When I can locate my card reader I'll show you pictures of my groovy (euphemistically) surroundings. I had the guys at the electronic items store make me a 10 meter extension cord en vez de buying myself a new laptop battery and having it shipped from England. I can now contentedly work on the rooftop in the evening instead of feeling the need to go sit by the river and attempt to cram in work after dinner.
People are the same everywhere - some are dirty and some are clean. I just got back from Plaza San Lorenzo, where I sat for a while to relax. There was a grandmother with her grandaughter in a stroller sitting on the same bench. She looked over and said in a rather harsh voice - those men are taking a bath in the tap! Look at them with no shirts on - ugh! She was obviously disgusted and made bad faces. On the other hand, there are the guys that own this place, who I try not to judge for their lack of care for their surroundings and hygiene. I tried to wipe an old plastic bucket chair destroyed by the sun, and the grime on it stunk revoltingly. So I went for modifying an upside down plastic wine crate instead. Found an old bucket, put it upside down with a bag from the Jamon shop on top and a tea towel that I had used for cleaning the first day I got here.

Two days ago the full moon hung huge and low and yellow beside the Giralda and everyone on the Calle Betis side of the Guadalquivir was trying to take pictures of it. The date palms are dropping ripe dates by the river. Construction workers and random neighbours hammering stuff sing flamenco while they work. Down the street I walk to the studio or to anywhere else North-ish, they are painting a school, and the two guys on a platform high up, had straw hats and - crap! My chair just cracked... perching now with my Jamon bag and tea towel on the edge of a slightly less revolting plastic chair - Anyways they were working under beach umbrellas (or cafe umbrellas) on their painting platform.

Drinking a mixture of very cheap (E1.99) wine mixed with the cheaper and less good brand of tinto de verano, with lemon added. Should probably not be drinking alcohol. Drunk tea instead of wine going out with Oscar last night. Think I ate some undercooked chicken in Lebrija at the Feria this past weekend.

I went to Cadiz friday to check out the English academies. Only one was open of the ones I found. Took off not knowing where I'd stay. Luckily Sachiko let me share her bed in the piso they are renting from Frasci in Lebrija. Sachiko had told me to come out for the Feria (as had Concha and Rafael) but there were no extra beds anywhere and they had told me I would have to stay in a hotel. No money for that at this point. I stayed the next day on the couch. The first night they had already been out all night before that so there was no flamenco. Except for Jesus, who we ran into outside one of the gitano tents. We saw him sing in Chipiona during August. He sang us a bunch of bulerias and some other stuff with a heavy component of Camaron, standing outside the caseta. We attracted random passersby (4 Japonesas doing bulerias, me and him). A Jerezano stopped by and in typical Jerezano way got a little bit pesado (hitting on me in a really foreward way) but not totally uncontrollable. When things calmed down we stood around talking and Jesus glommed onto me. He is a good looking guy, and very sensitive person - a genuinely decent person, except for some issues. It turns out he is 50 and has no wife, and is looking for one. Why don't I come home with him? You are a really good person, he says. Jesus fixes me with an intent man to woman stare the likes of which I have never been subject to, about 6 inches from my face. I don't take him too seriously or get very worried about him. The next night at another caseta he tries again and seems like he is nearly crushed by my gentle rebuttal. As Concha says, he is a "loco perdido" (crazy, lost). He seems like he isn't quite alright, and indeed, when Concha indicated that drugs were the problem, it was obvious. Too bad. Him and his brother are both really gentle, sweet people, but unfortunately that seems to happen to artists like Jesus sometimes.

For those two days nothing else in the world existed. I sung tangos with my amigas Japonesas, watched Ritmo y Geografia documentary DVDs all afternoon with them, practiced dancing, until we went for dinner at the Feria with the family that evening. The family meant Frasci, Carmen (who is now back home), Curro, his girlfriend, Rafael's grown son from a previous marriage, with his wife and 3 kids, and Pepa and Curro Fernandez, sister and brother in law. Dinner lasted a long time and then someone sang a solea on the stage, competing with blasting techno music from the caseta next door. After that, a group of many older gitanas was dancing up at the front. Sachiko told me stories about the opening night. I don't want to distress anyone by relating what Sachiko described. Suffice it to say that they act out things in dance that are cathartic, these old gitana ladies. They have had a lot of pain in life, as they come from a persecuted group, and the gitano men don't always treat them the same as we would expect to be treated. The kind of dancing they did even the night I was there, was something I'd never seen before. It was all women, many older, like the kind of female bonding dancing that happens at weddings and celebrations in the Middle East. Concha joined and we followed her. There was a rough circle and they pushed each of us into the centre to do a little turn. The old ladies did really raunchy, suggestive moves, worse than young blonde bimbos on MTV... shocking, but hilarious. Reminded me of descriptions I've heard of weddings in very repressed, strict female and male segregated countries where the women make genitalia out of bananas for the bride and things like that.

We went to the other gitana caseta (only two tents at the Feria belong to the gitanos, as that is more or less representative of their population in that town). After a bit, a spontaneous fiesta broke out, with Concha at the center. This is really the only way to see the most pure, best flamenco. You can't plan it, you can't expect it. You just have to be in the right place at the right time. There really is nothing else like this. It is not the same as hearing it on stage. You can't get the effect outside of a town like Lebrija or Jerez or several others. If the same Lebrijanos were to do the same thing in Sevilla, the Sevillanos would not be used to doing palmas (clapping along) in the manner that best suits the way they sing in Lebrija. For this reason, there is such a perfect fusion of things, all improvised, the entire crowd participating. Several people danced, but the most impresionante was Concha dancing, with Carmen stepping into the circle to sing for her mother, while Curro did palmas and jaleo (yelling) from the side. Rafael behind Curro, adding in his bit too. Carmen and Curro truly love it. There is no doubt watching them. At their house for lunch, they break out into palmas and cante.