I have turned Sachiko's house into a pancake factory. I have just made my last one before I hopefully go to Mara's place. I have to call her roommate to let me in cause Mara went to Pisa today, and I didn't make it to her place last night due to an intense discussion with Sachiko that went too late.

I am starting to have cabin fever. I wake up too late and then talk a lot with Sachiko. She has stuff to do in the outdoors but the only thing I really need to do now is get resumes done and research stuff online - and wait until I can start living properly, move into my new place tomorrow.

I have inherited some clothes and a suitcase from a friend of Sachiko's who went back to Japan and left the suitcase full of her things for 2 years at some Spanish friends' place. They finally told Sachiko it had to go. Hence, I have some odds and ends and a bata de cola (flamenco dress with a long tail that drags on the ground). I don't have any desire to learn to dance bata de cola, despite many people with less experience than me trying out classes in it. To me it is ridiculous to bother with such a difficult and complicated thing when you haven't yet mastered how to dance tangos and bulerias, improvised, listening close enough to the cante. Anyways, each to their own. Not sure what I'm going to do with the bata, but I always feel there must be something I can use it for, if not for its intended purpose - even re-designing or using the ruffles.

Diego Agujetas sang on Friday night.

Seeing any Agujetas is a treat, because they are a rare breed - they all channel some kind of frightening, raw energy which seems connected to something of another time. Diego is more suave (softer) than his sister Dolores and his father Maunel. Unfortunately, since he drew a big crowd that filled the peña, the atmosphere was not as good; there were some people there to see the show that I wished would have shut up and been more serious. It seemed like he only started to get going - to really get across the energy, halfway through the second set. He was pretty casual and would make random funny comments between numbers, and once had to spit out a candy in the middle of a song, after the break. He kept trying to leave the stage several times near the end, and his son and various people in the crowd told him to do a little more, and then a little more.

I could sense some serious duende, but felt that it was slightly wasted in that atmosphere and would have been better to see him sing in a private fiesta (which of course is almost always better). His voice had a range of sounds and timbres which are not really known to other western types of singing. This happens with good flamenco singers, but you feel it especially with the Agujetas. It made me think of his father who was illiterate by choice or rebellion or whatever - if one cannot depend on reading and writing for communication, how much more expressive the voice might become. Well, this is also carried down in the family, from ancient traditions when there was no other way to entertain oneself or escape from reality, except to gather and sing. It connects to storytelling, for me; I got a sense of that when he sang.

Sudden costurera/modista

Thank God for good friends. They have helped me a lot, or I would be insane. Besides that, I have a project.

So here goes: I am going to attempt to make a dancing blouse for Sachiko. It will not be for money, as I proposed the idea to her to get practice - I don't know what I am doing yet. It is going to be a super-challenge: not only do I have to go beyond the drafting of a basic, plain old bodice, by putting ruffles on a v-neck and big ruffles on sleeves, but the harder part will to be to draft a pattern for stretchy material! Obviously it must be fitted but not burst when she moves her arms rapidly around above her head or wherever. Anyways, this is something to sink my teeth into.

Sometimes I wonder if it is worth it trying to change your life, trying to pursue something you want. Sometimes anxiety and paralysis happen. Not having very clear goals and even less clear ideas about how I am going to accomplish them makes decision making hard. The problem was deciding where to live and having spurious suggestions from friends, making the decision process harder.

Eventually after a painful day, I decided to just call up the original apartment that I felt comfortable with. Now I am really not sure if I made the right decision, because I went over and over it in my mind, and doubted it so much. The problem is fear of making a mistake. The mistakes have cost me too much in the past - mental health. This place lacks light. But it is an old, interesting building and the girl who is the owner's daughter is a very artistic person, seems really relaxed - like she exists in a different world from mine, kind of, and seems cool. There will be two others - I don't know who they are yet. All of that might be a bad idea. I can still change my mind before Monday, or even before the 1st.

Who knows. Hopefully this won't be another bad judgement thing like the pee lady. But my problem is this: I am at a crossroads where I have to start living. That means actually being consumed by something else other than thinking and worry. The only way forward is to start letting something I love take me over. It is going to take re-training to do that. If your conscious and unconscious thoughts and emotions during the day are taken over by some pursuit that you truly love and are passionate about - that has taken hold of you from the inside, then small issues with people or silly problems with physical surroundings will not matter very much. Or at least you can bear them until such time as you can change.
I don't really know how to do this yet. It seems so obvious but never knew it before.

