latest ones end at 2 or 3 am. Thursday, they start at midnight and go all night long, ending in the morning. I believe the whole city will be up all night.
One more fact of daily life, while I am thinking about it. It tries the patience of a Canadian to buy vegetables and fruit here. It is an opportunity for a social gathering in Triana. But wherever you are, you are served by the shopkeeper. You do not pick out the vegetables and fruit for yourself. (Even in supermarkets, you are supposed to touch them only with plastic gloves). Not only do you have to stand in line watching the guy get potatoes, then oranges, then tomatoes, then grapes, and onions, for the lady in front, you also have to wait while she discusses the characteristics of said potatoes and oranges with him, "last time they were a bit dry, do you have some for juicing that are such and such?" "No pasa nada, these ones we have today are fantastic." Bla bla bla, more questions to ascertain whether they are the exact right oranges. It is really wonderful to experience this, and nice also that another lady can come in and say, "my mother forgot the tomatoes" and get served quickly in between, but it tries my patience beyond what I can endure. I waited and waited and finally just couldn't take it any more. One lady had been sitting on a chair at the side of the store waiting, ad there was still another one ahead of me, leaning against a car just outside the door. Even a bakery lineup can be everlasting, depending.
All else pretty much takes back seat these days. Even flamenco... kind of.
I think after Monday I might finally look like I am actually dancing flamenco. Not a girl with arms of spaghetti and rhythmic feet. Moving my arms properly is 1000 times harder than the most complicated footwork. It is so difficult I cannot do more than 5 marking steps without being exhausted. It is possible I have something wrong with me (extreme shoulder and neck tension which other people just don't have). I believe this might be the key to dancing well, with aire. I feel all the pena and dolor they are talking about in the music - in my shoulders, neck and back, just as much as my corazon or alma!
Monday I had a private lesson with Pastora Galvan. I learned some extremely important basics long ago but they were incomplete. Somewhere between my teachers' knowledge and my dancing, the information was lost. I blame that on too many choreography classes. And feeling like I wasn't good enough to take private lessons with Kasandra. So here I am now, really not good enough to be taking private classes with someone over here, but am doing it anyways (so are a horde of rich Japanese girls who don't even have basic footwork yet!)
I am hoping I have the energy to do my stint at the studio with my arms straight up, elbows behind my ears, and shoulders down - try that and then swirl your fingers (floreos), it's nearly impossible - I thought I simply couldn't do it, until Pastora told me to just do it and I realised it was possible but more challenging than lifting very heavy weights. Then I'll go out in the middle of the night for Madrugada. All the other days, the processions start from noon on and the latest ones end at 2 or 3 am. Thursday, they start at midnight and go all night long, ending in the morning. I believe the whole city will be up all night.
One more fact of daily life, while I am thinking about it. It tries the patience of a Canadian to buy vegetables and fruit here. It is an opportunity for a social gathering in Triana. But wherever you are, you are served by the shopkeeper. You do not pick out the vegetables and fruit for yourself. (Even in supermarkets, you are supposed to touch them only with plastic gloves). Not only do you have to stand in line watching the guy get potatoes, then oranges, then tomatoes, then grapes, and onions, for the lady in front, you also have to wait while she discusses the characteristics of said potatoes and oranges with him, "last time they were a bit dry, do you have some for juicing that are such and such?" "No pasa nada, these ones we have today are fantastic." Bla bla bla, more questions to ascertain whether they are the exact right oranges. It is really wonderful to experience this, and nice also that another lady can come in and say, "my mother forgot the tomatoes" and get served quickly in between, but it tries my patience beyond what I can endure. I waited and waited and finally just couldn't take it any more. One lady had been sitting on a chair at the side of the store waiting, ad there was still another one ahead of me, leaning against a car just outside the door. Even a bakery lineup can be everlasting, depending.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Inanimate objects with a human walk.
This is pretty cool, but I'm really tired, after only two half days. It seems like enough to me. These people do not get tired of it. Actually, they all say they are "muerte" after working all day and then going chasing through crowds to see a particular float turning a corner or a Virgen from a certain vista. A lot of people don't have to work during this period and some of them do this all day.
I just came back from the second night of hanging with my new friends, who are really cool, and watching 5 different processions, between 10:00 and 1:30.
Probably the most interesting one tonight was the one our friend Pablo was in. They were all surprised when I said I only met Pablo a couple minutes before he introduced me to them, on Sunday night. They said, oh, he does that. And one of the Joses mentioned a time when he went to meet Pablo and sat there waiting for half an hour, when Pablo showed up with two Japanese girls.
Sure enough, there was Pablo, who had been a nutty drunk dude picking up chicks for his birthday party two days before. He was dressed in an extremely ornate robe, with purple and embroidered with silver, and carrying a fancy pole with a candle on the end. He looked at us, but as they warned me, did not acknowledge us. His hermandad is one of the oldest ones, and is very serious. All the nazarenos/penitentes/guys with pointy hats/kkk-lookalikes were in black, and their capirotes were generally pointing straight up and orderly.
We were squeezed onto a narrow section of sidewalk, in a narrow meeting of streets that don't square off properly. Never have I seen crowds such as these be as silent, of their own accord.
One of the various things that fascinates me on some level that is more fundamental than my mind, is the way they make an inanimate object more human. The way the floats sway with a movement that can only be a human walk is just out of this world weird and cool. For me this goes against so much that I find de-humanizing in the world around me. The trend to make everything more automatic, more digital... This festival is ancient. It began previous to the industrial revolution, and even before the Renaissance, if the festival itself has been around as long as some of the hermandades.
Seeing a float go around a tight corner where two narrow streets meet is something people try to do. The costaleros underneath have to orchestrate their steps to turn it, which requires multiple shifting back and forth, like a car backing up and going forward numerous times to get into a parking spot. It takes about 5 minutes of being in one place, to turn it so they can continue going straight.
