Bulerias fin de fiesta
Angelita Vargas Solea por buleria long time ago
Angelita Vargas solea por buleria
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
I now keep my red wine in the fridge. Sacrelidge. Unthinkeable until Oscar explained to me the other day why. He manages a bar, and has worked there for a long time - he should know. Red wine should be served at 16-18 degrees or somewhere around there, depending on the type. Room temperature here is 37 degrees.
He also knows which beers or sherries warm up faster than others, even though they are stored at the same original temperature.
I went to Carmona today. It's half an hour away. It has views, the requisite church towers with grass growing, and medieval walls. Also a fancy hotel at the top of the hill and various museums. I stayed 2 hours longer and sat beside a round square, and read my book from the second hand store on "Lo femenino y lo sagrado". It's been translated from French into Spanish, and consists of two women writing each other letters discussing their insights into the subject. Very, very fascinating.
Anyways, I managed to relax somewhat there, as I am not in a very sane headspace these days.
He also knows which beers or sherries warm up faster than others, even though they are stored at the same original temperature.
I went to Carmona today. It's half an hour away. It has views, the requisite church towers with grass growing, and medieval walls. Also a fancy hotel at the top of the hill and various museums. I stayed 2 hours longer and sat beside a round square, and read my book from the second hand store on "Lo femenino y lo sagrado". It's been translated from French into Spanish, and consists of two women writing each other letters discussing their insights into the subject. Very, very fascinating.
Anyways, I managed to relax somewhat there, as I am not in a very sane headspace these days.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Last week I went to the Hospital de los Venerables, a building built after the plague, for poverty stricken priests and ecclesiasticals. The plague devastated the population so badly that Sevilla never recovered economically, having previously been incredibly rich, due to the plundering of the "New World". They explained that religion was one of the few things people had to hold on to during this time especially, and I believe that this may have been meant to explain some of the religious traditions that still have such strength.
Inside the courtyard house, there is a collection of paintings of Velazquez and a few other painters. The most obvious attraction though, is the church, one whole side of the courtyard - it is cathedral like - just too small to be called one. When I first went in, there was about six stringed instruments sitting on a high ledge, playing with the organist. It was awesome. They later came down and others joined them. It was an 18 piece stringed orchestra, practicing. The visitors got to listen to them all morning.
I was a little bit in awe at first, looking at the church with its murals on the ceiling and ancient paintings and hearing this music, especially with the organ. Maybe the fact that they were practicing and kept stopping also helped trigger this thought. I felt: this music does not belong to me; it is European. This music comes from here (in general); it comes from an everyday life where musicians get to practice in such splendour. They have unbroken connection to the buildings and the traditions and ways of life that this music came from, that I do not have. I felt like I suddenly understood a bit better what it means to be European, and why they are the way they are, in particular, that it seems so much more normal here for people to wear suits, and why there is more importance in being well-dressed. Because that has always been part of their everyday lives, just like grand cathedrals. I believe there is something else very subtle in the way they think and act, which I can't quite put a finger on. (By the way, the leader of the orchestra had jeans and a regular shirt on, so that wasn't what made me have this revelation.)
Inside the courtyard house, there is a collection of paintings of Velazquez and a few other painters. The most obvious attraction though, is the church, one whole side of the courtyard - it is cathedral like - just too small to be called one. When I first went in, there was about six stringed instruments sitting on a high ledge, playing with the organist. It was awesome. They later came down and others joined them. It was an 18 piece stringed orchestra, practicing. The visitors got to listen to them all morning.
I was a little bit in awe at first, looking at the church with its murals on the ceiling and ancient paintings and hearing this music, especially with the organ. Maybe the fact that they were practicing and kept stopping also helped trigger this thought. I felt: this music does not belong to me; it is European. This music comes from here (in general); it comes from an everyday life where musicians get to practice in such splendour. They have unbroken connection to the buildings and the traditions and ways of life that this music came from, that I do not have. I felt like I suddenly understood a bit better what it means to be European, and why they are the way they are, in particular, that it seems so much more normal here for people to wear suits, and why there is more importance in being well-dressed. Because that has always been part of their everyday lives, just like grand cathedrals. I believe there is something else very subtle in the way they think and act, which I can't quite put a finger on. (By the way, the leader of the orchestra had jeans and a regular shirt on, so that wasn't what made me have this revelation.)
procesiónes... y más procesiones.