There is no simple way to become like that. You can't just wait until you have more confidence, or wait for something to fall from the sky. You have to just DO something. No wonder that large multinational company that has factories in China and produces shoes is so successful. Their slogan that everyone knows is the key to success.

Whether this apartment turns out to be totally wrong and my entire time here turns out to be a tonteria, is beside the point. I need to take action, I need to start doing what I love and as for the rest of the incidental decisions, like which apartment to live in or which crappy job to support myself while I pursue what I want, I just need to grab one and go.

Yum, the best pancake I've had for a long time; better than the ones I managed to make at home.

Yesterday Sachiko asked me if I could please sort out my stuff that she'd been keeping for me in her closet. I got a little anxious, because I don't know where I'm going to live nor what on earth to do with all that stuff. But it contained some Harina Integral de Trigo (whole wheat flour) and azucar moreno (brown sugar), so I made pancakes.

Last night we put on helmets and whipped along the river on Sachiko's scooter and went to T-Triana - one of the touristy flamenco tablaos, where you can see flamenco free. It is frequented by other flamenco student dancers, because their friends are dancing. This was the case last night. We met another very together Japanese professional friend of Sachiko's there. There are a lot of silly, showoffy flamenco dance students, but then there are some amazing people as well. She was one of the latter; someone who had left unsatisfying work to risk it all for flamenco, and was just getting by, teaching dance in Japan, coming here whenever she could to study more. Sachiko and this woman are both really inspiring. It is something like certainty in the face of total uncertainty; belief in being able to do it - whatever "it" is.

Sachiko and her friend got up and danced impromptu bulerias at the end. She invited me to come, but my eyes were only half open, so I really didn't feel like attempting it; besides, this is Spain and it was crowded. I could have done it, as it would not have been too extremely far over my head, but there is a next time.

The interesting stuff

I saw Mara two nights ago. We hung out at her place and traded stories of what had happened since December 5th. She had some interesting ones about travels in Vietnam. She shared midnight dinner with me, and then walked Faro out to see me off.

I met Salome (fellow Vancouver flamenco dancer) and her brother Milton (from Costa Rica, as is she originally) by the cathedral earlier that day and we decided on stuff to go see.

Last night I met them again and we went to Torres Macarena. We squeezed in beside the lady who always dances at casual singing nights, and Carmen Ledesma (a dancer with solera) and some gentlemen at another table, around a real fire. An hour late, the show finally started.

So I guess this is why I'm here. I need to follow what keeps my soul and heart alive, and this is it. Again, I sit with an overjoyed friend, both of us shaking our heads and trying to fight back tears. Riveted is the word that always comes to me, about shows there. I think I am in an altered state of consciousness while watching. What I most want in the whole world, and the core thing inside me is being engaged by what I'm seeing and hearing.

I wish I could share the real flamenco with you all. I am sure there is not anyone alive who would not love bulerias, if they could hear them done here in Andalucia, by a group who knows what they're doing and isn't playing just for tourists.

I have never noticed palmeros so much (the guys who stand behind the singer and guitarist and clap). Their art can be quite subtle - the rhythm so complex, but changing constantly in exactly how they mark it, and in volume, and stopping exactly with the end of the phrase the guitar makes. It is totally enthralling, compelling, the steadiness and strength of their rhythm, and "catchier" than any pop music melody.

There are no rules but the rhythm, and the tone and overall structre of the particular type of song, along with some typical ways of strumming and melodic elements that the guitar and singer need to incorporate. Inside that it is all what moves the singer, with phrase endings being emphasised by a sudden shrug of the shoulders, a stamp of her foot or some feisty piece of dance move that just surges up from her gut.
It would not be possible not to be moved by this art form that breaks the rules of my culture and upbringing. The singer wears a huge, hot pink cloth flower smack in top center of her head. Sometimes she struts, other times collects her arms and shoulders and energy inwards if she sings about "luto que llevo en mi corazon" (mourning that I carry in my heart), with her voice breaking and her face contorted. But it is not fake, and that is why you are riveted. My Canadian peers have come to distain any art or music that is so obvious; so "dramatic". Pop singers that have done that kind of stuff over the ages are a dime a dozen, but you don't feel anything because it is trite and all bad acting and fails to touch you anywhere close to the core; it is merely sentimental and comfortable. But here they have not lost the ability to express it sincerely (well, if you see a good singer); or perhaps they have not let the triteness of what many people do badly, cause them to become cynical and disdain intense expression of any kind, or quit trying.