Unfortunately I missed Jose the costalero's hermandad. I feel really bad about that, because he was so excited about it, and was really sweet to me, excitedly explaining everything and showing me stuff yesterday. But Agustin brought me a little card - one of the ones that has a Jesus and a Virgen picture on it. The costaleros exchange these with friends they might see on the way.
I just came back from the second night of hanging with my new friends, who are really cool, and watching 5 different processions, between 10:00 and 1:30.
Probably the most interesting one tonight was the one our friend Pablo was in. They were all surprised when I said I only met Pablo a couple minutes before he introduced me to them, on Sunday night. They said, oh, he does that. And one of the Joses mentioned a time when he went to meet Pablo and sat there waiting for half an hour, when Pablo showed up with two Japanese girls.
Sure enough, there was Pablo, who had been a nutty drunk dude picking up chicks for his birthday party two days before. He was dressed in an extremely ornate robe, with purple and embroidered with silver, and carrying a fancy pole with a candle on the end. He looked at us, but as they warned me, did not acknowledge us. His hermandad is one of the oldest ones, and is very serious. All the nazarenos/penitentes/guys with pointy hats/kkk-lookalikes were in black, and their capirotes were generally pointing straight up and orderly.
We were squeezed onto a narrow section of sidewalk, in a narrow meeting of streets that don't square off properly. Never have I seen crowds such as these be as silent, of their own accord.
One of the various things that fascinates me on some level that is more fundamental than my mind, is the way they make an inanimate object more human. The way the floats sway with a movement that can only be a human walk is just out of this world weird and cool. For me this goes against so much that I find de-humanizing in the world around me. The trend to make everything more automatic, more digital... This festival is ancient. It began previous to the industrial revolution, and even before the Renaissance, if the festival itself has been around as long as some of the hermandades.
Seeing a float go around a tight corner where two narrow streets meet is something people try to do. The costaleros underneath have to orchestrate their steps to turn it, which requires multiple shifting back and forth, like a car backing up and going forward numerous times to get into a parking spot. It takes about 5 minutes of being in one place, to turn it so they can continue going straight.
Unfortunately I missed Jose the costalero's hermandad. I feel really bad about that, because he was so excited about it, and was really sweet to me, excitedly explaining everything and showing me stuff yesterday. But Agustin brought me a little card - one of the ones that has a Jesus and a Virgen picture on it. The costaleros exchange these with friends they might see on the way.
Sometimes I'd rather be on a glacier covered mountain...
The guys cell phones ring with processional music. They sing along as they hear the bands. "Which hermandades are you going to see?" This is one of the main questions these days. How to get there is an even bigger question. I have oscillated back and forth between being in awe of what is going on and being much more Canadian than I've realised. It's hard to remove from a person the knowledge of space and the importance of being able to move freely, even if it is just to dodge around the person in front of you as you walk. This afternoon I had to depend on a group of Spanish ladies to pull me through the crowd, after asking the police how to get around and them telling me just to go through. I didn't believe that to be possible after what I experienced last night.
Removing things from other things... I've tried various times to remove wax from clothing, by expert instructions over the internet. It's never really worked. Not so that I could use the item as before, in pristine condition. This is something that Sevillan dry-cleaners can do though.
I met my new Spanish friends last night in Plaza Salvador. That took some doing. Unless you've been to some kind of incredibly large festival before - I cannot think of anything that compares besides perhaps the ones in New Orleans or Brazil. And I don't know if they have to squeeze people all into as limited of spaces as they do here. This is the kind of thing where people die if they are in a football stadium and there is a stampede. Plaza Salvador way exceeded that critical point last night. I followed people moving against the stream, shoving/squeezing their way through the crowd, until we literally were not able to move due to the density of bodies. A guy pulling his girlfriend and a line of kids all stopped. If they weren't going any farther, neither was I. My friends were about 20 meters away but I couldn't get to them.
Absolute rule never to break: do NOT ever try to see Semana Santa alone. I did that in the afternoon, and trying to get to my friends was not fun alone. You need to be relaxed, chatting with people amongst the crowd. And with Spanish people who know how not to get worried, offended or anxious about issues of personal space or people pushing.
Anyhow after seeing the millionth guy with the pointy hats carrying candles, the float carrying Jesus and then more pointy hat guys, and then another float carrying the Virgen, the crowd finally started to move and I spotted Jose, while we were on the phone with each other about 5 meters away. I followed them down below the cathedral where we had drinks and gathered with a lesser crowd, to await the next procession (many of them are winding their way around various parts of the city at the same time). This was spectacular, as the white hooded guys (after last night, I've finally had that association with the KKK broken), carrying enormous candles, then the Virgen came, below the almost full moon and the Giralda tower. This was the point at which Jose and Jose both went to walk in front of the float, and ended up with their suit jackets and hair splattered with wax. Among the three Joses in this group of friends (which contains a Maria, who just called me now, for the second night of craziness) and a Noelia, an Agustin, and several others...) the Jose that invited me (in a lovely beige suit with orange tie) was the one who kind of looked after me, besides Maria (also in a pantsuit). The rest of the gang went for a reasonably early night after that, and I followed the two Joses with wax on their suitjackets.
We rushed to the bridge to Triana, where the most massive number of penitentes (pointy hat guys) were already crossing the bridge. The Jesus float had him sitting or crouching, among a bed of red roses or carnations (the entire float was lined with fresh flowers). Behind him were various Roman bad people. This float did not move completely evenly. They took larger strides at some points, and then perhaps three small ones - it depended on the music. It was almost like the float was dancing. (All of the floats have an odd human movement due to the walking humans that are carrying them on their shoulders).
