We have just finished the last of the three roadkill pheasants brought in Geoffrey's backpack on the plane from London (along with a huge bag of flour from Ireland). They were very fresh ... better than the last one bought at a supermarket, wrapped in plastic and turning green after unexpected delays in Seville.

For the first several days after he got back, there were feathers on the floor, clogging the kitchen sink, and stuck to a couple of items. I have to keep a close eye on the kitchen, or the things in it, after he cleans things like this, or fish. Nothing bothers him. Bits of feather (fish scales), or flesh, or blood on the counter (wooden, porous). I know by now the things I have to sterilize: the scissors, the tap handle...

We made the last one with mushrooms and chestnuts. None were up to snuff, Geoffrey says because he did not hang them. I said you could have left them on the road for longer. But hanging must be done in a clean environment, and cold. Roadkill pheasants, as long as a trained eye can tell they are fresh, may be more desireable than hunted ones, as you always have the piece of lead from the shot inside, he tells me.
The hunting season must not have started yet. He said near his friend's estate, they were all over the place.

I am very proud of my scarf he brought me from Ireland. I feel like Ireland is an exotic, far away place. Somewhere that is actually cold at this time of year... somewhere you could hang pheasants.

More death (or theath), though not of animals... algo a bit more sinister. My students find this a difficult word somehow - either the pronunciation or the conjugation or something...

A student of mine who works in a former convent, last major renovation the 16th century (it is now a school), told me that there is a "dead baby" in the wall "right here" (he raised up his left arm to show the location), in his office. Apparently the nuns had illicit relations with the priests. There were secret passageways between the cathedral and two of the convents here, at least. So it is said. An older teacher related that back in some previous decade, there was work being done, and the workers discovered it. Apparently there are numerous dead babies in the walls. The nuns had to put them somewhere.

I mentioned the story to another student and she told me without missing a beat, that this is a common story across Spain. Her aunt was having a house built (back during the Civil War). It was near a convent, or over a former convent. There was a secret passage under the ground, which when dug up, revealed skulls. The aunt, being a very Christian lady, took home one of the skulls, and prayed for the poor thing's soul.

And that is my pre-Halloween, Jerez news.

I was looking for Geoffrey in the fish market. Rushing a bit, I stopped short as somebody had slung a huge fish off a cart onto another cart and were slitting it widthwise... A guy said, "do you want a cheap octopus?" I was scanning above the crowd as usual for a whitish head. "Buy some anchovies, girl!" I am looking for a person, not a fish!

By now I should be able to ask them, "have you seen my boyfriend?" I think they probably would recognise him, and have probably seen me chasing around after him.

Here you can see part of my life - a lot of the people in my life - my teacher, people I hang out with, the guy I got a ride with to the flamenco competition, the old man who hangs out at the peña on Friday afternoon. Jesus, the manager of the peña, one of the first people I spoke to in Jerez, who remembers how shy I was back in 2010. And Pepe, my 78 year old dancer friend. I think some other dancer friends are in it, but I have not watched the whole thing yet.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=5YqwH-tyEBA#t=2650

This is a documentary made by the BBC, and goes through several Andalucian cities. The part on Jerez starts at around 43:00 minutes. Right there you can see a party with all these people I just mentioned.

Then around 46:20, there is another party and this is especially so you can see Pepe El Zorri dancing. Geoffrey and I just had him over for lunch. He is the cousin of a very famous singer, Paquera, whose birthplace is beside our house. He told us at lunch, of how he went with Paquera when he was only 23, to do shows, and about a show in Ronda, where he and Paco Cepero (very famous guitarist, who I saw in black and white videos one of the first ones I knew in flamenco - I see him walking his dog sometimes now), well they went wandering around the town, and the girls coming up to talk to them, and showed up 15 minutes after the show was supposed to start, and everybody was mad, cause Paco had to help Paquera warm up and tune the guitar and all. Paco was only 18 or 19.
Then Pepe told us that they brought Farruco to dance with them for some shows, and he had to go up and dance just a bit of a duo with Farruco (granddaddy of flamenco dancers, a legend, long dead).

Anyways, I wanted to show you all.

Here is another one, a show that just happened several friday nights ago. We werent there, cause we got up next morning early to go to Extremadura. This is a great one of Pepe El Zorri dancing. He comes up near the beginning.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfbFULhxZIc

Jose Mendez, Pepe's nephew whom he travels and dances with a lot, sings at the beginning and then Luis El Zambo sings near the end.

My phone rung at 4:30 am. I picked up but missed her. It was Sachiko. I have so little money I never want to make calls, only text messages. I thought, perhaps something has happened, perhaps it's an emergency.

I should have guessed it was only a juerga. Come! she says, I'm in Jerez at Luis de la Pica with Luis!

Getting my bike out the door at 5 am, I told myself to just pretend I had to catch a plane or something.

Anyways, it was a happening juerga. Sachiko and another Japanese dancer/singer student of Luis's, had gone from Seville with him to El Puerto de Santa Maria (next town over, on the coast) for a festival and all the artists had headed back to the peña here in Santiago after.
It was full of flamencos, many of whom I didn't recognise, obviously some from Seville, one guy said there were a few from Algeciras...

