Jerez

The day I left for Jerez it was hot enough to sweat in jeans, in the sun, in Sevilla.
I took the train at 5, because all the other ones were full.
I am told I would never have been able to wander into town and decide an hour before the show that I think I might perhaps want to see La Farruca, and then score a ticket for only E18, if I were in Sevilla, where it would be sold out months ahead.
I was a bit dislocated watching them. The Farruco family is one of the most famous in all of flamenco, as the patriarch was one of the most legendary dancers in all of flamenco history. Farruquito, the hottest of the family at this point in time, would probably not dance in a show that was not headlined with his own name. I believe this was his mother. Farruquito is a long haired epitome of gitano looking hotshot. El Carpeta has the attitude of the grade 8 Italian boys at my highschool that were the reason my sister couldn't stand it there. Of course this helps make him a good dancer, along with the fact that he wears shiny red suits.
I met Mika after the show, and ran into Kiko, who I was supposed to meet, but still managed to assume, with my Canadianness, that he might call me earlier, around when I said I would arrive. So I had to give him the brush off, as it wasn't going to work to catch up with Mika at the same time as him.
There isn't anyone much staying in Alicia's house right now, besides Mika. She has an enormous bed, which she shared with me. Even if I wanted to afford a hotel in Jerez and had no offers of friends' couches, there would have been no possible way of getting one, as the Festival de Jerez is on, when flamenco students from everywhere flood the city. I had a great chat with Alicia, the incredibly talented sculptor, in the morning. Her house has nature around it: a hillside of long grasses and flowering weeds. I've been missing grass and trees, not to mention actual hills and mountains outside of a city.
The second out of three times I ran into Kiko in the streets, he was flirting with three girls from Madrid, who seemed to feel the same way about Jerez as many people I know, and lamented repeatedly, their imminent departure. I really don't get social rules here yet. I eventually asked Manu if I could invite Kiko, cause I was having coffee with him, and I know they are good friends anyways. That was no problem with Manu, but Kiko seemed to think it meant something. I couldn't understand whether he was just playing it up. I've been told not to hang out with a man, alone, in Jerez, unless I want to be known as a puta. So it must have been pretty bad that I sat side-saddle on his bike and let him double me. I have to say it is pretty fun wandering down the streets of Jerez that way.
The very best thing was having a barbacoa at Manu and Pati's. Everyone there was French, and all but one could speak Spanish, so they would revert to French often, and I would answer back in Spanish. It felt as if we were all speaking the same language. My understanding of French is decent but I can't speak it.
Pati and Mika are gems. I feel like some kind of stressed and crazy wreck that has just been sat down in the middle of a peaceful field, around them. In fact, most people of my acquaintance in Jerez are like this.
Kiko took me back to Sevilla, and stopped off to show me his favorite bar in some random town, as well as the edge of the Don~ana nature reserve, just after dark. I really wish I understood things here. If a guy seems nice and I don't dislike him, and he offers to double me on his bike and that seems like a fun and convenient thing to do, I don't see any reason not to. I might have to develop a more pre-emptive stance though.

Toes, forces of nature, multitalented friends, classical music

It is quarter to seven and I am sitting in Cafe Hercules with my leg up, with no sweater on. It is like summer in Vancouver. My big toe needs to be surgically shortened. There is not a shoe in all of Spain the fits my foot. I don't know who or what to be pissed off at: my foot (the left one only), the people who make shoes, the shoe industry, my ancestors...
I was sort of fine after dancing today but the trying on of numerous shoes that push my big toe inwards has pushed my joint over the edge. Yesterday Senovilla called with the second pair of shoes made as close to measure as they will make them. Well, guess what... No, of course they don't. Then I discovered a different brand that all the girls with skinny feet can wear. Guess who they DON'T fit? What a surprise!
My feet have shrunk in length, but this still hasn't solved the problem.