Jose is a serious aficionado, besides being a costalero, one of the guys who carries the floats on his shoulders (and is presently doing so). He grabbed my hand and dragged me along in front of it, which is not where you normally go. We had to hurry, during the parts where they were taking huge strides. At first everyone was walking along backwards in front of it, so they could see it. They stopped in the middle of the bridge, as they must, for a break. Someone said something which I thought was a prayer, and when they hoisted it back on their shoulders (which happens many times, as the entire ornate float suddenly jumps into the air), the entire bridge shook. We carried on and went far ahead of it, and waited for it to enter the main street in Triana, where the band was playing its normal volume again (they had to tame it down on the bridge so as not to cause dangerous vibrations). There would be on the order of 100 trumpets in many of these bands. If you can imagine what that would sound like, it would be worth it. The drums are "impresionante" as well.
I am in a rush, as it's already 9:00 and I'd better get making my way across the city for more of this craziness. I wouldn't go out tonight but it would be bad not to see Jose's hermandad, while he is carrying the float.
Removing things from other things... I've tried various times to remove wax from clothing, by expert instructions over the internet. It's never really worked. Not so that I could use the item as before, in pristine condition. This is something that Sevillan dry-cleaners can do though.
I met my new Spanish friends last night in Plaza Salvador. That took some doing. Unless you've been to some kind of incredibly large festival before - I cannot think of anything that compares besides perhaps the ones in New Orleans or Brazil. And I don't know if they have to squeeze people all into as limited of spaces as they do here. This is the kind of thing where people die if they are in a football stadium and there is a stampede. Plaza Salvador way exceeded that critical point last night. I followed people moving against the stream, shoving/squeezing their way through the crowd, until we literally were not able to move due to the density of bodies. A guy pulling his girlfriend and a line of kids all stopped. If they weren't going any farther, neither was I. My friends were about 20 meters away but I couldn't get to them.
Absolute rule never to break: do NOT ever try to see Semana Santa alone. I did that in the afternoon, and trying to get to my friends was not fun alone. You need to be relaxed, chatting with people amongst the crowd. And with Spanish people who know how not to get worried, offended or anxious about issues of personal space or people pushing.
Anyhow after seeing the millionth guy with the pointy hats carrying candles, the float carrying Jesus and then more pointy hat guys, and then another float carrying the Virgen, the crowd finally started to move and I spotted Jose, while we were on the phone with each other about 5 meters away. I followed them down below the cathedral where we had drinks and gathered with a lesser crowd, to await the next procession (many of them are winding their way around various parts of the city at the same time). This was spectacular, as the white hooded guys (after last night, I've finally had that association with the KKK broken), carrying enormous candles, then the Virgen came, below the almost full moon and the Giralda tower. This was the point at which Jose and Jose both went to walk in front of the float, and ended up with their suit jackets and hair splattered with wax. Among the three Joses in this group of friends (which contains a Maria, who just called me now, for the second night of craziness) and a Noelia, an Agustin, and several others...) the Jose that invited me (in a lovely beige suit with orange tie) was the one who kind of looked after me, besides Maria (also in a pantsuit). The rest of the gang went for a reasonably early night after that, and I followed the two Joses with wax on their suitjackets.
We rushed to the bridge to Triana, where the most massive number of penitentes (pointy hat guys) were already crossing the bridge. The Jesus float had him sitting or crouching, among a bed of red roses or carnations (the entire float was lined with fresh flowers). Behind him were various Roman bad people. This float did not move completely evenly. They took larger strides at some points, and then perhaps three small ones - it depended on the music. It was almost like the float was dancing. (All of the floats have an odd human movement due to the walking humans that are carrying them on their shoulders).
Jose is a serious aficionado, besides being a costalero, one of the guys who carries the floats on his shoulders (and is presently doing so). He grabbed my hand and dragged me along in front of it, which is not where you normally go. We had to hurry, during the parts where they were taking huge strides. At first everyone was walking along backwards in front of it, so they could see it. They stopped in the middle of the bridge, as they must, for a break. Someone said something which I thought was a prayer, and when they hoisted it back on their shoulders (which happens many times, as the entire ornate float suddenly jumps into the air), the entire bridge shook. We carried on and went far ahead of it, and waited for it to enter the main street in Triana, where the band was playing its normal volume again (they had to tame it down on the bridge so as not to cause dangerous vibrations). There would be on the order of 100 trumpets in many of these bands. If you can imagine what that would sound like, it would be worth it. The drums are "impresionante" as well.
I am in a rush, as it's already 9:00 and I'd better get making my way across the city for more of this craziness. I wouldn't go out tonight but it would be bad not to see Jose's hermandad, while he is carrying the float.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Today is the biggest day of the year, probably. Domingo de Ramos. I think it's like Palm Sunday. Just in case I haven't explained Semana Santa before, I think this is going to be one of the most fantastic things I may ever see. I suppose it is like a cultural wonder of the world. The processions started Friday but there were only little ones, a few per day. They start in earnest today and last all week. Alicia's family is filling the house. They've come to visit for a few days, and Marta is gone home to Segovia for the holiday.
As for me, I did hardcore flamenco last night. Spent an hour and a half in an ill-informed way, despite half and hour of internet research on how to find the place, taking a bus and attempting to find a taxi, taking the metro, and then walking to the very edge of Sevilla near the highway, to a neighborhood where it looked like the outskirts of Vancouver, like some far corner of Surrey. It was good I had Ernesto with me, the Korean anthropology student. Luckily my two friends in Sevilla both appreciate the serious cante, which is really cool, as not everyone does, especially those new to flamenco.
Near the city hall, there is a large square that has been entirely filled with bleachers and wooden chairs have been set up on these in neat rows, with six facing each other. All the processions from all over the city go to the cathedral. Each procession has the men carrying at least one float, musicians, and in some cases, especially Thursday at dawn, singers singing Saetas.
Last night I stopped into a church on the way to meet Ernesto, where people were gathered in front and milling in and out, to look at two floats full of candles with statues on top. One had an enormous Virgen statue with her gold embroidered robe hanging behind, the other had about 5 statues, depicting a scene from Jesus' pre-crucifixion including a bunch of Roman guards.