It is hard not to feel like such an outsider in these events. Sachiko doesn't seem to suffer from the same feelings. Partly because she is just a less neurotic person than me, and perhaps maybe a small amount because she is Japanese. The Japanese have a lot of recognition here for their very great "aficion" (aficionados). Their serious interest and often greater knowledge than those from elsewhere (and sometimes I think the fact that they are not white) usually means they are received well.

Anyways, a huge group of people gathers spontaneously, leaving a space in the middle for whoever gets struck with the desire to sing the next letra or dance a bit. The group breaks up at some points, someone continues singing at the side of the bar with a few others doing palmas, then another big circle gathers farther over.

Being from Seville, Sachiko does not see as many fiestas like these as I do, which are not merely stocked with professional musicians, but a crowd of normal gitanos whose life involves flamenco, just being in their veins. This was a particularly good one.

Both the girls danced, something which I don't dare to do yet among such a group of pros and others who have it in their blood. Maybe at the peñas closer to home, soon, where I know more people. When Luis and the two girls had to get a taxi around 7:00, the ladies, who had been almost inactive until later on, almost wouldn't let them leave and insisted that Sachiko dance with one of the them in the middle of the current circle.

I desperately need to change the name of this blog, but I am just too busy to do it and to think of a name and all.

This afternoon was the kind of thing money can't buy.

It was Pepe's birthday. I called to wish him Feliz Cumpleaños and ask what he was up to. He is turning 78, and has recently lost his wife, so is quite alone. Some of the foreign chicas have taken it upon ourselves to look after him a bit, at least as far as going out for coffee or a walk. Pepe always is dressed very fashionably. He loves red loafers and will wear a red checkered shirt, or on special occasions, red pants. He's one of the few older men I pretty much trust. 90% of them are liable to get sleazy but not him, thank goodness. Since he comes from a family of people who sing and dance, it is natural to him and all the important flamenco people know and love him. His cousin was the very famous Paquera, whose place of birth is beside Geoffrey's house. If another flamenco is nearby and starts to sing, or keep time for a couple seconds with palmas, Pepe is liable to suddenly burst out with a brief couple of stamps of the feet that sound like music - one or two syncopated beats. Not just anyone that has musical ability can just up and do this. Those that have lived this all their life, have it burst out of them all of a sudden just standing there. It's more than a matter of simply having rhythm and being on time - there is a security in the quality of the sound, whether it is palmas (clapping) or feet, and a lack of effort in the person's attitude and demeanour. People like Pepe for whom it's natural, also do some amusing or characterful gestures at the same time, just a simple shrug of the shoulders at the right moment, a certain look on their face, and an eruption of "Ah...aaah, ...  A - sza!" accenting the rhythm.

Anyways, he said, "Are you coming?" I didn't even know what was going on, but obviously a party was already under way. So I went across through Barrio Santiago and over to the Bar Pulga (Bar Flea) which has written "Tio (Uncle) Gregorio Parilla" on the Cruzcampo sign at the side (like one of those round, plastic Coca Cola signs, except it's beer).

Several of the French student gang were there, along with a couple of men from the Peña Buleria, and Luis de la Tota (a maestro of rhythm with character) and his wife and little son, and Junquerita, our singer for our dance classes. Parrilla's daughter, Rocio, a young and beautiful flamenco singer, and her Mexican boyfriend were also there. Everyone was having rebujitos and paella made with noodles (a proper dish from a certain northern city), then plates of deep fried anchovies and rounds of some other fish.

Then Darian the Mexican guy started playing and Pepe (who's name is El Zorri - the baggage cart, or something to that effect) started singing. He is famed as a dancer but sings very well too. The two gentlemen from the peña sang, and Junquerita. Luis's year old son already imitates some of the most prominent things in his young life (putting his hands together, and raising them up in the air, as well as grabbing his shirt the way the men do, jokingly imitating the women dancing with their skirts). El Gasolina, as I believe his name to be, is an excellent singer. I don't know how long it went on as I had to leave, but I prefer these gatherings over any concert on any stage.

This is top notch flamenco. Jose 'Mijita' (little bit) Carpio.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=1TXcvKYmiTk#at=501

This is a show that I saw about 3 weeks ago. Jose is a fantastic singer and it was an excellent show. He is young and still improving but for me there is little better. I have the great fortune to hear him relatively often, as he is connected to the Peña Cernicalos and sings for Carmen, does shows nearby.

Listen to the audience. After he says "Cien años después de muerto, y los gusanos mi cuerpo comio" they all yell, and someone says "¡Ole, Bien!" He has just said, "100 years after I die and the worms have eaten me..."