Rafael Campallo is a force of nature. He is like pure energy; a compact ball of fire. It seems like he contains some kind of explosive energy which he can't suppress. I cannot imagine anything closer to perfection, as far as his precision - he has total control. He is someone everyone should see dance. Like everyone should see the Alhambra and the Tah Mahal. Fine, I am a little starstruck. Youtube does not do him justice at all. After he started to dance, I realised that it was him I'd seen years ago in Vancouver with Paco de Lucia. At least I am pretty sure. I didn't ask, in class today - I just danced.
The most complicated rhythms seem to just flow out as if with total ease, as he is playing with them, and sticking in other movements like witty remarks. His personality in normal life is light and easygoing, but twice during his performance, came a primal kind of shout, as I've seen others do at times, but never quite so wild. His singer and guitarist were genius as well. Like jazz, when an artist interprets a well known tune (and in this case verse) in a particularly new and original way, this is what makes both these types of art so impressive.

Susanne is to thank for getting me to go. I've hung out with her and some other students from Taller Flamenco, for a few nights. Taller is the flamenco school which caters to people who want to try out flamenco for the first time, for a week or so. Susanne is an awesomely hilarous and fun Australian, a mother with grown kids, but who isn't much older than me.
Also in this gang is Danvier, a British flamenco dancing headmaster of a London school, who explains Spanish men better than most women I've had the chance to talk to, and who wants to help find me a Spanish guy, despite my misgivings. Then there is Kathy, a woman probably my age, who is trying to settle here, and Ernesto, who uses an alias like me. Ernesto is a Korean guy who previously studied genetic engineering but switched to Spanish literature and now is based in Massechusets doing a masters in Anthropology. This I am very excited about, because he might be someone I can go with to flamenco pueblos like Utrera and Moron and others. That's because his thesis is going to be discussing flamenco culture. Ernesto also has an interest in flamenco guitar as he is a guitarist too.

My life is starting to come together - that is, provided my joint is going to be okay, and/or I can adjust some shoes to be useable somehow. I will be living with three lovely girls, classical music students who will serenade me in the house! A viola player, a clarinetist and a guitarist. It is closer to the river, which has a few trees and some grass sticking up into the line of sight. Just when I was starting to wonder about my goals here, being in Sevilla, and missing nature.

Ban~os Arabes Granada

Protest - water isn't for sale. I took video cause the noise was incredible - lots of horns

Waiting in line for the palace

forgot I took pictures after all.

from the gardens

photos are kind of wrong, doesn't do it justice.

queso de cerdo means headcheese, not cheese from pigs milk

that's ham on the ceiling

Zahara de los Atunes

Vejer

Africa

At Tarifa

"Frozen Stuff"

Ronda

Andrea and Sarah

Zahara de la Sierra

Lengua, idioma, and estudiar en mi studio

English speakers get half of Spanish for free, or more... escucha, all of you will immediately understand this:
"infraestructuras para la sostenibilidad"
"curso fotografia"
"moda infantil" (with a picture of a bebe wearing sunglasses).
You get greater than 50 percent of words just by adding "-eria", "-ado", or "-ente".
Granted, you can't do this totally indiscriminately. You have to be in the environment, so that the words it's possible to do this with are milling around in your subconscious somewhere. You have to use your intuition, and know that sometimes it doesn't translate directly, and sometimes not at all. "Embarazada" (with z pronounced like s) is something that is physically impossible for men; it has nothing whatsoever to do with being embarassed.
I do get confused with words that are different. Like caballo, cabello, and cebolla. Horse, hair, onions.

I have to tell you about my studio: there is an enormous building in Calle Castellar, that has numerous addresses for its different front doors, each of which leads into a separate location. Except that because the building is no longer a residence and it is in bad repair, they all open out into a gravel lot in the back, where there are outbuildings, kind of like shacks, among palm trees and bougainvillea. The night before last, someone was practicing the trumpet, a metal band was playing, and beside them Juan de los Reyes was drilling his students' footwork. Across the courtyard (steps away from Juan), singing could be heard from another flamenco class. Then across from my little garage, the African percussion group was starting up. For a few minutes someone was sawing something. It is a grand craziness in there. The hugest bunch of artists, musicians, and people for whom self expression and creation matter more than comfort. There's a plant shop beside the African percussion guys. The percussion doesn't bother me, even though I can hear them. When I'm done I sit at the metal tables under the stars and admire their compas.