This is totally incomprehensible to me. My North American mind cannot get around an entire city dedicating itself to carrying ornate gilded floats with religious statues in ornamented garments, all with real candles. These floats are carried for up to 13 hours, sometimes from 1 in the afternoon to 2 in the morning. They take shifts but may actually be under it for a 7 hours. People carry, and some give out little pocket pictures of these same statues, a guide is produced that gives detailed information about each hermandad (brotherhood) that will carry a float, how many women each one has and how long they've been involved. It give the date each hermandad started, ranging from 1413 to 2011. People plan ahead which spots they want to be in at certain times of the day, to see various processions or points at which certain processions turn certain corners. The book helps plan this, and also includes a place for notes, and suggests special features of each float, or the music that might be new this year in each procession. There is one page with a trivia game for the kids, if you get bored waiting at a specific spot, but the plaza or street where each procession is going to be is scheduled down to the half hour. There are 18 different processions today, from 9 different hermandades. The points where Giralda TV will be filming are highlighted in red. The booklet is meant to be saved as a keepsake of this year's festivities.
I will try to keep you updated with what it actually looks like and feels like on the street. I should be able to do that, as I'll have a full week of the same thing.
As for me, I did hardcore flamenco last night. Spent an hour and a half in an ill-informed way, despite half and hour of internet research on how to find the place, taking a bus and attempting to find a taxi, taking the metro, and then walking to the very edge of Sevilla near the highway, to a neighborhood where it looked like the outskirts of Vancouver, like some far corner of Surrey. It was good I had Ernesto with me, the Korean anthropology student. Luckily my two friends in Sevilla both appreciate the serious cante, which is really cool, as not everyone does, especially those new to flamenco.
Near the city hall, there is a large square that has been entirely filled with bleachers and wooden chairs have been set up on these in neat rows, with six facing each other. All the processions from all over the city go to the cathedral. Each procession has the men carrying at least one float, musicians, and in some cases, especially Thursday at dawn, singers singing Saetas.
Last night I stopped into a church on the way to meet Ernesto, where people were gathered in front and milling in and out, to look at two floats full of candles with statues on top. One had an enormous Virgen statue with her gold embroidered robe hanging behind, the other had about 5 statues, depicting a scene from Jesus' pre-crucifixion including a bunch of Roman guards.
This is totally incomprehensible to me. My North American mind cannot get around an entire city dedicating itself to carrying ornate gilded floats with religious statues in ornamented garments, all with real candles. These floats are carried for up to 13 hours, sometimes from 1 in the afternoon to 2 in the morning. They take shifts but may actually be under it for a 7 hours. People carry, and some give out little pocket pictures of these same statues, a guide is produced that gives detailed information about each hermandad (brotherhood) that will carry a float, how many women each one has and how long they've been involved. It give the date each hermandad started, ranging from 1413 to 2011. People plan ahead which spots they want to be in at certain times of the day, to see various processions or points at which certain processions turn certain corners. The book helps plan this, and also includes a place for notes, and suggests special features of each float, or the music that might be new this year in each procession. There is one page with a trivia game for the kids, if you get bored waiting at a specific spot, but the plaza or street where each procession is going to be is scheduled down to the half hour. There are 18 different processions today, from 9 different hermandades. The points where Giralda TV will be filming are highlighted in red. The booklet is meant to be saved as a keepsake of this year's festivities.
I will try to keep you updated with what it actually looks like and feels like on the street. I should be able to do that, as I'll have a full week of the same thing.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Abajando Jesus
I went into the abaceria to buy some cheese. An older couple were having beer at the counter, where you buy stuff to go or have a drink. They decided to buy a piece of the same roll of cheese. As the girl was weighing it on an ancient scale, on one side of which they put their calculator, to weigh it against, I asked the couple how long they'd had metric in Spain and what they used before. It has been about 50 years, said the man. And before that, every part of Spain had a different system. His wife was Swedish, and she sympathised with the difficulty of meeting Spanish people. She did suggest that bars were a good place though, contrary to what my roommate said. I believe they are. It is just hard to go into one alone. I am realising it is a fine art. You have to glance in and see whether it is just way to busy too feel comfortable, or whether there is a space where you can hang out and not look conspicuous, but there are just enough people close enough, that you might be able to strike up a conversation.
Now it is quarter after three and I've just had dinner – a snack of break and half a chorizo from the fridge. Actually my dinner was 4 glasses of wine with a miniscule sandwich and a lot of olives. I called Kathy to hang out, and after trying on my shoes for the 4th night in a row (Alfonso Chaves is my hero – for having finally gotten the left shoe right), I went to bar Casa Vizcaino, a “hardcore” looking place on Calle Feria. Not a single stool to sit on, very plain, but it's one of the bars that's most attracted me since my arrival in January. It's a no nonsense place, with old tiles, old paint on the walls, manzanilla, solera and whatever else served directly out of kegs (the kind that sit against the wall, actual wooden barrels, with spouts in the end), and a cash register from the 50s. Like many places, they write your tab on the bar in chalk, and add to it as you order more.