Today I had an interesting lesson, during my English class with Pilar, a normal Barrio San Miguel girl. (Nobody from the Barrio of San Miguel is "normal" to me. They are all a little bit - more like a lot - special). Pilar doesn't have a particular interest in flamenco, but her cousin runs the Peña buleria which is my hospital of the soul. Her mother is Dolores Agujetas' mother's cousin or something like that, and she's related as well to another famous singer La Macanita, and guitarist Domingo Rubichi. She explains that she doesn't like solitude. She was brought up in a big family and she needs people around. She says, watching a movie alone is not the same as watching with people. For example, if you are watching a comedy you laugh a lot more when the other people around you are laughing too. Same if you see a football game alone as opposed to with people. I think this point is partly obvious, but you can't really understand it, unless you have seen life in a place like this. The extent to which they express themselves when in groups is just so much greater. In a particularly moving flamenco concert, as you hear the constant yelling of encouragement while the music is happening. At a football game they far outdo anything at home, despite the fact that Canadians also occasionally go crazy for major sports events. She says, your body needs to express itself. I think in Canada, your body is used to being farther away from people, so you don't have the same feeling.

*********************************************

After the class I went to the market. At the fig, nut and bean stall after giving me my half kilo of dates, the guy (whom I know to say hello to) has a pained look on his face. He says "your eyes make a person fall in love", I say thank you and he says "thank you for coming here" in a tone that feels like "thank you for gracing my stall with your presence," and continues with a pained and dramatic lovelorn look. If one were to associate the qualities of his dates with aspects of himself, one might also fall in love. He usually gives me free samples of other things and today poured a handful of the most luscious raisins into my hand.
It's summer time and the Jerezanos don't act a lot different from the other Mediterraneans who I had the special fortune of knowing in grade 2 and up. In fact, one thing that can be said about them is they seem to be very consistent, not changing much as they grow up. Just the other day I was forcibly kissed on the mouth, which has happened about 4 or 5 times during my entire time in Jerez. At least there was pleasant conversation first this time. I'm not sure if the person really meant to do that as he will have to face me in the future.

Moneo family singing

I just found this video. It's the Moneo family singing bulerias. There are a bunch of clips, all separate. This is a really good recording and gives you a good idea of what it's really like in a spontaneous fiesta. This is the treasure that us foreigners seek and sometimes are lucky to watch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hfw7f0zSfgM

Here is another brilliant one. This is just some kind of gathering and it would all be totally spontaneous, nobody practiced getting up to dance, that is to say. Of course they know how generally.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fYJUpHKtgzE

The guy on left at end is Luis Peña, a teacher I studied with briefly in Sevilla. He doesn't usually come to Jerez.

I love my neighbourhood. As I ride my not-so-magic-any-more bike (has seen some beatings, literally) into the Lola Flores square at Bar Maypa, I am liable to catch Antonio the butcher's eye, who is standing at the door visiting, and wave a quick "hola". Paco, at Bar Maypa always greets me if he on his way to or from work, and sometimes Antonio, a member of the Fajardo-Moneo clan (respected flamenco singers) will be sitting on the bench under the olive tree. I am continually surprised that he recognises me, as the times I've previously talked with him he seemed very drunk and is somewhat elderly. Then there is Pacquito, with his white spiky hair and moustache, who is often to be seen swaying his hips and twirling his hands. He calls out "¡hola Keen!" as a fellow owner of the name Kim told him this was my "real" name. Pacquito will say, "my wife walks like this...", and then doing roughly the same thing, adds, "and I walk like this...!" Some say he is not gay at all but this is the persona he has taken on. He loves to act the part, if indeed he is acting. You can guess the answer he gives when you ask him who walks better.
As I get closer to home, I might see Adela or occasionally Maria at the doorway. Adela loves to go for paseos, and always thinks that's what I'm doing too, even if I am going to work. Adela's son may be hanging out in the square with the other unemployed men. And if Mari-Carmen of the Coviran grocery shop is outside putting boxes out, I get a nod. Since the sidewalks are too narrow for two people to pass comfortably and not so convenient for anyone with a stroller, many people amble up the middle of the street, which is one way, like almost every street except for the major ones.
If I go down the next street over, and happen to see them, I'll greet the owners of Bar Porrón, and then Manuel who is always standing somewhere near Peña Buleria or the corner store across the street.
It is common to run into most of my friends or acquaintances in the streets around my home.

There is always something going on on Friday or Saturday night or both. Sometimes there are two events on the same night, that most people want to go to, like last night, so the second event just waits until the people arrive from the first one, and the concert might start 1-2 hours later than advertised.

Last night was the fin de curso of one of the dance teachers. After that Jose Mendez sang at a little bar recently re-opened, and a provider of excellent flamenco (which is almost always free everywhere). It was 11:00 already and Jose's girlfriend was in the Peña watching the dancing. Then Jose came in too, so we knew we didn't have to go over to the bar yet. Half an hour after he was due to start, we followed him over to the bar. On the way we ran into other friends who were going late to the dance show and who we told to come along cause Jose was singing. At the bar, we hung out and talked with Jose and his uncle (a friend of us girls, Pepe, el Zori) and various other people while the owner sang a letra of bulerias himself. Then he yelled, "let's start", so everyone crowded into the room where there are benches along each wall and a few tables and extra stools.
Jose is the nephew of the famous, now dead Paquera de Jerez, whose place of birth is next door. Jose has inherited powerful lungs from his family.
The girls and I squeezed in beside Ani (our teacher) who gave constant jaleo (yelling encouragement) while he sang. Jose is super down to earth and nice. Like most people here - flamenco or not - he remembered me and greeted me warmly, after being introduced only once quite some time before.