Palomas, Rancapino, Rice

I am listening to a second hand CD of El Cigala that I got in Granada.

Things are more manageable this evening. I wear my red cashmere sweater every day now. I wear Gina's black jacket with shiny beads just about always too. Normally I have to wear my red canvas jacket over that, but today it was really sunny and warm enough to wear flats with no socks. After our class on simple marking steps, and shower and lunch, I went out. Before, with two classes, I would only be able to sleep immediately after lunch.

I went to Plaza San Marco, and got two large bizcochos. I ate them both, watching clouds go by. I didn't give the last bit to the pigeons, because it was too sugary for me to finish, and I figured it would be worse for their health than mine. There were a mixture of black/grey and white, and a lot of them. After a while hanging out in the square, they seemed to take to circling above it and over near the tower of the church at the front of the plaza. The tower is kind of a smaller, plainer, Giralda. There was another church just behind me, and orange trees, as well as some kind of red flowered tree budding just above my bench. It looked like hibiscus.

I got really tired and debated whether to read my book on the social history of flamenco, or go home and sleep. I really wanted to avoid the ladies, as I've been super uncomfortable there since Loli got after me, after repeated picking on small things, and constant giving of advice, and then freaking out when I arrived home on Monday – she was scared something terrible had happened to me, because I said I'd be gone for the weekend.

So I went and got a coffee and sat at one of the outdoor tables and read about Rancapino and Camaron hanging out in Chiclana as kids, and how ugly and like a “burnt pine” Rancapino looked, and how Camaron, even at 12 years old, would draw a crowd out into the street when they went to hang out at the barber shop and sing there.

This reading is awesome for my Spanish. I understand a lot of it, and the general gist of almost all of it, and look up the words I don't understand. I probably need to eventually put some serious effort into grammar like more verb tenses, but later... Speaking of which, a quote of Rancapino on the front of the book, is “Flamenco is sung with spelling mistakes”. That is why they say that it isn't a thing to be taught in an academy.

Watching TV and talking to the ladies, especially Marie Carmen, is also awesome for my Spanish. I really like her. (Loli goes from super sweet, to picky and inventing things to bug you about). When I got back this afternoon, I sat for a while and watched “Salvame”, a show where people call in or come in with personal problems, for advice. The main person was a woman called Mademoiselle so and so. “Me” is the same as English and salva is what it sounds like. One woman with lower lip quivering, was explaining that people gossip about her because her husband is a torero (bullfighter) and they say she only married him for the money, etc. I didn't understand the other stuff that was happening, but one heavily made-up woman was crying and there was a kind of panel of people on the show, who looked like public that had applied to be on the show, who also seemed to be able to call others on the phone. The funniest thing were the huge graphics on a screen at the back of the stage, with a freeze-framed comic strip figure of a woman in bright pink, that descended down the screen, in various poses, looking like she was running to save those poor crying souls.

I don't know how I ever survived without a siesta before. It is really stupid to try to stay awake in the afternoon, after lunch. There are only two choices here – sleep or hang out at a bar or cafe. Everything else is closed, and I mean everything. Grocery stores, even supermarkets. You really have to get everything done by 2:00, and plan to do nothing except sleep or have a beer, before 5:00. I woke up, wandered over to the studio, bought an empanada de atun (a square of pastry with tuna inside), and went to practice. I felt without hope, near the end of my practice, wondering what the hell I am even bothering for. Any of you that have seen me dance might think my footwork is kind of cool, but there is a big difference between being a trained monkey and knowing how to dance. I've learned a lot of moves, but I keep learning more and never keeping any of them up consistently so they are at my fingertips in a split second when I hear a change in the music. Part of the problem is the music. There is a rare class where I've managed to learn the steps as well as pay attention to what the heck the structure of the music is. There have been times when my buddies at home have told me to practice with Tangos de Triana, for example, if I didn't want to get confused, or Bulerias de Jerez, so I could at least keep trying to adjust my moves to the same kind of music, with a similar structure. That advice would be a start, but I still, after all these years, don't know how to recognise Tangos de Triana, unless it is the letra that actually says “Triana, Triana!” I feel like I am just too stupid to do this. I don't think any of my discs actually say what kind of tangos, alegrias, or bulerias things are. Perhaps the collection of Camaron that I left with Carol, but I bought that here last summer. Flamenco is practically unavailable in Vancouver. All my previous discs were copied by friends, without liner notes for dumb flamenco students explaining exactly what subset of each palo, each “song” is. So my method, so far, has been to just put on any old disc of any old tangos and attempt to dance.

