Abajando Jesus

I went into the abaceria to buy some cheese. An older couple were having beer at the counter, where you buy stuff to go or have a drink. They decided to buy a piece of the same roll of cheese. As the girl was weighing it on an ancient scale, on one side of which they put their calculator, to weigh it against, I asked the couple how long they'd had metric in Spain and what they used before. It has been about 50 years, said the man. And before that, every part of Spain had a different system. His wife was Swedish, and she sympathised with the difficulty of meeting Spanish people. She did suggest that bars were a good place though, contrary to what my roommate said. I believe they are. It is just hard to go into one alone. I am realising it is a fine art. You have to glance in and see whether it is just way to busy too feel comfortable, or whether there is a space where you can hang out and not look conspicuous, but there are just enough people close enough, that you might be able to strike up a conversation.

Now it is quarter after three and I've just had dinner – a snack of break and half a chorizo from the fridge. Actually my dinner was 4 glasses of wine with a miniscule sandwich and a lot of olives. I called Kathy to hang out, and after trying on my shoes for the 4^th night in a row (Alfonso Chaves is my hero – for having finally gotten the left shoe right), I went to bar Casa Vizcaino, a “hardcore” looking place on Calle Feria. Not a single stool to sit on, very plain, but it's one of the bars that's most attracted me since my arrival in January. It's a no nonsense place, with old tiles, old paint on the walls, manzanilla, solera and whatever else served directly out of kegs (the kind that sit against the wall, actual wooden barrels, with spouts in the end), and a cash register from the 50s. Like many places, they write your tab on the bar in chalk, and add to it as you order more.

After that, we ended up in Plaza San Lorenzo, as a tiny gourmet wine bar I had in mind was closed. The Sardinero had put out way more tables in the Plaza than it usually does. Kathy and I were pretty involved in relating various intense experiences of our past, when suddenly a very long line of people that had been standing along the wall of the church and running the entire length of the plaza, spilling out at the far end, started to move. “I have never seen anyone run into a church!” said Kathy, as both of us sat there in awe, as the square, more packed full of people then I'd ever seen it, emptied. Some of them ran from the other side of the plaza, jumping into the line. I went to see what was going on, while Kathy asked the waiter. “Abajando de Jesus” (taking down Jesus) was what she was told. When we'd sat there almost half an hour after the line started going into the church, and there were only two more people in the square other than waiters stacking tables, we went over and joined them. The church was utterly full, and nobody was making a sound, not even whispering. Sure enough, they started taking the statue of Jesus (which I refered to in a previous post, the ankle of which frizzy haired ladies in tight jeans and high heels would touch as they walked past praying), down from his spot behind the stage, where the priest or choir would be. It took a few minutes for this to happen. I lost my concentration a bit, but when I looked back, he was down, and for a bizarre moment looked like a real person moving down into the crowd. Then it was over and everyone suddenly left. I do not know how long the people had been waiting in line in the plaza. It must have been more than an hour, for many of them. They entered at midnight, waited patiently for 20 minutes to half an hour, and then left, when it was all over at 12:30.

We headed over to Eslava, for one more drink, and I heard more of Kathy's incredibly adventurous stories. She definitely rivals me for interesting experiences travelling. I have never met an English speaking person who has actually studied Chinese, in Spanish. She didn't end up making it to China, but has had some hair raising experiences in South America, a place I don't believe I'd attempt to go alone.

Sometimes you can go for a long time not meeting anyone, here. But other times all it takes is walking down the street. On our way out, a drunk guy came up and told us it was his birthday and to join him and his friends at a bar in the Alameda. Kathy was next to him and did the talking. I didn't think she'd want to go, but seemed to be into it. I was pretty tired, but I went along. Luckily his friends were much less drunk and really nice. We met Maria from Malaga, who was really friendly, and Noelia and her boyfriend Jose, who took it upon himself to explain more about Semana Santa. He is involved in 2 hermandades, and will be one of the guys under the float. He said that he remembers Semana Santa since his childhood, places he went, parts of the parade he saw, when he was only 3, 4, 5 years old. All his life, he has experienced this. This is why young people still carry on such an ancient tradition, with not the slightest flagging of interest or passion. He told us one hermandad is on the outskirts of the city centre, and that there are 36 men carrying the float, and they will march for a total of 13 hours. His time under the float will be 7 hours. When Kathy asked what that is like, he answered with a comment that carried something more than words. I don't remember his words, but it is obviously of some profound nature. He has been a nazareno before (the guys that wear the pointed cap that look to any North American like the KKK) – for a bunch of years in a row. Maria encouraged us several times to call them and we could go with them to see some of the sights during the week, and especially on Domingo de Rama. Sunday the 17^th is the biggest day of the festival.