Jose sings with all his lungs and soul. At times his voice was almost ear-splitting. The best flamenco is heard without a microphone and this place certainly doesn't have one. Jose doesn't probably ever need one. Flamenco does not have to be sung loud, and those who sing shouldn't attempt to yell, but some people have strong lungs, like this man.

A few nights ago was the fin de curso of Ani, in which I danced a tiny piece of bulerias. I didn't do badly but I wasn't totally pleased. Ani was satisfied with me, which means a lot as if you don't live up to your standards, she can be tough on you. There were three excellent singers that you would not find in a show of this sort in a city like Sevilla. Three singers from old and respected flamenco families, who are steeped in it and continue to steep their children in it. Some of these children are students of Ani, and danced that night. In the audience are grandmothers and friends and cousins of everybody, and the family of Dolores Agujetas helping out with recording everything. This is something that I think does not exist in any other place. There are only a few extranjeros (people like me), surrounded by genuine Jerezanos with flamenco in their blood, just doing their thing, in their community, in the place where they grew up. In Seville it is the opposite way around, and the former communities where the gitanos once lived are no longer.


I went to practice the night before. It was the children's practice time - I could not come during the adult extranjeros time. While I waited, I went into the practice room with my friend Kim and a couple of little girls, probably about 7 years old. One of them is the daughter of a singer from a renowned family and the other was the daughter of a local girl who dances, presumably of gitano background. The girls took control. Their confidence was frightening. They were polite and nice to us, as if they were adults. They did palmas for us and told us we danced well. We did palmas for them. And what palmas they did! I have no idea how a child of that age, with tiny hands could make a sound so loud, so secure and so consistent. And their dancing and compas (rhythm) was so secure... they knew what they were doing better than 90% of adult foreigners. One of the girls had an attitude of utter fearless confidence of the kind that is unnerving, but I think natural for her. I think she could kick anyone's butt that got in her way.

My teachers.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4GJoPHj-Qw

With their children's group. Ana Maria (Ani) comes out first. Then Carmen. Ani is the woman who teaches the best bulerias class in the world. One could argue that, but bulerias are originally from Jerez, and she teaches the best class in Jerez. (One which is as much like a genuine party as any class could be. After all, bulerias are a party. Complete with drinking and smoking, people interrupting to complain about stuff, to discuss deep philosophical questions... whatever. And the class starts about 15 minutes to half an hour late and finishes the same amount late).

This is our Carmen. Carmen is the best flamenco dancer anywhere. I don't care that there are many others in Spain who are technically more advanced. Most of them are just technique showoffs with a serious face - like classical music, but even among the truly good ones... well... Nobody but nobody has the character and personality like Carmen. And flamenco is not flamenco if you are just concerned with technique. All the brilliant technical displays are boring after a while, but soul doesn't bore you.

Besides, she is sweet and down to earth and last night I watched her singing in the street with some other gitano girls after all the big shows were over. What other flamenco dancer does that?!! That's the real thing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMQvyeesoho

Jose Mijita Carpio sings about 3:30 and Carmen dances first. It's just a little bit, but there aren't many videos of her online. Jose is fantastic. I am a huge fan. He always sings for Carmen.

Eva Rubichi who sings first is excellent, but I don't like what she sings here.

Here is a piece of Carmen dancing again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&feature=endscreen&v=Q1T3cNlJKC8