I hate counting. Rhythm should be felt. Ocassionaly it is necessary, but not like some people do it. You need to let your subconscious do the work. Maybe that is the solution to my feeling of total stupidity. Part of it is practice though. The pasos have to be at the tips of your fingers and comfortable to do fast enough too.

I ended the evening by remembering an entrada I learned myself off Youtube for tangos, that I love, just before I came here. That's not solving the problems, but it made me feel better.

I bought a beer on the way home, and somehow managed to feel that the ladies are not so bad, and I can handle living here till the end of the month. I cooked the thing I always cook – rice.

Here is how you do it. The Ana Andalusia way to cook rice:

Cut up a whole onion and one or two other vegetables. Tonight I used calabacin (forgetting the normal name...zucchini) and a bit of cauliflower. Fry the onion, and dump in the other stuff. Put in some random spice, if you have it – paprika for example. When that is fried, up the fire and give it a splash of Jerez vinegar. When that is absorbed, pour in some rice. About two running over handfuls. Fry, add garlic (squish/crush/chop it). Then pour in chicken broth – an amount that looks about right. Cook till done. Oops – forgot, I often add some salami or chorizo. Onion really should be in it, but I didn't have any a couple nights ago and it didn't matter. Vegetables like eggplant, tomatoes, red peppers are also good. If I have it, I put in some wine or sherry. What a great way to cook rice. It tastes way better than plain, and you don't have to cook separate dishes. There is no measuring and you don't really need to stir, after you put the liquid in.

Drugs for Kim... I haven't listened to El Torta forever. Finally have a space to breathe, and figured out to get on youtube while I'm doing this.
Returned to class with Rafael this morning. Cosas simples are best. He is a really good teacher. I picked up a book on the social history of flamenco in the Alhambra, and am challenging my Spanish. I am at a part talking about the last real flamenco singer, Rancapino. It's a little depressing. The book seems fairly balanced and not attempting to take sides only with the purists, but I now understand why they feel the way they do a little more. It is an art that has come from a way of life that involves neighbours meeting in their common courtyard, or in the street every day. It is an oral tradition, passed down in person, not by CDs. It can't be learned in an academy, they say, or from listening to discs. They lament the young people now who all want to be flamenco rock stars. That is not flamenco. So I wonder, what am I doing here... I do feel the difference between Sevilla and Jerez. But listening to Rafael's exhortations, I know that he has a significant connection to the real thing, and insists on far more than just technique.
It was beautiful out on the way to school, but pouring afterwards. I stopped in at a pastry shop and felt very foreign, as everyone coming in to this little place seemed to interact with each other, even though they were likely strangers. Buenas dias, says just about everyone, to the counter girl and anyone else in the vicinity. An older lady seems to come in talking about her mother and father, to all of us, and sets her purse on the chair at another lady's table, who encourages her to go ahead.
Diego del Gastor and Fernanda de Utrera. If I have the energy I might go to the pena tonight for more jovenes (young people) singing and playing guitar.

Thanks to my friends!

My head felt like it was going to explode. I resorted to Claritin, which I haven't done for years. I think it was the cherry or plum blossoming among agaves and prickly pears all over the slopes of Sacromonte. They said it was touristy, and I guess the caves advertising dance schools, shows and restaurants all in one would be. But like other places that I've been duly warned about, it wasn't as bad as I was thinking. There seemed to be enough genuine flamenco activity there – a guy playing guitar in the middle of the day, in the cold wind, sitting on a bench in the cave interprative museum, cante coming from somewhere in the hills, and serious dancer schools in the vicinity. People lived there as well. The museum was thorough. It labelled every tree and plant in the garden, and had the caves presented as they would have been, if in use, with living quarters, blacksmith shops and so on, decorated as such.

