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.