Last night we went out with Kim, Yukie and El Zori for caracoles at a bar near the cathedral. We left just about sunset and it was a long walk cause Zori kept pausing as he talked to us. They were the best caracoles I've had, sure enough. We all ordered seconds.
Zori invited us to the Peña Buleria today and the girls couldn't go because of a previous date, but Geoffrey and I went. We got there ahead of him, though we went later than he told us. It's a little intimidating at first, cause it is open to everyone but not totally. It's hard to understand - it's a club, and the people going for lunch pay a monthly fee to belong. If we were to go all the time, we should really pay, though they are so welcoming, they tell us, "This is your house, come whenever you want". Yet at the door, they stop and ask you, "Yes, can we help you?" If you say someone has invited you then no problem. Anyways, Antonio, a gentleman who can be seen selling lottery tickets on the street, hanging out at the Tres Reyes (bar where the fishmongers and Geoffrey go), and singing Saetas during Semana Santa, comes and puts a big plate of sardines in front of us, and tells the bartender to give us some tapas of tortilla on bread, they give us tomato and tuna salad, and keep bringing more and more sardines. There are very few people today; just three tables of people, only one woman among them all. Zori arrives and doesn't recognize us, cause Geoffrey's wearing a white and magenta striped shirt, and looks like "one of us", whereas last night he had a Giri (foreigner) shirt.
I get some stories from both Antonio and Zori about their childhood growing up in the neighbourhood. These men were born here, beside other famous flamenco singers, Zori being the cousin of Paquera, and Antonio living on the same street as, and playing with various flamenco heavyweights. He said up to about 7 years old they would play stuff like marbles and whatever, in the street, but about that age, they started to rap their knuckles on the table and sing. Just hanging out in their spare time doing that, I suppose.
After someone comes by with ice cream sandwiches and we have a few more drinks and Geoffrey has even more sardines, Gasolina starts to sing. Three other guys take turns doing solea por bulerias, then Antonio starts up with some bulerias and I can hardly stay in my chair. That's what it's supposed to be like. When someone sings bulerias for real, their is so much rhythm (there is not a proper English word to describe what there is - it's called soniquete - groove would be the closest thing), well, there is so much groove, you almost automatically dance. I only need a little bit more time and to feel slightly more at home there, and I'll do it. I am almost there.
Zori is 78 and has just lost his wife. He has always loved flamenco more than any other pursuit, like work and all the duties of raising a family. Finally he can just dedicate himself to it completely. He stays out later than people our age, and is constantly partying. His nephew Jose Mendez has a lot of gigs, in Seville and abroad. Zori often joins him, and is invited up to dance bulerias for the final number, whenever he goes along. He is renowned in Jerez and somewhat in Sevilla for his "arte" (art + something else not involved in the English word art... perhaps whimsy, sense of fun, "cool", and joie de vivre all combined). His daughter calls him and tries to invite him for breakfast, for dinner, to make sure he's not alone, but he's always out with friends and admirers.
He told us his name comes from going to school on the San Telmo hill and during recess, the kids would run to catch up with the Zorrillos (sp?), a type of cart that came from Sanlucar, carrying packages. He would always be the first one to catch up to the cart and so was named Zorillo, later it got shortened.
The singing was like heaven. Not because it is a stereotypically whitewashed "heaven-y" kind of sound, but because it seems to come from deep down, with no barriers to self expression, and equally important, it comes from a certain context and is done in a certain context which infuses the singing. One where people hang out without a schedule, where time is not important, there is spaciousness - a lack of anxiety or pressure that is present in most other settings in my life but is so normal and is anyways only an undetectable undercurrent but colours everything, but is only noticeable when it's missing. They have inherited a living tradition with huge meaning and significance, and a high form of art has been of central importance in their everyday lives, all their lives, and they have shared this together for years. You feel or know all of this as you are sitting there listening to them, you hear it in their singing.

I just got back from Sevilla. How happy I am to be in Jerez. There's a fresh breeze from the ocean, it's totally quiet on a Sunday afternoon at 4 pm.
We are going to have shark steaks on the barbeque for dinner. There are storks circling above the rooftop. Geoffrey is up there doing stuff in his workshop; just finished making himself a table saw out of a metal bed frame and various odd bits of metal, and a regular power saw which he set underneath it.
I am sanding my shoe lasts.

I was with Sachiko and some other friends last night at a peña where Pepe Torres danced. We went out afterwards to the main place for flamenco. Hidden in a place with the door half down, it lasts all night as long as the police don't come and force it to close down. There is no good place where they can sing and do what they want, as somebody is always bothered. It used to be the norm in Sevilla in certain neighbourhoods. Unfortunately and amazingly, the city allows music to be blasting from numerous huge speakers at an all night concert, keeping up everyone in that entire section of the city till 6 am, but a few people playing quality music, un-amplified, are shut down. Anyways, thank goodness Jerez is different. It is a community event complete with older people, here, and there is usually not a problem when it goes all night because, at least I suppose, people know that this is normal life here so they shouldn't live beside a peña if they don't want to hear it.

It makes me realise all the more how unique this place is where I live, what a treasure it is. A cultural treasure, a way of life that hardly exists anywhere else.

Today a student told me that she doesn't like Cadiz very much, due to negative experiences there. I forget the exact nature of them, but they were involving business. She works for large companies directing things.
I already know that the Gaditanos (people of Cadiz) are happy-go-lucky people. I have always automatically felt happy being there. Besides it is beautiful. It is on the Costa de la Luz (coast of light) and the first time I went there, the light had a heavenly quality to it. I'm sure I've said before that it is the only place in Spain where the traditional carnival survived the dictatorship, so they told me. They are utterly hilarious and take their ridiculousness and irreverence quite seriously. Besides, their humour is a good percentage of the time, quite intelligent, and they are known for having a mildly anarchist bent.
Well, said my student, the director of the company showed up to a meeting with the bank to ask for money, wearing shorts. They don't take anything seriously, she said. I think the company may not have survived.