After that, we ended up in Plaza San Lorenzo, as a tiny gourmet wine bar I had in mind was closed. The Sardinero had put out way more tables in the Plaza than it usually does. Kathy and I were pretty involved in relating various intense experiences of our past, when suddenly a very long line of people that had been standing along the wall of the church and running the entire length of the plaza, spilling out at the far end, started to move. “I have never seen anyone run into a church!” said Kathy, as both of us sat there in awe, as the square, more packed full of people then I'd ever seen it, emptied. Some of them ran from the other side of the plaza, jumping into the line. I went to see what was going on, while Kathy asked the waiter. “Abajando de Jesus” (taking down Jesus) was what she was told. When we'd sat there almost half an hour after the line started going into the church, and there were only two more people in the square other than waiters stacking tables, we went over and joined them. The church was utterly full, and nobody was making a sound, not even whispering. Sure enough, they started taking the statue of Jesus (which I refered to in a previous post, the ankle of which frizzy haired ladies in tight jeans and high heels would touch as they walked past praying), down from his spot behind the stage, where the priest or choir would be. It took a few minutes for this to happen. I lost my concentration a bit, but when I looked back, he was down, and for a bizarre moment looked like a real person moving down into the crowd. Then it was over and everyone suddenly left. I do not know how long the people had been waiting in line in the plaza. It must have been more than an hour, for many of them. They entered at midnight, waited patiently for 20 minutes to half an hour, and then left, when it was all over at 12:30.
We headed over to Eslava, for one more drink, and I heard more of Kathy's incredibly adventurous stories. She definitely rivals me for interesting experiences travelling. I have never met an English speaking person who has actually studied Chinese, in Spanish. She didn't end up making it to China, but has had some hair raising experiences in South America, a place I don't believe I'd attempt to go alone.
Sometimes you can go for a long time not meeting anyone, here. But other times all it takes is walking down the street. On our way out, a drunk guy came up and told us it was his birthday and to join him and his friends at a bar in the Alameda. Kathy was next to him and did the talking. I didn't think she'd want to go, but seemed to be into it. I was pretty tired, but I went along. Luckily his friends were much less drunk and really nice. We met Maria from Malaga, who was really friendly, and Noelia and her boyfriend Jose, who took it upon himself to explain more about Semana Santa. He is involved in 2 hermandades, and will be one of the guys under the float. He said that he remembers Semana Santa since his childhood, places he went, parts of the parade he saw, when he was only 3, 4, 5 years old. All his life, he has experienced this. This is why young people still carry on such an ancient tradition, with not the slightest flagging of interest or passion. He told us one hermandad is on the outskirts of the city centre, and that there are 36 men carrying the float, and they will march for a total of 13 hours. His time under the float will be 7 hours. When Kathy asked what that is like, he answered with a comment that carried something more than words. I don't remember his words, but it is obviously of some profound nature. He has been a nazareno before (the guys that wear the pointed cap that look to any North American like the KKK) – for a bunch of years in a row. Maria encouraged us several times to call them and we could go with them to see some of the sights during the week, and especially on Domingo de Rama. Sunday the 17th is the biggest day of the festival.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The quintet is playing in my living room. They are of course, all nearly professionals, it is unbelievable - so awesome.
I am spoiling my dinner, eating at 7pm. But I ran this afternoon and then danced. And when I got home I discovered I had a sunburn. I am also alternating between a glass of manzanilla and Casera - carbonated lemon drink.
Yesterday I met people - kind of. There was a barbeque and flamenco gathering in the dirt lot outside someone's studio in the complex of rundown buildings where I practice. I don't know, but I judge that for most people, it's not the easiest thing to walk up to a crowd of people you don't know and attempt to hang out, and chat with some of them. I would never, ever do this in Vancouver, but I sauntered up and stood there looking at them. That attempt failed because I'd used up all my nerve just to go nearby and look. But I ended up back there with the help of others. They'd advertised it as something anyone could join, but it was a bunch of amigos, who were the core of the group, playing and taking turns singing bulerias.
I ended up meeting a guy from Chicago who's lived here 10 years and a Japanese guy with whom I had a great discussion. He knows people in Moron - a small town between here and Olvera, with a reputation for its flamenco - for the soul it has, I guess. Tepe (not sure how to write his name) believes, like the purest of the purists, that once a person starts performing flamenco for money, something happens to it. He takes guitar lessons with the nephew of Diego del Gastor, who he sees as being very puro.
I still am not sure where I stand on the subject. I understand most of the views and sympathise with the complaints of the purists, but I do believe in evolution of art forms. Sometimes I think they are just killjoys, and I feel like they ruin everything. But I am starting to believe that what it's really about is the death of a way of life. Then this is the same everywhere in the world - just that it has happened already long ago in most places. What really made sense was when he explained how a theatre company in the States took a particular Native North American tribal dance and performed it on a stage. I think it should be obvious to most people without explanation that it would lose a lot. I would guess it would be near impossible to compare - not that it's not worth doing but it's almost ridiculous to think it could be the same - that kind of a dance came from a certain context, and taken out of it, a lot of meaning/feeling, something intangible, is lost. I believe the problem with flamenco is similar.
I am spoiling my dinner, eating at 7pm. But I ran this afternoon and then danced. And when I got home I discovered I had a sunburn. I am also alternating between a glass of manzanilla and Casera - carbonated lemon drink.
Yesterday I met people - kind of. There was a barbeque and flamenco gathering in the dirt lot outside someone's studio in the complex of rundown buildings where I practice. I don't know, but I judge that for most people, it's not the easiest thing to walk up to a crowd of people you don't know and attempt to hang out, and chat with some of them. I would never, ever do this in Vancouver, but I sauntered up and stood there looking at them. That attempt failed because I'd used up all my nerve just to go nearby and look. But I ended up back there with the help of others. They'd advertised it as something anyone could join, but it was a bunch of amigos, who were the core of the group, playing and taking turns singing bulerias.
I ended up meeting a guy from Chicago who's lived here 10 years and a Japanese guy with whom I had a great discussion. He knows people in Moron - a small town between here and Olvera, with a reputation for its flamenco - for the soul it has, I guess. Tepe (not sure how to write his name) believes, like the purest of the purists, that once a person starts performing flamenco for money, something happens to it. He takes guitar lessons with the nephew of Diego del Gastor, who he sees as being very puro.