The guitar is equally as blatantly dramatic, with lightening quick, rhythmic pulses that speed up and then stop suddenly. The palmeros stamp their feet making the whole stage shake, and accent the guitar with erupting shouts.

Laura danced, as do many female flamenco singers, between her letras or slowly during the end of phrases, in a manner sometimes completely controlled, other times utterly unhinged; on the edge of appropriateness. Both palmeros did a tiny bit of dancing at the very end. Male dancers are so uncommon at home, I still have not seen very many of them live. The small, younger guy was all unbelievably controlled, quick movements that are like a moving piece of art.

An anxious ramble on my troubles and decisions. Just ignore this - it's probably uninteresting reading.

I am trying not to get stressed by everything I have to do. Writing to you all is a way to keep sane.

Figure out a decent resume, go around looking for both restaurants and hostels that might want to either do an unpaid exchange or pay me. Look for an apartment maybe, instead of an interchange, work on my English teaching certificate, so I can give classes. Think about my visa, which runs out in May, and if I end up wanting to stay (or even to leave and come back) friends say it takes forever. Try again to figure out if there is any possible way I could actually apply for a work permit myself, if I can convince someone to hire me. Think about whether I should instead go off looking in small towns in the mountains for shoemakers and see if there is some way to survive there because this might be closer to what I really want.
Look at shoemaking workshops online and try to decide if this is the way to go, and perhaps end up studying in Hungary or in the US. Try to stretch and not forget about flamenco which helps keep me going.

Listen to what seems like the wisest advice: do what you love. So then do I just get an apartment and buy a sewing machine and start drafting patterns and looking for shoemaking supplies and start trying to make them? And try to teach a bit of English to get by until I can sell some of these? Right now I am utterly envious of people who have a definite plan, however good or bad, and don't have to consider 1000 options, trying to decide which one will work.

The worst is having people give their opinions or judgements about what they think is a good idea or isn't, and what is or isn't possible. All my life I have listened to them, for a sense of duty to heed them, lest they think badly of me for not listening. That is why I have been so utterly lost and turning in every direction. No amount of education or talent will help you in this life if you cannot stand on your own two feet and say, "I am going in this direction, damn you all and your predictions and warnings!"

The most difficult is trying to make a wise, strategic decision about how best to use X amount of money, to do Y, considering other limits such as how long I can legally stay here. I have never had the ability to think strategically about my life. I meander about in a half-ass way, afraid to really commit to any real step, without a concrete plan for how to get where I am going, hoping that an answer will appear out of the blue.

I think the absolute number one is not to get freaked and start running around like a chicken with my head off, passing out resumes to every place and feeling terrible about myself. No one can succeed by freaking out and grabbing at the easiest/lowest possible way of surviving. Dominic told me it will be hard to bear difficulties and to make decisions and go forward if you don't have a goal that excites you - that is really coming from your heart. No wonder I have been wandering in the desert. But then told me he felt the most energy and a complete change in me, when I talked about my former abilities and interest in music. This is a crushed dream that I don't think can be resurrected, and I definitely cannot start making a living with it right now, and don't know if I ever want to. It's weird and unsettling when someone else mirrors back something else to me - music - piano, playing music, that I am not in touch with right now. I feel that perhaps I am missing out, am going in the wrong direction, and it makes it hard to take concrete steps I need to take in this moment.