The only major and important form of flamenco song in a major key is Alegrias (happiness), which is an invention of Cadiz. I have not studied it much, but just did so last month. I am currently trying to learn a few letras (verses) and to sing it a bit, so that I can understand the dance better. Generally I don't really enjoy listening to this form, as is just lacks guts, many times. But that depends who you listen to. Here is La Perla de Cadiz (the Pearl of Cadiz) singing one. I believe she is dead now, but don't quote me. She is accompanied by Paco Cepero, a flamenco giant, who lives here, and whom we shared the bar with a few Saturdays ago at the Tabanco (place where sherry is served out of barrels piled up).

La Perla de Cadiz

Why I am here:

This month there are shows again at Peña Buleria. There weren't advertised anywhere except a poster on the door and maybe in a couple of strategic places in the city. They are free and they are mostly attended by locals who belong to a large kind of thing that seems like a family. It is a true community. They seem closed because they all know each other and they share this common, incredible thing. They are not closed though, and welcome outsiders but don't really seem to be bothered by us for the most part. I suppose that is because their own "thing" is so strong, alive and well. We are kind of neither here nor there. At least this is my current understanding of it. That is exactly how it should be, I think.

Last night was Momito, one of the so called "Momo" clan, who have illustrious members. I know at least two of them to chat with or hang out with (not the really illustrious ones, but some who are good singers).

Again, I have the feeling at this peña, that I have entered into heaven already. The last is always bulerias, and two palmeros got behind the singer to "clap" and shout. The singer is already pouring out everything in him, but the palmeros are encouraging him on with explosive loud yells. Many people all over the "audience" yell as well, when the wave strikes them/when the spirit moves them. The energy involved in flamenco is like that of old fashioned acoustic blues... there is nothing hyper. It is grounded and has a solid feeling, but heat like a fire.
Totally foreign to the rest of us... I have no idea how to explain. Last night I thought I have never seen so much true joy as what I see in flamenco. It is harsh, raw and completely real and spills everything out. But when they get to bulerias, then that's what it is. The ultimate meaning of party. Which is what heaven should be, I assume. Singing and dancing, clapping and shouting.

After the show is over, we hang out for a while and tonight they just happened to spontaneously erupt into singing for a while. A large circle opens up and someone steps in and starts singing. People accompany by clapping. Someone else sings. Somebody feels like dancing and steps into the middle. Old men with white hair in suits and young ones with funky jeans almost falling off. All are equally involved. Un-scripted goofing around but within a sophisticated musical framework, which involves being totally in tune with another person who's singing or dancing.

Something vital is here that I am missing. I get a transfusion when I go stand even just watching, that allows me to carry on.

Suddenly I am back to Sevilla... two days a week. Nothing can drag me there normally. But I am going for Pepe Torres. He is substituting for Farruquito (most famous dancer in existence currently) for 2 months.
Pepe has a tiny fraction of the fame that Farruquito does, but has a heritage just as impressive. He is grand-nephew of the most fantastic guitarist ever (flamenco guitarist, anyways). He looks like his great uncle and has an attitude a little bit like that, at least from a distant observer's point of view. Diego del Gastor's greatness was unsurpassed. He accompanied some of the best singers that ever were and maybe ever will be, but there was something strange about the way he regarded money and performing. I don't remember clearly but I think he was not a professional, per se. He did not attempt to sell himself. He was from a small mountain town. Pepe is from Moron, a small town, and he also lacks ego. Sometimes the best artists don't receive as much fame as others to whom they are at least equal.

I saw Pepe dance during the festival (once before too, in 2011), and have been obsessed by his marking for a month. Marking are plain, slower steps, more like dancing or even posing, different from continual percussion that happens between. Marking happens during the main part of the singing, to accompany the "verses" that the singer sings. In between is the fireworks (lots of percussive feet), which can often be overdone and which cause many performers these days to lack soul or depth, when they concentrate overly on them.

I loved the whole show but I was obsessed by two "measures" (compass) of very plain, minimalistic steps he did, that were mainly just a suggestion of the typical steps always done. He did that with such presence, and the subtlety of the steps was so perfect. When I ran into some fellow dancers on the corner one morning and went for a beer with them, I had already been toying with the idea of going to Sevilla for his classes, but this convinced me completely.

I missed the first two classes and what he teaches is beyond my level in difficulty - very advanced. But I went along and took the class anyways. I am proud of myself that I've got to the point that I can look at two measures of moves and say "that is what I want" and take a class for that reason. Now I just have to fight with my ego not to worry when I don't pick up all the incredibly complicated footwork, which besides that, is all off the beat, and try to concentrate on what I want to get out of it. The first thing we did, I was laughing and shaking my head in disbelief. Anyways, Pepe is a wonderfully down to earth, kind person and tries to make sure the slow girls in the class get stuff too.
I will need my friends' help to figure this stuff out.

Here is Pepe

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvOXPNJnw-s

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h89yA91Flw4

Saturday afternoon normally involves going to an alley across from the market. On one side of the alley there is a Tabanco (place which traditionally sells sherry from barrels, and which currently also hosts local flamenco singers with a microphone Saturday afternoons) and across from it is a tiny bar with tables for standing only, just outside. It is here we usually end up, because of our friends, Juan, Gonzalo, Marco, and various others who come and go. Not many other foreign flamenco dancers go there, but occassionally one who has been here a long time drops by.

