Another weekend in the pueblo. My neighborhood and the crowds that hang out at the places I do are like a tiny village.
Tonight I sat beside Hagit from Israel and Linda from Vancouver Island. I went to the bar to get some Jerez with tonic and got talking to Norman, an American who bartends. He said Momo, aside from commenting on my hair being up, had told him that I was married to a Brazilian guitarist. Norman asked me hesitatingly if this was true.
Matteo Solea sang about little boys sitting at the door of the jail, and their father telling them his pain that the mother had found another man. And of little boys playing in the street, without mothers, and of mothers dying, and of not believing in anything or anyone, not even one's mother. That's flamenco.

Benji is trying to prepare himself for a trip to the west coast. Of Canada, that is. Victoria and Vancouver would do well to prepare themselves for Benji.
He is scared. He has rarely been as far as Sevilla, he doesn't speak English. He thinks it is terribly cold and doesn't know what kind of clothes he should bring. So far his preparation has consisted of trying to sing bulerias with an English sounding accent (Spanish or English sounding gibberish) and trying to get someone to translate various worries to Linda. After quite a bit of effort, Linda and I managed to get him to say, "where are you going?" Though he does know a lot of Pink Floyd, Deep Purple (which he calls peupa), Black Sabbath lyrics. We told him to bring jeans and he said he likes his suit with its vest, and his cravat. It has never been very certain that he would go, though he already has a ticket.

We shall see. I shall have to put the word out to Spanish speakers to look after him.

normal life

Today I feel very lucky. I rode back across the city on my magic bike and bought some stewing pork (cause they have that instead of stewing beef), and made myself some stew with vermouth out of a 2 liter jug that we got from some guys with their own bodega near Arcos.

This evening I realise how good English speakers have it. The priviledged position anyone with English speaking background has in the world.

In a place where there are fires on the street from garbage bins being burned in garbage strike protests, because there is not enough money to pay people and nobody has work, any English speaker can do okay.

My student who I saw tonight is a really wonderful girl, probably slightly younger than me. She has a music degree but has for some reason suddenly been thrust into the position of bilingual science teacher for 9-year olds. Her English pronunciation is excellent and her accuracy is impressive. I have not met anybody who thinks so carefully while speaking, in order to get the grammar right before it comes out her mouth. She is also really a great person - very warm, very funny.
But today she was in an awful state of mind, completely stressed and near collapse. She has an Australian as a helper in her class, and her students all are supposed to be bilingual. Some may even be English native speakers or have lived abroad or something. She is embarassed in front of them all to begin with, about her pronunciation, but next week there will be bilingual English teachers visiting from England and Italy, and she will have to play hostess both during school hours and in a range of activities outside. A law was passed recently that requires almost everybody (anyone who wants to have a Masters degree or teach in any school or university) to pass certain Cambridge English exams. On top of all this she thinks she will lose her job next year if she cannot get the certificate by May.

Anyways, I am feeling like I have it really easy, after talking to her tonight. (A few weeks ago we had to go through the entire teaching section on the reproductive system, and correct pronunciation of all the body parts and stuff like that. Funny enough for two mature women but much funnier for her 9-year olds). On the other hand, she and her boyfriend have at least one expensive car and a nice apartment whereas I have a well, a house that is interesting... and a rusty, magic bike.

I can't remember ever having a bike like this. It is old fashioned, painted black, and the struts holding the mud guard onto the wheel fork as well as a bunch of other bolts are totally rusty. We got it second hand, from a bike renovation guy with a warehouse outside of town. 90€ is a lot for a second hand bike but it has some kind of amazing bearings or something. There is only one gear, but I can't see the need for any more. The one gear is so perfectly balanced between getting uphill and going surprisingly fast on long stretches... I don't understand how it does it. You pedal a little bit and it just seems to keep rolling and rolling. It's very weird. It goes great but doesn't stop so well - the breaks leave a little to be desired. I think I've gotten used to them so it's not too dangerous. Other times people have to get out of my way or I have to weave around them.
In Andalucia people don't need to wear helmets. It's also not a problem to ride on the sidewalk, whereas I consider it rude at home. It's just the way things are here. Luckily there's a bike path down the most main road of the city, going from the center all the way out to the North edge, where most of my students are. It's lined with palm and orange trees. They're blooming right now, some of them. The dates have fallen off the palms back a while ago.

Things are getting interesting here in Jerez.

There have been several great weekends...This one started on Friday afternoon, when I went out for a walk and ran into the soundman who works at the penas. He recognised me and said, let's go for a beer at Pena Cernicalos. I went and there were a couple of old guys hanging out there. The father of Momito, who sang a few weeks ago, and brother in law to El Torta, another family member, (actually both related to the soundman - all with the family nickname of "Momo"). So I hung out drinking Jerez and having tapas. There was some singing, but most importantly connections made with people. The roof was leaking and Jesus, the president whom I met back in 2010, got Geoffrey to look at it.

Evening was Juan Villar of Cadiz, whose name is legendary - and Nino Jero. There was a huge fiesta afterwards, with a lot of old characters singing. 

Tonight was Paco Cepero in the Claustro de San Domingo... a gorgeously renovated building dating from 1200 or 1400. Then over to pena Cernicalos again where Carmen danced and Jose Carpio sang.

I am starting to not only get to know people, but to have an idea of the interweaving of the families, and who belongs to what family. 

Two weekends ago I met Dolores Agujetas, who invited me to her house. I haven't gone yet, because I'm just really intimidated, although she is completely down to earth. 

Well, that and my leatherwork class in the mornings... new students. That is my life.

Tomorrow a non-lethal bullfight, maybe, or a drive in the country or to Sanlucar, maybe with Benji and Linda. 

Last weekend was a party nearly all night with many many foreigners packed into Manu and Pati's house, and the night before that, an incredible concert of the Rubichis ... Tomas and Domingo. Uncle-nephew. 

That night I felt as though I were one of the sick being brought on a palette to be healed. Laying there lame and half dead, by the burning fire... the life energy in this place. There is nothing like it. Sevilla is a pale shadow compared to Jerez, where flamenco is concerned.