How Sevilla works: basically there are cathedrals or churches hidden on just about every street. It seems like most of them have some kind of statues that get put on floats and brought out on a procession. I really have no idea, but Semana Santa just finished and now they are already starting up with more processions.
It is 12:25 am and I just came in from watching one go by and go into a building. I can still hear them playing.
The ones they have now are mostly of the Virgen and she isn't sad any more because that was for Easter. No daggers in the heart because her son died. The floats now have pink flowers and look really spring or summer-like. The Virgen looks all pretty, not so austere like she did during Semana Santa.
As I followed the one by the cathedral, I thought I will be spoiled for ever living anywhere else. At least that is how I feel now. How can you not be completely encantada of a place where people are constantly gathering and hanging out and relaxing in the street, and following floats and bands playing for hours? I also feel incredulous, and sorry for repeating myself, that in 2011, in a very modern world in which even the Chinese have lost most of their traditions and things are so homogenised, young people in Andalucia still spend a good deal of time on and have a great deal of respect for something so ancient, and that it is a very important part of their lives. It is alive for them - I am not talking about the religious aspect, for that I can't speak - just the ancient ritual and tradition. I hope they never, ever lose this.
These traditions go against very much of what I have been taught all my life, in a culture that only values efficiency, reason, speed, convenience, lack of nuisance, sensibility. All of that is broken here. I watched the band standing in the street (everything comes to a stand-still every 10 minutes or so, for the costaleros to rest). They were goofing around, one guy making faces behind the another's head, at someone standing a distance away with a camera. Then they started playing again. This one only had about 12 trumpets, but enough other stuff. The guys carrying candles started moving towards us from the other end of the street and finally the float rounded the corner and then sat for another while. It was 11:45 or so, and dark out. The float was of course lit up by candles, like they usually are. Eventually it made its way down past our apartment, and then took quite a while working its way into the door of a rather non-descript building, that I always thought was a school. They had to manouver it around several tight corners, due to cars parked in the street, after which they set it down again for a while. A guy got up on a ladder (they always carry them behind the float), to remove the ornate gold halo from the Virgen's head, so they could get it through the door. The float had probably only an inch or two on each side, to get through the doors. There were two sets to go through. When it got into a courtyard like area inside, people threw flower petals down on it (bougainvillea, rose and whatever else).
The incredible thing is that people carry them. They insist on carrying them, they love it. Then no less amazing for someone from North America, is that people are still making new ones, and parts for old ones. The floats have wooden frames, on which the ornate gold or silver sides are put. These are very likely made by some artesan. I believe they are probably wood, plated with metal. Some statues date from hundreds of years ago, others are still being made - there are sculptors who do this. They are beautiful of course. Then there is the clothing of the statues, which can be extremely ornate, embroidered with gold or silver thread. They have either gold halos (Virgen) or rays emanating (Jesus). Then there are the flowers - massive mounds of them - all fresh, all real - in beds, as the floor of the float, and in large "bouquets", more like huge mounds, perfectly shaped and regular. Last but sometimes most affecting for a quality and tradition-starved North American, are real candles, in beautiful glass holders, at the top of ornate scroll gold or silver candelabras. You might want to call it overdone, but not when you start to realise it is all REAL. None of it is cheap or quickly thrown together. Nothing is fiberglass or plastic, cheaply spray painted.
The marching bands often look somewhat military in their style of clothing and hats, and I suppose the drum rolls and the brass - all this originally came from some kind of military tradition. But the marches can be quite slow, and the music can have a lot of feeling. It is nothing like the kind I ever saw before coming here.
It is 12:25 am and I just came in from watching one go by and go into a building. I can still hear them playing.
The ones they have now are mostly of the Virgen and she isn't sad any more because that was for Easter. No daggers in the heart because her son died. The floats now have pink flowers and look really spring or summer-like. The Virgen looks all pretty, not so austere like she did during Semana Santa.