I generally feel like staying home these days, sitting in the sun and working on my projects, when I don't have a specific event or work to go to. I often feel too intimidated by the rest of the flamenco community here. But with these guys I feel comfortable, and especially with Juan. Juan doesn't even go on about my blue eyes or that I'm guapa, which practically all of the old men do, and even though many of them are lovely and trustworthy people, it's just so much nicer to be treated as a human. Juan must be close to my parents' age. I've never seen him without his narrow rimmed fedora. He has a gold tooth or two and the rest look like they are only hanging there. He loves to sing - he can't stop himself though he is supposed to be taking a rest. Last time he expressed some strong views on life here and mentioned some history which was very interesting to me. Today he explained about his visit to a throat specialist and what exactly the vocal chords do and how they look. He has to learn to sing with his diaphragm so he can continue to sing at all. Jose, a recent acquaintance in this gang, told us about Juan hanging out at a camp (with tents) near plaza Arenal last year. Everyone who was in the city at that time saw this camp, which was in protest of the awful economic situation, specifically of the corrupt city hall. The campers were trying to uphold a serious image for the media, and although Juan was there to support them (and from the sounds of it, he believes just as deeply in the cause as anyone, and perhaps more), he always brought a bottle of wine and wanted to sing, which according to the serious Jose, was disasterous.
This is exactly why I like Juan.

Semana Santa in Jerez

Viernes Santo (good Friday), this was from our balcony, just at the corner of the street. Started at the Ermita San Telmo I think it's called, just 2 blocks away, where when the Jesus (wearing real human hair, nice long, black locks) was sung to, just after he made his appearance. Someone standing on the rooftop just beside the church, started to sing. It was quite impressive, seeing his sillhouette against a grey sky. A little later they passed by our corner here. I made 15 minutes of video but can't upload it.

 This is Thursday night, "madrugada" means dawn, I think (which means you stay up until dawn if you celebrate it properly). We were on our friends' balcony while this crowd gathered. The height of the crowd was around 2 am, just when the procession was reaching the square. Suddenly it started to rain and the whole procession stopped and headed back to the church. The evening was ruined for many. A year of anticipation, for some people for whom this is their entire life.

Crowds waiting in the square outside bar Maypa, normally an unassuming place, which comes to life during Semana Santa, including a bar next door which only opens one week a year - for this holiday. I believe they are waiting here to here Saetas which are normally sung outside the bar. I saw a large collection of important neighbourhood flamenco people when I arrived at our friends' house. The paso (float) is also borne by a group who traditionally makes it dance, right here in the square. Their normally slow, shuffling steps that resemble a chain gang walk (they are officially doing penitence, carrying the floats), turn into a semi-dance, at least as much as a bunch of guys carrying a few tons can possibly dance. It is very cool, because of the contrast with the normal paso-carrying walk. I have only seen something similar on video in Sevilla.

An Irish acquaintance with a Spanish wife, friends of our friends with the balcony, said his son wanted to be a penitent one year. It was the cool thing to do. He was only seven years old, but his friends were doing it.


This is a few nights earlier. Monday night's pasos.

Thank goodness the streets can get back to normal now. The center of the city, where I have to ride every day, was crowded with red booths, where chairs would be set each day between about 6-9 pm, for people to sit and watch each paso go by, after coming out of their respective churches and before going back to them later. They started putting out the red booths sometime early in March. They took up a large part of the street and sidewalk in some areas, and one street was entirely blocked off to traffic for the week.

Today is Sacred Thursday. I think it's the day Jesus is on the cross (or was that last Thursday and maybe he's about to rise). Anyways, it's a holiday. Around 2:00 I went out to get some provisions from the market and found it was closed. This entire week is a holiday for schools and other kinds of institutions, though only today and tomorrow are real holidays for all businesses of the kind that normally work 9-5 (well, 9-2:30 and 5:30 - 9, here in Spain). Instead, I found the streets full of people dressed up and crowding the bars. Especially bar Maypa, a seemingly nondescript and unimportant place which tends to be frequented mostly on special occassions. A bar next door owned by the same people, called the Taberna Jerezana is closed all year, except for one week: this week, Semana Santa. Then it is open till all hours, as the guys carrying pasos (floats) duck out from under the Virgen Maria as they are substituted out, and as the procession passes this historic and important corner down the block from our house, they go to the stark, traditional but beautiful Taberna for a beer, their airplane pillows around their necks (for prevention of serious damage to the neck and back).

I tried to contact a few friends who were busy so after Geoffrey finished laying some bricks I dragged him out to join the festive atmosphere in Bar Maypa. This is the perfect time of year. I normally prefer hot weather but the heat is so intense here for so long, and worse than that, the sky is unrelentingly blue and cloudless for months on end, that I am enjoying extremely, this month of 10 minute changes between clouds/rain and sun, and cool, but warm enough to wear a t-shirt and thin jacket today. I pulled out some heels and wore them with bare ankles, no problem. We bar hopped and then had some ice cream, meandering down the street and sat in a beautiful square. I felt very traditional, relaxing on a day off, wearing nice clothes and going out for stand up lunch at the bar. The ancient church in the Plaza Asuncion was starting mass and we stepped in for a few minutes.