The night before, we met Hiro and a Japanese friend of his who was learning English in Spain. I caught up with Hiro while his friend practiced her English with Sarah and Andrea. The three of us had had enormous bocadillos shortly before, and were spoiled for dinner, so Hiro took us to a bar where we had drinks, which in Granada, come with free tapas. Hiro tried valiantly to get us into the Pena de la Plateria, up the hill in the Jewish quarter, but it was a private party. They finally admitted that once all the members had been seated, they might let us in if there were space. I wouldn't have minded waiting as there was an enormous terrace looking across at the lights on the castle walls surrounding the Alhambra, under some dried up vines. It was a classy place inside too. But in the end we decided to have a drink elsewhere and then try to get into a second showing at a place we were actually allowed and encouraged to be.

The older singer, who chatted with the crowd before he started, reminded me of Jose Lara at the Kino, because of his age and his manner - a bit of a comic. The dancing was fine, but most interesting was the atmosphere, where various palmeros joined the stage at times, and two singers, one of whom danced a bulerias, appeared at the end. And when the show was over, the performers and these two guests carried on with more bulerias at the door. This was obviously for their own enjoyment and spontaneous, and in spite of tourists.

Granada is like Vancouver – the city itself isn't very special, but the nature around it, easily accessible a short walk from city centre, is spectacular. The Alhambra sits across a valley from most of the city, and behind it is a surprisingly enormous glacial white mountain. Looking across at the city from the Alhambra, it is pretty – white buildings with cypress and palms sticking up everywhere.

The Alhambra... what can I say. It's obvious why it is the biggest tourist attraction in all of Spain. Words and pictures can't describe it. There are several major parts but the big deal is the palace. I like the gardens too, higher up and with views past leafless persimmon trees, over the city. If you are curious, you'll have to go there yourself. I don't want to spoil it by attempting some kind of description.

Suffice it to say that I could have sat for hours in one place, in awe, but because of the number of visitors, they impose a “strict” time limit on your visit, with an appointment time given to you when you buy your ticket.

Granada was cold – almost as cold as Sevilla a couple of weeks ago, and Sevilla seemed balmy in comparison when we got back last night.

We started our time in Granada with a nerve wracking attempt to navigate it, despite the guidebook advising to park your car at the city limits and use any other form of transportation within. Sure enough, it was completely fruitless, and we eventually abandoned the car at a parking lot and took a taxi to our hostel. Aside from a great restaurant with lovely vegetable and fish raciones, the other most memorable experience would have to be the teteria. Sarah and I both said in unison “I want to come here all the time”, and both wished there were something like it in Vancouver. Very arabic, with cushions, cloth wall hangings, and mosque shaped ceramic tiles framing mirrors, it also had things like Moroccan tea in silver pots and a selection of somewhat exotic pastries – mine was date and almond cake, like a square, but in cake wedge shape.

Granada was the part of the trip that was planned a few weeks in advance, when Sarah first told me she and Andrea were coming. But I ended up joining them on the spur of the moment several days in advance. They got to Sevilla on the evening of the 4^th, and Gaetane and I went to meet them that night. We hung out in Sevilla Saturday and Sunday, and thanks to my friends, I ate some truly amazing Spanish food. The most memorable for me was what we had in Cordoba. All of us took the train there Monday, and saw the Mezquita, which was beautiful, for its red and white striped arches, but seemed extremely odd to me, with its melding of Christian statues and paintings within the Muslim building. The weirdest was the cathedral which is almost invisible amongst all the red and white arches, until you get to it in the middle of the giant courtyard/mosque thing. Anyways, the food we had there was unbelievable, the restaurant very elegant but comfortable, and the waiter the kind of career man that almost does not exist in Canada. Despite the atmosphere, he was friendly and told me what “duck” was in Spanish when I quacked. The wine was excellent, we got Gazpacho in the winter, served in wine glasses, to be drunk. We had salt cod, which was desalted and served raw/cured with oranges and onions, eggplant deepfried to perfection with honey glaze, among several other things.