Windows are sometimes kept wide open during the day. Usually the problem is letting heat out and wasting energy, but here there is no heat to be let out.
At Sachiko's house, the heat is a tiny space heater that is in the living room and so the door to this room is kept shut whenever the heater is on. This is preferrable to most people's solution: a heater under the dining room table, from which hangs a heavy table cloth, all the way to the floor (there is a typical kind of table cloth, synthetic with long nap, like stuffed animal material from the 70s, usually a green or brown colour. It even has a fancy embroidered edge.) Obviously, the only way to warm yourself is to be stuck sitting at the table. You put your legs under and pull the table cloth up over your lap. (Normally you also wear a housecoat over top of your clothes).
I bought myself a hot water bottle yesterday. I thought, "10 Euros for only another month and a half or two...?" I didn't want to spend it but I don't like needless suffering all that much. Besides, I realized I use hot water bottles even during the summer, for sore muscles. Anyways, it is quite an exciting hot water bottle, as it comes from Germany and has a pretty velour cover. Even the shop keeper at the farmacia was so excited about the new hot water bottles that had just come in that she went off babbling, "Que MOOOONAA!" (how cute) and had to go show them to her friend who was in the store before seeing if I wanted one. I am caressing my hot water bottle right now.

Clothes driers don't exists, for all intents and purposes here in Andalucia. Well, probably if you are really extravagant. But I have never seen one. The majority of people never use one. The only trouble is that although this apartment is beautiful, there isn't a good place in the sun for drying clothes, so they have been sitting in a dark corner still wet after a full day.

The radio in the morning has a comedy talk show, like radios do. Yesterday I listened half asleep to them going on and on in a fake Chinese accent, pretending to be Chinese and joking a lot. Something about Chinese people or issues concerning them was a main theme. This morning it was not the main theme but somehow they managed to imitate an Arab guy, and an Italian. Sponge Bob ("Bob Esponja") was made mention of, as well as something to do with casinos and Indios de America en sus reservas. Probably not all of this was denigrating to the various ethnic groups. They do have a strong sense of the idea that one should not be racist, but they don't quite put that into practice the same way we do. They don't quite see how asking "the one with the feather or the dot" to identify "Indios" is a problem, nor I suppose, imitating someone's accent.

Anyways, I should be off looking for work, but I got up too late and have to meet Sachiko relatively soon to practice Concha's Solea, about which I am very excited, having not practiced with anyone else since August. I am going to work on my "resume", which so far says, "I am professional, I am good at making and fixing stuff, I speak languages." I refuse to put a list of how long my bum has sat in a chair at different places over the years.

Then I am going to go talk to Senor Chavez, who I ran into yesterday leaving his shop, while attempting to go visit him. I am very happy to have people here who recognise me and seem excited to see me.

Finally warmth. You would not think it would be such a problem in a place where people are sitting outdoors at cafes all over the place, all day. I am finishing off a glass of wine and defrosting.

After hanging out on the rooftop at the Triana Backpacker's hostel (which is too nice for the word "backpacker" and even has older Spanish men staying there) I came to Sachiko's place. I went out to enjoy the last bit of sun, and then called Mara to see if I could borrow some blankets, because Sachiko has no extra ones. Mara was in Matalascañas (a beach in Huelva) and coming back later. All of this is hard for me - asking to borrow stuff. Luckily this time, Sachiko and Mara both asked me if I needed a place to stay, seeming actually enthusiastic to let me do so. I got some groceries from the Chinese corner store (Sunday night, it's the only possibility), and looked desperately at various possible blanket sources on my walk through the city, as well as trying to find a 24 hour farmacia that might sell hot water bottles.

I wish I could tell you the number of odd things I've cooked up in my wandering, for lack of alternatives; for scarcity of space to carry anything more than absolutely necessary in my suitcases, and for lack of stores open on Sunday and so on. I made up a little snack of oats with hot water and honey while I waited for my rice cooked in pureed tomato, with some fava beans and a bit of green pepper. (I made bay leaf tea in Jerez in the beginning of December, and in Granada stuck some mint into my rice with tomato, onion and salt, because it was on the hostel shelf).

Sachiko has a beautiful apartment, but it is miserably cold. It has this cutout in the white walls, stylishly showing off the bricks below and unfortunately giving away to a critical Canadian, that there is no insulation - I think they are part of the main structure of the outside walls. What a wonderful invention wooden houses with fiberglass insulation are. Don't take them for granted.

I nearly fell asleep on the couch, after shivering for hours by the tiny space heater. Thank goodness I have friends that force me to do sensible things like call other friends at midnight to see if they forgot to get me blankets. If not for that I would suffer, shivering, I suppose. So I called Mara, and then went across to Triana to collect some blankets from her, managed to fit them into a bike basket and ride back. I had planned to take a taxi but it seemed easy enough to bike with them. Good Lord, what you don't do at 20 you end up having to do at some point. This stuff should have been done back then, and not at 40. I think I will eventually get over the feeling of shame at wheeling suitcases instead of taking a taxi or carrying blankets around in a bike basket. Spain is a better place to do that than elsewhere; the land of "I don't give a shit what you think". Something in the back of my head feels like people are going to think I am too poor (which I am) or a homeless street person (close but no).