I still am not sure where I stand on the subject. I understand most of the views and sympathise with the complaints of the purists, but I do believe in evolution of art forms. Sometimes I think they are just killjoys, and I feel like they ruin everything. But I am starting to believe that what it's really about is the death of a way of life. Then this is the same everywhere in the world - just that it has happened already long ago in most places. What really made sense was when he explained how a theatre company in the States took a particular Native North American tribal dance and performed it on a stage. I think it should be obvious to most people without explanation that it would lose a lot. I would guess it would be near impossible to compare - not that it's not worth doing but it's almost ridiculous to think it could be the same - that kind of a dance came from a certain context, and taken out of it, a lot of meaning/feeling, something intangible, is lost. I believe the problem with flamenco is similar.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Saetas
The hermano from the Hermandad de Jesus del Gran Poder got up from the front row of suits. 600 years of history, giving important dates, it's in my neighborhood. Besamano de Nuestro Padre Jesus and de Maria Santissima, her face inclined down to the left, and with tears streaming down her cheeks. The two bells in the tower of the church in Plaza San Lorenzo, they have a charity for the needy. This man's face is shiny - because he is a super clean-cut dude, but he's animated too... Pastora Pavon, something her husband said, they both sung at dawn in Plaza del Duque, where I get the bus. They sang Saetas, as did Manuel Torres and in Calle Sierpes, Antonio Mairena, one time.
Pastora Pavon, Niña de los Peines, whose voice was declared a "national treasure".
Teenagers - cool ones that look like the popular kids in school. Short mini-skirts and heels, thick makeup. But they get up on stage and without any to-do, start singing a capella, with gravity.
Pastora Pavon, Niña de los Peines, whose voice was declared a "national treasure".
Teenagers - cool ones that look like the popular kids in school. Short mini-skirts and heels, thick makeup. But they get up on stage and without any to-do, start singing a capella, with gravity.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Afternoon silence, heat, and quiet cooing of pigeons
Blinding light on white buildings, stopping under the shade of a bougainvillea...
After finishing my practice today I wanted to run through a sprinkler. That is not a desire I usually have. I didn't really do all that much but my little studio is already toasty.
It is utterly cloudless and brilliant blue out. I rode a bike back and noticed the fountains of water coming out of the ground - like a water park - in the Alameda. I doubt that I could convince Kathy to run through them with me. My only other friend/ possible romantic interest (unsure), Oscar, I don't think so either. Probably only a fellow Canadian would do that.
I don't drink anything refrigerated if I can avoid it, usually. But I put a liter bottle of Casera in the fridge and the mixed it with some vino tinto. And took a cold shower.
Suffice it to say that this all makes me very happy.
By the way, Sevilla is not a place to visit in the summer (for non-Kims). Not unless you only care about hanging out in a city at night and sleeping in an airconditioned room during the day. Perhaps only the desert area to the east rivals it for heat; I don't know. Some people say this is warmer than normal for this time of year, others say it depends on the year, and it is around now that it starts to heat up - that there is only winter and then summer.
Marta is playing the opera Hansel and Gretel - some 20th century composer I forget - tomorrow, two shows in a theatre, that have been sold out for month. I'd guess that this differs from home, in the importance people here place on these kind of activities. She said in her city Segovia, a smaller city in the north, it is even more difficult to get tickets to cultural events like ballet and opera, in a reasonably large theatre.
My neighborhood is actually a neighborhood. This city is made for human beings to live in. There are gathering places maximum a block away, where people are crowded in the evening talking. Some places are larger and more sophisticated, others are nothing more than two tables outside Juan's tiny abaceria. But they are all right here where we live. The same people can go meet each other at one of many little places right in this neighborhood, where they know everybody. There are enough though, and some of them are large enough, that strangers can go too, and if you get sick and tired of so and so gossiping, you could go further into the city. This is what life is about. I am not part of it yet; I still go by and look most of the time, but it is there, and if I want to join in bad enough, I suppose I'll find a way eventually.
After finishing my practice today I wanted to run through a sprinkler. That is not a desire I usually have. I didn't really do all that much but my little studio is already toasty.
It is utterly cloudless and brilliant blue out. I rode a bike back and noticed the fountains of water coming out of the ground - like a water park - in the Alameda. I doubt that I could convince Kathy to run through them with me. My only other friend/ possible romantic interest (unsure), Oscar, I don't think so either. Probably only a fellow Canadian would do that.
I don't drink anything refrigerated if I can avoid it, usually. But I put a liter bottle of Casera in the fridge and the mixed it with some vino tinto. And took a cold shower.
Suffice it to say that this all makes me very happy.
By the way, Sevilla is not a place to visit in the summer (for non-Kims). Not unless you only care about hanging out in a city at night and sleeping in an airconditioned room during the day. Perhaps only the desert area to the east rivals it for heat; I don't know. Some people say this is warmer than normal for this time of year, others say it depends on the year, and it is around now that it starts to heat up - that there is only winter and then summer.
Marta is playing the opera Hansel and Gretel - some 20th century composer I forget - tomorrow, two shows in a theatre, that have been sold out for month. I'd guess that this differs from home, in the importance people here place on these kind of activities. She said in her city Segovia, a smaller city in the north, it is even more difficult to get tickets to cultural events like ballet and opera, in a reasonably large theatre.
My neighborhood is actually a neighborhood. This city is made for human beings to live in. There are gathering places maximum a block away, where people are crowded in the evening talking. Some places are larger and more sophisticated, others are nothing more than two tables outside Juan's tiny abaceria. But they are all right here where we live. The same people can go meet each other at one of many little places right in this neighborhood, where they know everybody. There are enough though, and some of them are large enough, that strangers can go too, and if you get sick and tired of so and so gossiping, you could go further into the city. This is what life is about. I am not part of it yet; I still go by and look most of the time, but it is there, and if I want to join in bad enough, I suppose I'll find a way eventually.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Sevilla is unbelievably beautiful on a random April evening. 26 degrees at quarter to nine in the evening, the sun is just setting and along the river a band of youth is practicing for Semana Santa. Kids in their teens and early 20s, a guy does a beautiful trumpet solo and the drums do their weird thing that does fit a known time signature but has tempo rubato... alright sorry for the nerding out on music. Plaza Salvador is full, like an enormous outdoor party, as are all the plazas all over the city. Buildings in this light are all colourful but in pastels. It's too hot to wear jeans and a t-shirt riding a bike on an evening like this. In the middle of the day, it's already necessary to seek shade. I started getting a tan about a month ago. There's been some rain in between but enough sun on my face every few days to keep up the tan. In Vancouver I almost never attempt to be in the shade even in mid-summer. But this is different.