I stayed in Sevilla Tuesday, said goodbye to Gaetane, and practiced. Wednesday morning I caught the train and met Andrea and Sarah in Cadiz. We went down the coast through Vejer de la Frontera, hung out in Zahara de los Atunes on a nearly deserted beach, after searching high and low for a washroom and peeing in the walled vacant lot where I went for a concert last summer with the gang from Jerez. We ended up that night in Tarifa, which was also a little dead. Africa was easily visible the next day over the turqoise water and white sand. It was windy, of course, and one lone guy was kite-surfing. We headed in land and this was probably my favorite part. Past Jimena de la Frontera, with a ruined castle on top, and nobody but us, we got into part of the mountains south of Olvera, that I'd never seen before. It was stunning. I had slowed us down leaving Jimena to wait for a lady in a tiny shop to total up people's purchases with a pencil and paper, and then got her to cut me a piece of cheese from a fresh wheel. It took her a lot of effort, and we had to help hold the cheese. That and some bread and head of lettuce too beautiful to resist, that came with me from Sevilla, had to tide us through, as we didn't get to Ronda till quite a bit later. Here is another one where I just put aside my camera. I refuse. Something this incredible must not be taken pictures of. Anyways, I already wrote about it.

The next day I herded them through the pueblos blancos. First to Zahara de la Sierra. Probably the most incredible one, it has unbelievable views past many prickly pears, over amazing coloured lake and hills. The town itself seems small, but was cute. Next Setenil, where we witnessed a midweek afternoon's activities while Sarah waited for a set menu that took forever, likely due to the garbage truck driver stopping in to hang out and probably eat, while he left his truck running in front. The three restaurants including the one we were at, are all very nice – meant for tourists, but this didn't seem to be a concern. There was a growing bunch of guys seated at the restaurant a few paces down the sloping and winding sidewalk, loudly mangling their words in a slangy sierra accent, calling out to each passing car, which always stopped for a minute before continuing around the one-car-only, one-way bend, and down the hill. We only had time for a quick viewing of the cave houses around the corner and a look down on the square where we ate lunch, which by that time had seemingly been turned into a loud discotheque, by the guy at the snack and newspaper stand opening up shop.

I took my friends to Olvera next and we walked to the top, and each had a chocolate pastry and cookie, from La Gloria, which we ate while walking back up the hill to the town hall, where we'd parked.

There, I've come full circle to Granada, which was where we reached that night.

Living it up with Sarah and Andrea in Ronda

Dinner at the Pedro Romero restaurante across from the bullring - in the town where bullfighting was invented, I believe. Classical music is playing in the sitting room, Sarah is sitting looking at a picture book, drinking a glass of Cava from the well stocked fridge in our room, which has three red beds, red couch, dark wood lattice windows. This house is old. It is not budget. There is a signed picture of the King and Queen in the lobby, and a wine tasting room in the basement. Beside the computer desk is a beautifully framed fountain-pen written note in Spanish and English kindly asking guests if they would contribute to a poetry corner the hotel is trying to make.

Ronda may be the most incredible place I have ever been. Well, I´d have to compare it with grandiose sights of natural wonders, which are hard to compare with a town. The thing is that part of its beauty and charm is man-made and ranging from ancient to very old, and the other part is nature. Sorry, but pictures just are wrong when a place is this amazing. If you want to see, you should see it in person.

The drive from Tarifa was awesome. The mountains south of Olvera are higher.

I stayed in Sevilla for a day after they left. Then took the train yesterday morning to meet them in Cadiz. We spent the day going along the Costa de la Luz and, on the beach, Zahara de los Atunes, where I had to pee in a vacant lot (where we watched Juan Carlos´s concert in the summer) cause there wasn´t a single place open, or public washroom. Then on to Tarifa, where I met a weather-beaten Spanish dude playing Earl Scruggs on the banjo under an archway into the old town. Not much more was open there, but we ate at a vegetarian restaurant playing Elvis. This morning walked to the point with incredible water and sand colours, and windsurfers, that divides Atlantic and Mediterranean, then drove past Gibraltar.