I realised today that I want to stop all this nonsense. I either have to live somewhere, or travel; not a stupid combination of both. If I am going to go live in another country then I need to get stable there and have a life. If I am going to travel, then I should have some kind of a money-raking 9-5 job that lets me go stay in a nice hotel for a few weeks, take taxis everywhere and eat out (or rent some kind of luxury holiday apartment with kitchen). I seem to have some kind of ridiculous desire to see how I can get along on practically nothing - an instinct for survival - a sort of game with myself to see how frugal I can be (because I believe I will have a hard time making money). This is not a healthy way to approach life. Why don't I try to financially succeed? I think it is all a reaction against "normal" North American values and an attempt at solidarity with the rest of the world which is so far below our standard.

Midnight snack (which is kind of dinner) alcapparones (big capers, small ones being simply alcapparas), fried squid and lentejas (lentils). Sachiko and me had a great catching up talk; you know, all the usual stuff: flamenco, goals and life purpose. Then I met Dominic. We sorted out car stuff and walked around the city a bit, and I showed him cool night spots but neither of us wanted to imbibe, really. The city was dead because of a futbol game between the two Sevillan teams in the league. I crossed the bridge, passed the pescaderia/freidura (fishery/fry-er-y) place and noticed the customers and owners all glued to the TV, and at the same time noticed the jars of preserved stuff. I stopped in to get something, as I had not one thing I could put with my lentils and rice other than water, which did not sound appealing. I stared at the shelf for a second, and the guy asked if I wanted a drink. I said I'm cooking dinner and have nothing in the house to add to my lentils and rice. Give me some capers. The only other choices were gherkins, olives, and mayonnaise. Ugh, both customers exclaimed. Lentils, rice and capers! At least you could make a salad with the capers and put the lentils and rice together or something... They asked where I was from and said we certainly cook strange food in Canada. The game was ending and fortunately for everybody, it was a tie, so the city won't be divided between happy and bummed out people tomorrow.

It's kind of like this: it probably takes the same amount of time to get to know Spanish people as it does reserved Canadians; I mean, to become really close, true, good lasting kind of friends. But they kind of make it more happy, fun, warm and pleasant in the meantime by talking and joking with everyone all around them all the time.

Happily full of lentils, capers and squid, I am dragging myself to bed now, as I have not had enough sleep since I left the countryside, farm life. I will move to Sachiko's house tomorrow, till the 1st or until I find somewhere else.

Back in business

Hi. So you can't just stick a different plug on the end of a North American wire, despite the converter doing the work that is required for the different systems. After dropping off the car (during which this so-called brave person got all disgusted and rattle-nerved) I forced myself to stop at the MediaMarkt (a rather American seeming place), where a guy at the computer shop told me to go, and bought another cord. Seems to have solved the problem.

I have decided that since I am a woman, that means I am different from a man. My Dad also recently alerted me to the fact that I may also be a "sensitive" person. Indeed, that must also be so. Ancient Chinese medicine says women handle harsh environments less well than men. I wished I had asked my German guy friend to come with me to drop off the car, as I am quite confused by what is an is not legal or at least acceptable here. I am not sure if Sevilla counts as a harsh environment, but perhaps driving in cities does. My North American friends will not agree with me but I think a man should do some things like that. Maybe Spanish men will suit me after all.
Anyways, after dropping the car off, I passed the bikes at the train station and found that I still have some time left on my year pass, so I took a bike, and rode into the middle of the city. The "harsh" atmosphere receeded completely, as I rode past Plaza Salvador, chock full of people at 2:30 on a Saturday afternoon, having a copita ("cup"... a glass of wine). I sat for a while in the shade and stared down the Avenida de la Constitucion, past the cake like building and the cathedral in the distance. I took some Spanish tourists' pictures for them, and then I crossed the river to Triana again. I was starving and since I had not much I could quickly cook up before I fell into bed for siesta, I stopped in the plaza at the foot of the Triana bridge, and ordered espinacas con garbanzos and a glass of wine, and stood lounging in the sun at a tiny tall table. I believe my acquired Spanish "stare at me boys, I couldn't care less" look was in good shape, as I stood there alone, looking out at all the crowds of people eating and drinking together, filling every available sidewalk space, at tables in the sun. I am not sure if my look is equal to that of the locals, but it is coming along. There were a group of chicos standing between double parked cars with beer glasses set on the roof of someone's car, having their Saturday afternoon get together there wherever there was a bit of room.