You would eat one or two oranges every day too if they were this good. Extremely juicy and sweet - I've maybe had oranges this good a couple times at home. Every bar serves fresh squeezed orange juice. Some days I've had two oranges and a glass of fresh juice - actually I did today.
I had a terrible cold on the weekend, and then my feet were horrible so I could hardly walk. It's not been easy psychologically. I doubt everything I'm doing and where I am, and fear everything. But today they are way better - almost well, it seems. I walked all over and rode all over - made myself get out, sit in a bar, talk to someone. I decided this would be the day I finally took my receipt to Senovilla and got refunded for my shoes that they kept trying to make and failed. Wouldn't you know it but Miguel himself was there, and took care of me. Assured me that he could make them honest-to-goodness to measure. I knew since last May before I got on the plane that I needed to talk to the actual shoemaker himself and should have gone to his workshop in the industrial area north of Madrid. So I chose a different colour this time and went for it: turquoise with striking brown trim and visible wood heel. He's going to shape the toe differently for my odd feet, and make the reinforcement softer for my sensitive toes.
Some phrases that sum up the problem with learning Spanish, as a native English speaker: some nearby signage for a play says, "Triangulo de amor bizarro". What English speaking person can't understand this!? But how to work it into everyday conversation is not as obvious as, "Dame una tostada con prínga, cuándo puede" or "Dime, ¿como puedo ayudarte?" I'd guess that unless you've studied Spanish you wouldn't have any idea what those mean; I didn't until last summer!!?
It's easy to deceive yourself, as I have, that I'm so great at this language. Newspapers discuss "el ex-ministro del exterior (del Gobierno)" and "un grave perjuico al interés público." I'd guess the gist of these is understandable to you all. But I really wonder what I sound like to them when I talk!
Okay, dinner at ten to ten and then going to try to catch a flamenco show. Casual this time, at my studio.
You would eat one or two oranges every day too if they were this good. Extremely juicy and sweet - I've maybe had oranges this good a couple times at home. Every bar serves fresh squeezed orange juice. Some days I've had two oranges and a glass of fresh juice - actually I did today.
I had a terrible cold on the weekend, and then my feet were horrible so I could hardly walk. It's not been easy psychologically. I doubt everything I'm doing and where I am, and fear everything. But today they are way better - almost well, it seems. I walked all over and rode all over - made myself get out, sit in a bar, talk to someone. I decided this would be the day I finally took my receipt to Senovilla and got refunded for my shoes that they kept trying to make and failed. Wouldn't you know it but Miguel himself was there, and took care of me. Assured me that he could make them honest-to-goodness to measure. I knew since last May before I got on the plane that I needed to talk to the actual shoemaker himself and should have gone to his workshop in the industrial area north of Madrid. So I chose a different colour this time and went for it: turquoise with striking brown trim and visible wood heel. He's going to shape the toe differently for my odd feet, and make the reinforcement softer for my sensitive toes.
Some phrases that sum up the problem with learning Spanish, as a native English speaker: some nearby signage for a play says, "Triangulo de amor bizarro". What English speaking person can't understand this!? But how to work it into everyday conversation is not as obvious as, "Dame una tostada con prínga, cuándo puede" or "Dime, ¿como puedo ayudarte?" I'd guess that unless you've studied Spanish you wouldn't have any idea what those mean; I didn't until last summer!!?
It's easy to deceive yourself, as I have, that I'm so great at this language. Newspapers discuss "el ex-ministro del exterior (del Gobierno)" and "un grave perjuico al interés público." I'd guess the gist of these is understandable to you all. But I really wonder what I sound like to them when I talk!
Okay, dinner at ten to ten and then going to try to catch a flamenco show. Casual this time, at my studio.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
A "cold" day (as opposed to the previous two which must have been in the high 20s and it was tank top weather). I am almost over a very bad cold which lasted 2 days. I've done nothing for 3 days except read a trashy Spanish wild west "mini" and attempt to watch a movie which didn't work. And whatever else doing nothing entails.
I went for a walk along the river, it was cloudy and had rained earlier. I really wanted to sit at the bar in the Sardinero in Plaza San Lorenzo and watch the futbol game but I just didn't have the nerve. The inhabitants of the bar consisted only of men, mostly older. WEIRD, if you ask me. I'm not trying to judge, it's just so totally diverso from what I'm used to. Can anyone think of a single public place in Vancouver where you'd find only men? I don't have the nerve to break some kind of unspoken rule that may or may not be in existence in a culture I don't yet understand well. So I sat outside with my Manzanilla. I sipped it slowly and the sky got a bit darker. Some German tourists were nearby ordering lots of food. The plaza is full of couples with kids. Most people are dressed fairly conservatively (children more than anyone else!) and many of them are coming to and from the churches. But there are others which make me feel normal. There are just enough people passing by wearing coats with totally bizarre patterns, or hippy knit sweaters, or all black, in shorts with chain around their neck (a dad). By the time I'd done there were a few women inside. I stepped into the church for a minute just as mass was ending.
This place is one of the most beautiful I could possibly live in...
I thought I had missed the quintet but they were just arriving when I got home. They are now bowing their instruments slowly to a metronome. They asked if it would be okay (LOL!)