It had been planned for several weeks that I´d meet them in Granada tomorrow, for the weekend. But things were not going well for me in Sevilla, and I don´t know when I´ll get the chance to do this again. This is not in my budget, but I guess that´s life... hopefully something will gel in my brain about how to carry on in life, in some way that works, when the time comes to do so.

Concha

Two parallel universes have collided - Sarah and Andrea have arrived in my alternate universe. I know all of you exist out there, but it didn't really seem possible that your world could cross over with this one that I've gone to.

New studio close by. Not sure about it, except it's closer.

Saw Concha Vargas give a class. Awestruck. To absorb some of her "flamencura" would change me. three of my bums would fit into her waistline. she is about 60, I think. She is well respected in the world of flamenco. Look her up on Youtube. A gitana, I believe. She has the air about her - complete lack of fear and self-consciousness. When she sings or dances, you feel and can see a different sort of energy happening than most of us have. She grabs her shirt and flips it up - this is a traditional move and normally done with a skirt, but when that is lacking, a shirt will do; men included (or sports jacket). Her belly and even bra are exposed sometimes. You cannot show me anyone with more dignity, strangely. She holds a cigarette in the other hand, does a lightening quick turn. I don't think I have ever heard palmas like this. (That means clapping). They have a solidity and regularity that just sound different from others.

Going to practice now.

Sing! Doctor's orders.

In the same bar where I met the man of my nightmares, I was fortunate to experience something quite incredible. While our roaring onesided discussion was happening, a futbol game was also going on on the TV high in the corner of the tiny, atmospheric bar. This bar is tucked into a corner, just before an archway over a narrow part of the road. It has the feeling of being in a very old, cave-like building, perhaps like the house in Olvera. There are barrels of wine stacked against a wall, legs of Jamon hanging, and a deep glass display case with comida casera (homemade food) that looks completely different than all the other homemade food on offer. That's probably because the owner and his wife, who are about my parents' age, seem to take great care in what they are doing and have been there together both times I've gone in.
Sure enough as our amigo predicted, when the game was over, the metal door in front came down, the lights went out, and the owner stood at the bar and started to bang his fist on the counter, with his eyes closed. Then he sung at the top of his voice and with all his heart. The lights went on and the door up after that, but the procedure was repeated several times more. Once for a fandango, and the third time to sing Procuro Olvidarte. I do not know were that song comes from, but I know Mayte Martin sings it, and I have listened to her version many times over, on Youtube.
We were told by our friend who must have some sort of soul, at least enough to understand this, that our barman didn't want to be a slave and work a normal job, so he quit whatever else he was doing to open this bar, and that his doctor ordered him to sing every day.

My flamenco guy friends are not so opposite of my Canadian guy friends

Here I am in Cafe Hercules again, just looking at a poster entitled, "I jornadas Antisiquiatria y sobre la locura": the word "antipsychiatria" should be obvious. Locura is "craziness". Wow. It's a conference of some sort ... the byline (extra line thing... don't know what it's called) is "we are not crazy, it's that we know what we want/love".

It seems like a large percentage of the few people I've hung out with so far have been Latino. Today in the waiting room of the oficina de extranjeros I made a friend who's been here 5 years from Nicaragua. Hardly a nicer person (especially man) have I met. I offered him the sports section of my newspaper, which I was reading to get some practice. By the way, I don't know about all of you, but I've been getting daily graphic updates on the trouble in Tunisia and Egypt. Front page of the Andalucia El Mundo paper had a picture of a serious looking Egyptian holding up a white banner: "this is the coffin of Egypt".

