more Cadiz

Dios bendiga a la gente que me dicen de “follow my heart”. Thanks to Pierre, another very sweet Frenchman who works at the hostel, and with whom I chatted in a noisy club the other night. I need a reminder. My heart is not entirely in Sevilla. Not sure what to do about that or when. Those I met here in Cadiz told me I could find work there, or in Jerez.

I go in search of molletes with tomate y aceite (oil) this Sunday at noon for breakfast. Three older men are standing outside and one comes in to help me. He seems uncertain and asks a couple times about everything I order. The bar is dirty, the clock on the far wall has stopped, but the food and coffee are how they should be. The guys come in from outside and joke with Antonio. The real bar man comes out from behind a while later, and blames the lack of caracoles that day, despite the ad on the wall (displaying cartoon snails with smiles), on his “secretaria” Antonio, so the others all tell Antonio he better get up earlier and do his job right. Another older dude reaches behind the beer tap and pours himself a glass of water. I reach for the paper with articles discussing the 32% unemployment in the province of Cadiz, and the royal wedding, as well as saracstic editorials on the poor unemployed getting their pleasure in life from things such as watching this ostentatious display of wealth on TV. Antonio and one of the other guys tell me to take the papers with me – yesterday's as well as today's, and they all say Adio' as I leave.

The day I arrived, I thought, Cadiz makes me happy. It is easy to see why, with the light, and the incredible coloured ocean and white buildings. It is a spot known for that. Their humour seems unquencheable. The home of Alegrias (the most serious form of flamenco that still can be happy and in a major key), and the chirigotas (the guys who spoof and parody everything, during Carnival). I read stories in my book on the history of flamenco, about their attitude during the various times of seige or domination by troops or facists or whomever. How they wore gutsy colourful uniforms, that they are the only city that managed to maintain their Carnival under the reign of Franco, by taking it underground, and the moment he fell, they brought it out into the streets immediately. All over Spain they used to have Carnival, but Cadiz is the only place in which Franco didn't kill this tradition. It is the place I've visited most often from the other places where I've been staying.

The oldest city in Europe, enormous battles fought in the bay, the first ships leaving for the Americas, plundered riches passing through it. On a tour the other day some volunteers showed us the narrowest alley I've ever seen, where lived a Cardinal, centuries ago, who snuck out in the middle of the night to the nearby whorehouse, which is now a theatre. He became popularly known as “the gremlin” and they've stuck one made of clay into a plant pot in the alley in his honour. Mothers of Cadiz past used to scare their children by telling them if they didn't eat their food or do whatever else they were supposed to do that “Maria Mocos” would get them. She was a witch or some sort of ghost that was rumoured to live in the tunnels under the city, where formerly lived gitanos, and through which, undoubtedly contraband or whatever else would have been carried at various times. "Mocos" means "snot" - “something inside your nose; not nice”, our guides told us, due to stuff like that lining the walls of the tunnels.

I am home now and happily, someone across the street with their window open is playing Sevillanas on a guitar and others are clapping and someone singing. The Feria starts tomorrow or the next day. Next to Semana Santa it is the biggest holiday in Sevilla, where people will be dressed to the nines and dance Sevillanas all week.