I was warm enough in a sweater and boots, and then sitting in the sun like that it was even nicer and toastier. I just got up now from a small siesta and am going to go catch up with Sachiko.

Dominic and the hot springs

Yesterday Dominic of Berlin and I rented a car in Granada. It was Dominic´s idea to see a natural hot springs and he had no license with him. So when he told me it would only cost 10 E more than taking the bus back to Sevilla, I said, okay, I´m in. We picked up the car and I managed to manouvre the one way cobblestone streets of the Albaycin to pick up our suitcases, while he navigated. It was much more comfortable than the day we arrived, hauling our suitcases by hand up steep cobblestone with steps. We went off to Alhama de Granada, a town between Granada and Malaga, in a hilly country with rock outcroppings. We arrived in Alhama in the middle of siesta time but I managed to get a bar to make me a bocadillo (big sandwich). (We were late starting cause of problems reserving online. While Dominic did the reservations that morning, I did one last luxurious splurge of having Egyptian tea and walnut pie in an Arabic teahouse, and read the paper).

We found the hot springs without a problem. It was inside a gated area, but there was access left open for pedestrians, and a constant stream of people indeed came and went the whole time we were there. We peed in the bushes and found some kind of semi-cover to change behind and then joined the random collection of locals and strangers in the pools. We stayed for several hours, during which time we lay in a shallow, gravel bottomed pool, and then got inside a concrete bottomed, deeper one with spring water coming down into it through a kind of chute. There were a lot of Latinos, locals of the town there, and one Spanish woman and her 10 year old son. They were the most interesting, the woman being a country girl from a 13 sibling family, and used to teasing, joking and chatting away with everyone in a loud voice. She had come to this spring as a 14 year old to do the washing for her many brothers. She said in those days (she was only 42 but looked a lot older than me) girls were women by that time and had a lot of responsibility, not like now, when they ¨put on makeup and leave the town¨. She played with her son, pretending he was a boat and making him float around,  and generally hugging and fussing over him like a little prince. This is the first time I´ve seen that Mediterranean mother-son total spoiling first hand. She told us also that her siblings had all done a special homage, which she called a ¨menage¨ for their mother on TV. She even told me the date in 2007 and that I could find it on the internet. Then she asked me to take pictures of her and her son, and send them in the mail, and made me memorize their address, ¨Marie-Angeles Jimenez Maya, Calle Angustias 3, Alhama de Granada¨. I am just not sure I have the energy to go print them out and mail them to her. At some point, maybe!

Anyways, after soaking thoroughly for hours, we got on our way and had an uneventful drive in the evening back to Sevilla. The whole way I was inspired by Dominic´s goal setting. He helped me look at what I really want to do and told me I had to be very excited about what I´m doing with my life... to have a good reason to get out of bed every day. I actually felt like I´d come from a therapy session... complete with making new rules for my life. That was extremely positive, but I have to say I am slightly less certain about what I am currently doing right in this moment.

Well, off to collect the car from expensive parking lot which I did not forsee having to use, and return it. And then meet friends here, in what feels like ¨home¨ in Spain.