I realise that my friends Ricardo and Vicente have something huge in common with my Canadian guy friends who seem so different on the surface: they all value vulnerability, rather than trying to crush it. They don't try to step on people weaker than they are.
One of the amigos Gaetane and I met in a bar the other night literally gave me nightmares. I have never met a man that rude in all my life. Except perhaps in high school, which doesn't count. Joachim was an economist in a company that makes "edificios prefabricados". We started off pretty early in the conversation discussing politics and he let us know how annoying he found what he called "communism" here in Spain: how 40% of his salary goes to pay for people who end up with no motivation to work because they get enough from the government, and how he doesn't think much of "culture" like opera that is subsidized to such an extent by the government that it only costs E30 for a ticket. Not much different from Canada, but he insisted on talking over my voice so I was not able to let him know my facts, opinions or anything else. (By the way, one thing that's better here, or more communist, depending on how you look at things, is that busses are very frequent, and one trip costs E0.70 with a discount card. Yes, that's 70 centimos, or about $1.00 - Not $2.75!)
Joachim also decided I could not understand Spanish and told me it was "not a bad thing that I didn't understand", and ended up talking strictly to Gaetane (who understands the same amount as me), even though I was in between them. It was really obvious this was a person who had great respect for my friend because of her position in her work: that she was "boss" of a group of people who work for one of the best known periodicals in Europe. This and the fact that she was from Paris, a city which he admired to no end, partly for a reason I fully understand: that they are the one place this side of China that has stood up to Anglo-Saxonization.
From comments that were extremely dismissive of me, and not letting me speak, I came away feeling as if this guy really, really disliked me for some kind of personal screwed up reasons of his own. I reminded him of an ex-wife, I was Anglo-Saxon, timid, "blonde" - I don't know. Most of all, though, he was a person who respected only people who have made it in the eyes of the mainstream world, and only those who can stand up to the weight of others; who can either push their way around or push back. I suppose the one positive thing I might have to say about him was that although he made mention (not really a compliment) at the beginning on my being pretty, blonde and blue eyed, saying that he thought it would be easy for such a person as me to talk to anyone in a bar) that he was not out looking for a woman who only had looks. However it seemed to me that this is what he thought of me - a stupid American with a blonde head and nothing inside it.

Well, Gaetane spent two days trying to convince me that I had misunderstood him, and that I had a problem that was in my own head, when I was forced to admit I did not want to meet him again next weekend. After much talking, we came to the conclusion that in large part, it was a cultural difference. I know I would never come across a man like this in Canada; I have not, in 20 years. Sure there are people who believe in pushing their weight around, at home, but they are a bit more subtle about it. I didn't take this guy's attitude super personally, because he knew absolutely nothing about me, except my felt presence, and demonstrated level of overall confidence. This is the only information he had, because I was unable to speak. It is a natural thing to respond to lack of confidence in another person by becoming dominating. It is just usually done more subtley - most people realise it's not a particularly pretty aspect of the animal nature of being human, and learn to temper it. For my part, I've realised that I let people who inadvertently and insensitively get into my space, be it personal or mental, affect me too much.

As a French woman, Gaetane has a completely different perspective. These kind of men are normal to her, and she was able to see him as a really nice guy, despite not really liking his views. She is familiar with this type of person, but at the same time, being confronted with a Canadian in tears caused her less problem than I think it would for many Canadian women. It seems I've so far had some pretty influential French women in my life: Emmanuelle, from whom I learned to wear a silk scarf, Ben, from whom I've learned about the subject I am presently discussing, and now Gaetane. Someone my male friends would undoubtedly love, as she is very French and has very cute, feminine mannerisms, along with pink nailpolish and lipstick and high heeled boots, but is not the least bit "girly" in a negative sense, is really intelligent and has an obvious depth, and balance about her personality.

According to Gaetane, men are just like this and it is the job of women to teach them subtlety, and to help them be more sensitive. Comments from male Canadians solicited! Gaetane has an understanding of life and I think some basic spiritual things that to me put her on the same page with my coolest and closest friends. However, I have a feeling that in my milieu her view on this would cause some double takes, at least.

On a different subject, I am speaking only Spanish. There are no English speakers in my life at the moment. So all of this has happened with admittedly terrible grammar, but indeed, in Spanish, of which I am quite proud.