As I followed the one by the cathedral, I thought I will be spoiled for ever living anywhere else. At least that is how I feel now. How can you not be completely encantada of a place where people are constantly gathering and hanging out and relaxing in the street, and following floats and bands playing for hours? I also feel incredulous, and sorry for repeating myself, that in 2011, in a very modern world in which even the Chinese have lost most of their traditions and things are so homogenised, young people in Andalucia still spend a good deal of time on and have a great deal of respect for something so ancient, and that it is a very important part of their lives. It is alive for them - I am not talking about the religious aspect, for that I can't speak - just the ancient ritual and tradition. I hope they never, ever lose this.
These traditions go against very much of what I have been taught all my life, in a culture that only values efficiency, reason, speed, convenience, lack of nuisance, sensibility. All of that is broken here. I watched the band standing in the street (everything comes to a stand-still every 10 minutes or so, for the costaleros to rest). They were goofing around, one guy making faces behind the another's head, at someone standing a distance away with a camera. Then they started playing again. This one only had about 12 trumpets, but enough other stuff. The guys carrying candles started moving towards us from the other end of the street and finally the float rounded the corner and then sat for another while. It was 11:45 or so, and dark out. The float was of course lit up by candles, like they usually are. Eventually it made its way down past our apartment, and then took quite a while working its way into the door of a rather non-descript building, that I always thought was a school. They had to manouver it around several tight corners, due to cars parked in the street, after which they set it down again for a while. A guy got up on a ladder (they always carry them behind the float), to remove the ornate gold halo from the Virgen's head, so they could get it through the door. The float had probably only an inch or two on each side, to get through the doors. There were two sets to go through. When it got into a courtyard like area inside, people threw flower petals down on it (bougainvillea, rose and whatever else).
The incredible thing is that people carry them. They insist on carrying them, they love it. Then no less amazing for someone from North America, is that people are still making new ones, and parts for old ones. The floats have wooden frames, on which the ornate gold or silver sides are put. These are very likely made by some artesan. I believe they are probably wood, plated with metal. Some statues date from hundreds of years ago, others are still being made - there are sculptors who do this. They are beautiful of course. Then there is the clothing of the statues, which can be extremely ornate, embroidered with gold or silver thread. They have either gold halos (Virgen) or rays emanating (Jesus). Then there are the flowers - massive mounds of them - all fresh, all real - in beds, as the floor of the float, and in large "bouquets", more like huge mounds, perfectly shaped and regular. Last but sometimes most affecting for a quality and tradition-starved North American, are real candles, in beautiful glass holders, at the top of ornate scroll gold or silver candelabras. You might want to call it overdone, but not when you start to realise it is all REAL. None of it is cheap or quickly thrown together. Nothing is fiberglass or plastic, cheaply spray painted.
The marching bands often look somewhat military in their style of clothing and hats, and I suppose the drum rolls and the brass - all this originally came from some kind of military tradition. But the marches can be quite slow, and the music can have a lot of feeling. It is nothing like the kind I ever saw before coming here.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Sevilla is incredibly beautiful these days. Of course it's hot - 37 degrees I think today.
Everything is stunning - like you would imagine it to be. The river is very green, with all the very old coloured buildings along it on the Triana side. Then the white Plaza de Toros behind palm trees on the other side. Everywhere Jacaranda trees are blooming, and also some trees with bright yellow flowers that fall everywhere.
I discovered some decent gelato and then the book fair in Plaza Nueva, in the center of the city. I considered buying a guide to various hikes, I looked at a few books on horses, some on flamenco, and then I wanted to buy one on alternative finance and local cooperative networks in Andalucia, because this is interesting me highly these days. If I could, I would get involved in something to help re-arrange the structure of the world, and at the moment I am here, where it is desperately needed. Luckily people are already doing it. I am nearly finished reading my first ever foreign language novel - El Amour en Los Tiempos del Cólera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. So I'm not really afraid of reading anything in Spanish any more. Of course there are a lot of words I don't understand, but you know...
I finally found some actually decent whole wheat bread. It is at my favorite specialty food store in Calle Regina. A rather reserved man probably in his late 40s stocks his shop full of all manner of stuff that is truly useful, as well as being high quality. That is where I got one of the best bottles of wine I've ever drunk, for under E5. I get unfiltered olive oil there (the only kind worth having), sometimes cheese, rice, sausage, and spices of all kinds. It is just a small place, but there are two high tables with stools against one wall, and in the afternoon, sometimes there are a few men hanging out in the doorway to the shop, sipping glasses of wine and chatting with the owner. Yesterday I bought an "olive oil" cookbook there, because I have been having trouble cooking properly for myself, and am hoping this will be motivation, as it is basically tons of normal Spanish recipes. It is one of those plain types of cookbooks - it has only a few pictures, and it's very serious, also pocket sized. It starts off explaining everything there is to know about olives and olive oil, including ancient history and details of extraction processes.