On the way back we stopped in as well at the Iglesia San Miguel, which is more cathedral like. It was full today, everyone dressed in black and high heels after their lunch out, full of mayonnaise and fat (mayonnaise is the main feature at bar Maypa, on top of their famous tortilla and on top of almost all their other tapas - halved boiled egg and canned various types of fish... we had the fat at the Tabanco - chicharrones, and Geoffrey had kidneys).

Tonight the processions go all night long. Our street's balconies are lined with burgundy coloured drapes, waiting for the inhabitants to look out over the processions. I plan to see the end of one procession at 8:30 am tomorrow morning in a famous church over in Santiago, where they will sing Saetas, an a capella type of flamenco, sung to the Virgen Maria or Jesus statues as they enter the church after the night of procession.

We heard several of these already, one on Monday night at 2 am, two more especially stunning ones on Tuesday night at the more reasonable hour of 11:30.

The Semana Santa here in Jerez seems slightly more serious than in Sevilla. The Monday night procession (there are 5 but I watched only a portion of two) was a silent one, the only music a choir of young girls chanting a Latin prayer. The followers of the procession also recited prayers. As the float entered the church in Plaza Angustias, three Saetas were sung.

I see these Saeta singers in the market and down the street at the Peña, hanging out in the day. It is amazing to me that such art and tradition are there on the corner of the street...

Tuesday night was more intense, with the procession stopping in the middle of a fairly busy road, blocking traffic (police organised). A large crowd had gathered and at certain points, many people joined in the reciting of prayers. Then the very plain Virgen, holding a crown of thorns, crossed the street and the guys carrying her turned her around, ready to enter the church. The crowd had gathered suddenly because everyone knew Saetas are sung at this point. The second one was particularly haunting, sung by a woman. The statue's crown of stars made a shadow on the white church lit up by the full moon. It was stunning. Of course, the people walking in the procession are many times wearing the conical head covering with only the eyes showing, and carrying huge candles and so on.

Well, off to see what time and where to go tonight.

The Tres Reyes is run by Emilio, a man of about 60 or 70, who serves beer and fino and makes excellent fried fish and caracoles. Today we saw a few acquaintances there, young Ruben, talking with an old man who seemed less drunk today than he was last weekend in the little bar in the alley. Ruben was there with a guitarist and a cajon player, before they went off to another bar to perform. There was an old man at the bar having the special racion of the day - habas (broad beans). We asked for some and then later some fish - pijotas from the north. The bar is small and has a grungy feeling. You can usually find guys singing there on a Saturday afternoon, hitting the bar and clapping loudly. There are some pictures of a very formal horse parade tacked onto the wall below an archway, and two little plants in plastic pots (one of them a cut off container painted black) hung above the pictures. Some fake flowers are stuck behind framed pictures above the arched entryway, and above the bar hang sketches of the Three Kings: Juan Carlos of Spain, Camaron, of flamenco, and a Semana Santa statue of Jesus, of San Telmo (a neighbourhood which houses this Jesus statue).

A 50-ish man and wife tell Emilio to make them beans but to put an egg in it. He argues back but eventually makes it. The guy asks about his umbrella. Emilio tells him that Uncle Juan took it with him when they were all last there. They ask him for the recipe and he explains, yes, of course there is a little pepper, there is cumin but only a mijita... so it sings bulerias. The beans were frozen, which the woman chastises him for, and says it is the edad (the era). He says, come on! The fields are not right here! She says, the market is (which it truly is, right across the street). Anyways, testimony to Emilio's cooking skill that frozen beans taste that good.

The short and very stocky old man eating his beans on the other side of us has complained, looking very annoyed, at one of the young men with his guitar on his back, that kept knocking him as he moved around. Everyone laughs, presumably due to the way the old man demonstrated his complaint. He goes to stand on the other side of the couple and when the young men leave they go over and purposely bump him, as a joke, to which the old man responds loudly, but tongue in cheek, and everyone laughs. When we leave we thank Emilio, who thanks us instead and does a slight bow. It is a dramatic gesture but at the same time he means it. He chats in a totally down to earth way with his customers about everyday life stuff and answers their questions that are not really appropriate but that is a moot point here because this is not a contrived place like most restaurants are, that I've ever known in my life. Emilio is very gracious and genuine, though there is a sort of joking around that has a certain degree of bullshitting to it, and is like playing a game.

When we leave, the couple, who we haven't really spoken to, also say Buenos Dias and Adios. The atmosphere is such that pretty much anyone can talk to anyone, it would just happen naturally and easily.

There are two more details I almost forget to mention because I don't even notice them any more: we are all standing, and the doors are open even though it is March and raining out.

This place summarizes why I live in Spain.