I went for a walk along the river, it was cloudy and had rained earlier. I really wanted to sit at the bar in the Sardinero in Plaza San Lorenzo and watch the futbol game but I just didn't have the nerve. The inhabitants of the bar consisted only of men, mostly older. WEIRD, if you ask me. I'm not trying to judge, it's just so totally diverso from what I'm used to. Can anyone think of a single public place in Vancouver where you'd find only men? I don't have the nerve to break some kind of unspoken rule that may or may not be in existence in a culture I don't yet understand well. So I sat outside with my Manzanilla. I sipped it slowly and the sky got a bit darker. Some German tourists were nearby ordering lots of food. The plaza is full of couples with kids. Most people are dressed fairly conservatively (children more than anyone else!) and many of them are coming to and from the churches. But there are others which make me feel normal. There are just enough people passing by wearing coats with totally bizarre patterns, or hippy knit sweaters, or all black, in shorts with chain around their neck (a dad). By the time I'd done there were a few women inside. I stepped into the church for a minute just as mass was ending.
This place is one of the most beautiful I could possibly live in...
I thought I had missed the quintet but they were just arriving when I got home. They are now bowing their instruments slowly to a metronome. They asked if it would be okay (LOL!)
Saturday, April 2, 2011
What life is for
I finally feel like I am not in the dark. That does not by any means that I do bulerias or tangos well yet, but I can hear where things are supposed to go and when they fit right I know. My feet are suffering even worse for all that. I even bought and took Ibuprofen cause my left joint was swollen, and I had to walk around Jerez (slowly limped).I left my skirt at home, cause I thought my feet were too bad to dance even in her class. But when I got there I changed my mind. I didn't pre-plan what I was going to do. I am not very afraid of her classes now. Ani told me both times "very good". Perhaps she has softened her standards even more, but I know that something has happened between last summer and now; things have sunk in even during my total break from bulerias. The only thing she said was my entrada needed more energy. "Eat a platano before you come," she said. "Eat two, and have a coca-cola". Later that night at the Peña, she told me I am too worried.
(Ha ha - on that note, a random man at a cafe the day before walked over and told me to relax. Then he bought me a plate of olives and a while later came over and kissed my foot. That's what I get for wearing black strappy sandals. That and wrecking my already fragile feet.)
Saturday I tried to help Keiko make sushi rolls but gave up. Then a lot of people gathered at Mika's place for her send-off party. She had food from 2 in the after noon to 11 at night. I met more cool people, and a large part of the afternoon/evening were spent jamming. It started off with a very flamenco-looking non-flamenco guy playing recorders. He had three and Kiko joined him as well as an Israeli girl. Later Manu and Kiko got going with two voices and two guitars doing the awesome Latin and French stuff that they do professionally. We had flamenco-rap. We had blues, with various voices improvising as we went. Another guitar and several more guitarists were present. Various people sang including Julz, a cute rapper boy from London studying bulerias with Ani, who made up his own words as he went. We had various random percussion instruments that made their way out of the depths of Alicia's house; some of them proper instruments, and others grabbed by people who had recently finished them off: a bottle of sherry and a bottle of wine, clunked artfully together or tapped with a plastic spoon. Everyone did a lot of palmas and several of us danced. A bit of flamenco, a bit of flamenco people dancing Latin.
I had quite a good talk with Isabel, a Venezuelan girl who tried to help me sort myself out, flamenco-wise. It's a bit confusing that I so love Israel and Pastora Galvan, but I love Agujetas and the most rancio Jerez cante.
I saw Pastora Galvan live for the first time the other night, dancing with Rafael at Casa de la Memoria. I was so excited I didn't know what to do. She was amazing, as expected. What she did was not really out there, because of course it was for tourists. I am too shy to do much more than a few quiet "oles" or "esos" or whatever. But I do them anyways, when there is not a single other soul in the audience making a sound. By the end, I was really heartened that an older English man beside me started saying "Ole!" These tourists from the cold north or wherever just need a bit of permission.
(Ha ha - on that note, a random man at a cafe the day before walked over and told me to relax. Then he bought me a plate of olives and a while later came over and kissed my foot. That's what I get for wearing black strappy sandals. That and wrecking my already fragile feet.)
Saturday I tried to help Keiko make sushi rolls but gave up. Then a lot of people gathered at Mika's place for her send-off party. She had food from 2 in the after noon to 11 at night. I met more cool people, and a large part of the afternoon/evening were spent jamming. It started off with a very flamenco-looking non-flamenco guy playing recorders. He had three and Kiko joined him as well as an Israeli girl. Later Manu and Kiko got going with two voices and two guitars doing the awesome Latin and French stuff that they do professionally. We had flamenco-rap. We had blues, with various voices improvising as we went. Another guitar and several more guitarists were present. Various people sang including Julz, a cute rapper boy from London studying bulerias with Ani, who made up his own words as he went. We had various random percussion instruments that made their way out of the depths of Alicia's house; some of them proper instruments, and others grabbed by people who had recently finished them off: a bottle of sherry and a bottle of wine, clunked artfully together or tapped with a plastic spoon. Everyone did a lot of palmas and several of us danced. A bit of flamenco, a bit of flamenco people dancing Latin.
I had quite a good talk with Isabel, a Venezuelan girl who tried to help me sort myself out, flamenco-wise. It's a bit confusing that I so love Israel and Pastora Galvan, but I love Agujetas and the most rancio Jerez cante.
I saw Pastora Galvan live for the first time the other night, dancing with Rafael at Casa de la Memoria. I was so excited I didn't know what to do. She was amazing, as expected. What she did was not really out there, because of course it was for tourists. I am too shy to do much more than a few quiet "oles" or "esos" or whatever. But I do them anyways, when there is not a single other soul in the audience making a sound. By the end, I was really heartened that an older English man beside me started saying "Ole!" These tourists from the cold north or wherever just need a bit of permission.
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