The cuerda of my ordenador is not working. I will not be communicating much till I can fix it.
Quick overview:
Met Paula, a Mexicana living in Montreal, who speaks Spanish and French. Looked at the only big flamenco schools, with her. Both are in Sacromonte. The only one worth considering is Manolete, of course, where Hiroshi is studying. We wandered up to a bar, where we saw Manolete himself (older, quite famous in the past) sitting. He was much smaller than I expected, very friendly and personable. He bought us some beers and we sat and chatted, on the patio, looking across at the Alhambra, which for several reasons wouldn´t happen in Sevilla. The bar was a cave, by the way, as are many buildings in Sacromonte.
We saw his school, Paula talked about lessons, we went back to the patio at the bar, and hung out with a flamenco singer from the neighborhood, and several other guys that drifted in. Tapas are free with drinks in Granada, so we sat for hours and ate and drank. We kept getting served even without asking for more. It only cost us 5 Euros each in the end. The owner, Kiki, a grey haired man in a black jacket, a gitano brimmed hat, and a polkadot scarf, played all kinds of music on the patio and occassionally did a little dance, came along and played with my hair, and was generally a funny, sweet little old guy. Jesus, one of the guys, had a room in his house for rent for Paula and so we walked way down the road out into country with farmland below us, and the Sierra Nevada or whatever in the background. We sat there talking to his two other renters, one a girl involved in flamenco, and teaching. On the way back, Paula hitched us a ride with the first truck coming along. The man was Argentinian, and no sooner had we got in than he pulled off to the side and told us we had to see the cave house of a senora. So we went and met this lady and saw her spectacular house, a huge place with various cave rooms, all rough and cave looking on the ceiling, which has to be very regularly maintained and painted white. A patio with huge mirrors attached to the house, looked across the small valley and mirrored the opposing mountains back. The senora was wonderfully hospitable to two random strangers, but we left quickly and got dropped off at the Mirador de San Nicholas, with a sunset view across to the lit up Alhambra, with its snowy mountain backdrop.
I went to meet Dominic later, and the plan was to go back to Sacromonte late for some casual insider flamenco. I went but they still werençt there at 1 am. The only trouble in my flamenco life is that I  not a late night partyer (like 3, 4, 5 am), especially after no siesta and an intense day of meeting people.
Must go as other hostellers are waiting for the only working computer.

(Last night)
"Destiny meant that we should meet", said a guy in a toque and sweater, that suddenly appeared in the stairway below me, at the intersection of two streets (both subiendo the hill in stairs and cobblestones).

Where are you going? I thought I would go to the Chien Andalou for a copita and some tapas. Oh, I thought I would go there too, I said. Well then let's go together. I am Miguel, kiss, kiss. Hello I am Ana, kiss, kiss.

Miguel was obviously gitano, and told me that he liked to compose his own lyrics and sing flamenco. So I went and hung out with Miguel at the Chien Andalou, and he introduced me to his tio Vitorio, who looked like a serious flamenco singer, which he apparently was. Fortunately for me, Miguel already had an English girlfriend, whose return from England he appeared to be struggling to wait for. This is one of the few times I've met gitanos that geniunely like payo girls (white, non-gitana). Miguel was harmless and sweet, despite touching my hair, telling me he would like to see me dressed in a traje de gitana (flamenco dress), and trying to kiss me directly on the mouth twice.

There are vast cultural differences, and one of my passions in life is exploring other cultures, so I am prepared to make allowances and give the benefit of the doubt when I do not fully understand the norms and rules. Basically to suspend my own rules at times and see what happens. Anyways, vibes are everything - some people are threatening, others are not. I have already gotten myself into trouble by giving too much benefit of the doubt, but that is what it takes to understand another culture, not just judge it by my own rules that to all my peers are just "right", no questions asked.

It was a relatively boring evening in the end, because Miguel suddenly decided he was going home, none of the gitanos were doing any after hours singing. I ended up talking to a Danish flamenco guitar student who was struggling with his Spanish.

Today I had a prescription filled that a doctor gave me about 10 years ago. Hammam Baths. I did not go in February last year with Sarah and Andrea because I didn't want to spend the money. But the night before I left home, I did my taxes and found out that I get some money back. So I decided to go. It was the top thing on Dr. Nguyen's list of treatments along with eating papaya and strawberries and then some other more boring health remedies. I never went to the Spa on 6th and Granville. Going in Granada may be better anyways.

I cannot think of anything more luxurious and beautiful. I think some salt water got added to the baths because I became a little emotional. Human beings need beauty and maybe even luxury sometimes. You get an hour and a half to wander between steam baths, warm pool, hot pool, cold pool, lounge on heated marble in little alcolves with candles burning and essential oil, and drink mint tea.

I travelled here yesterday with a German friend, and met another one (also German but really Russian) for tea this afternoon and wine tonight.

Everyday life in temporary housing.

The simple act of coming across the ocean seems to by some ill magic, wreak havoc with the power cord of my computer, every time. Well, going in an East direction, that is. The new section of the cord suddenly wants to be randomly moved about until it gets itself comfortable enough to start conducting electricity to my portatil. Before that happens, though, my computer has to flash red pictures of batteries and shut down.

Looked for rain boots and umbrella this morning, but the rain wasn't bad enough to force me to buy them yet. Found a well stocked health food store and got myself some oats and almond milk, integral rice and lentils. Found the market and got awesome dates and mediocre tea. No matter how fancy they wrap it, or if it comes from a designed up shop, you're taking a gamble buying tea here. I have no desire for my usual breakfast favorite: molletes con tomate y aceite y cafe. Just crunched up some spirulina tablets and boiled my horsetail/oatbud tea, which along with quitting heavy metals from the body, will provide me with a large dose of Silicon, which is one of the best ways of getting Calcium, as necessary for extremely active women as for older ones.

Now I am attempting to plug out the noise from the top 40 radio station blasting in the outdoor section of the hostel. I did not have the energy yet to move on to Granada or Sevilla today. Tomorrow I will go. But I did happen to meet an English girl who is volunteering here in exchange for room and board and says that the other Oasis hostels do that in Granada and Sevilla. When asked why I was unsure about living in Granada, I told them I was interested in a line of work that I had more connections to in Sevilla. What kind of work? I hesitate to tell every random stranger because when you're doing something that weird, you have to go through a reaction every time; it is a type of career goal that people would tend to look down on, or at least wonder why a woman like me would want to do such a thing. But the Spanish guy at reception said he would like to do the same; he has a shoe obsession.

So now I am going to work on my English teaching certificate and then sleep. It is getting towards siesta time already.

P.S. Just a look in the door of an old farmacia makes me feel like it is worth the trip across the ocean: the beauty of just about anything made in times long past... the care and craftsmanship put into the curvy glass bottles on undoubtedly solid wood cabinetry with lines that would be considered frivolous now, in such a place.

Malaga de nuevo

I cried when the plane left Vancouver. It was a Dash-8, and the flight attendant (a guy) asked where I was going and what I was going there for. He said, too bad there were other people on board or he'd get me to teach him some flamenco on the way to Seattle.

I did not want the plane to land in Malaga. I was not very excited to see Spain again. I looked slightly disparagingly at the measly Cypress trees and longingly at one or two odd ones that looked like firs. My suitcase miraculously made the connection in Paris, and nobody hardly looked at the visa pages in my passport or asked for my residence card.

Due to the nature of Southern Spain, it is pretty impossible to be too unhappy about being here. Despite looking at out the plane window at grey skies in Vancouver and realising I liked distinctive seasons, and that a properly grey sky in Winter is somehow grounding.

What can I say? It was snowing last night and now it is 20 degrees and there are honeysuckle vines and some odd huge flowers on a hedge. It would be impossible to feel rotten when you land in a warm place in the winter.

Warm that is, until you take a siesta with wet hair.

I arrived in time for siesta. Well, I was in time for lunch but didn't get it, because I didn't make a reservation at my hostel, and finding it full, went to a new one in the center of the city and then was too exhausted for food.

How to explain this: it is warm here. But you live outside, partly. The hostel is no different from any other building - a modern courtyard apartment: there are stylish tarps across the parts of the building that are open to the rain, but it still wets the floor in certain spots, and there is nothing keeping the air out, which is no longer 20 degrees. I might just go back to the airport tomorrow and come home if there were not a warm inside area where I am currently sitting.

I managed to dance bulerias and some bad Sevillanas the first night here. The bar has tons of pictures of famous flamencos, and is a dedicated flamenco place (everyone in there seemed to know each other or were related, the waiter plays the counter like a cajon - a Latin American rhythm box used in modern flamenco). A local woman who dances professionally, approached me seeing that I was alone, and since all the music playing was flamenco, one thing led to another and of course we danced. Though I did so kind of badly, it is still fun to connect with people: probably the most satisfying was the pleasure/surprise they have at seeing some random Canadian who knows at least how to keep basic compas (rhythm) and when to do the bulerias llamada and all that. "You are a real artista, for a Canadian!" said the now drunk bartender/husband of the dancer.

Oh, and did I say Malaga is like some alternate relaxed universe?