I am liking Sevilla more in this past week, as I finally feel I am getting to know a few people, and now my life seems partly to be falling into place. Yesterday I changed my practice time to 9-11 in the morning. Practicing between 4-6 was horrible, as it is directly after lunch and exactly the time I want to be sleeping. Also, it is when the studio is hottest. I feel like I am finally making progress with my dancing. I am learning tons, alone. I'd say it has probably taken me a month (after the time where I couldn't dance) to assimilate the choreographies I learned in January. I've finally practiced one of them enough to be at the point where I can start to use it - fit it with recorded music, and change it as necessary. For the other, I've finally started to understand the complexities of the rhythms and find how they fit into the overall rhythmic phrase and can finally do them to recorded percussion, and am working in detail on the body movements.
I went to watch a class today that I think I will start taking in June. The clase de Angel looked perfect and he looks like an awesome teacher. Instead of choreography, this particular class works with different aspects of technique every day.
Everything is stunning - like you would imagine it to be. The river is very green, with all the very old coloured buildings along it on the Triana side. Then the white Plaza de Toros behind palm trees on the other side. Everywhere Jacaranda trees are blooming, and also some trees with bright yellow flowers that fall everywhere.
I discovered some decent gelato and then the book fair in Plaza Nueva, in the center of the city. I considered buying a guide to various hikes, I looked at a few books on horses, some on flamenco, and then I wanted to buy one on alternative finance and local cooperative networks in Andalucia, because this is interesting me highly these days. If I could, I would get involved in something to help re-arrange the structure of the world, and at the moment I am here, where it is desperately needed. Luckily people are already doing it. I am nearly finished reading my first ever foreign language novel - El Amour en Los Tiempos del Cólera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. So I'm not really afraid of reading anything in Spanish any more. Of course there are a lot of words I don't understand, but you know...
I finally found some actually decent whole wheat bread. It is at my favorite specialty food store in Calle Regina. A rather reserved man probably in his late 40s stocks his shop full of all manner of stuff that is truly useful, as well as being high quality. That is where I got one of the best bottles of wine I've ever drunk, for under E5. I get unfiltered olive oil there (the only kind worth having), sometimes cheese, rice, sausage, and spices of all kinds. It is just a small place, but there are two high tables with stools against one wall, and in the afternoon, sometimes there are a few men hanging out in the doorway to the shop, sipping glasses of wine and chatting with the owner. Yesterday I bought an "olive oil" cookbook there, because I have been having trouble cooking properly for myself, and am hoping this will be motivation, as it is basically tons of normal Spanish recipes. It is one of those plain types of cookbooks - it has only a few pictures, and it's very serious, also pocket sized. It starts off explaining everything there is to know about olives and olive oil, including ancient history and details of extraction processes.
I am liking Sevilla more in this past week, as I finally feel I am getting to know a few people, and now my life seems partly to be falling into place. Yesterday I changed my practice time to 9-11 in the morning. Practicing between 4-6 was horrible, as it is directly after lunch and exactly the time I want to be sleeping. Also, it is when the studio is hottest. I feel like I am finally making progress with my dancing. I am learning tons, alone. I'd say it has probably taken me a month (after the time where I couldn't dance) to assimilate the choreographies I learned in January. I've finally practiced one of them enough to be at the point where I can start to use it - fit it with recorded music, and change it as necessary. For the other, I've finally started to understand the complexities of the rhythms and find how they fit into the overall rhythmic phrase and can finally do them to recorded percussion, and am working in detail on the body movements.
I went to watch a class today that I think I will start taking in June. The clase de Angel looked perfect and he looks like an awesome teacher. Instead of choreography, this particular class works with different aspects of technique every day.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Ich kann nicht... Ich weiss nicht..? Langsam, veruckt
I had no vegetables in the fridge. It's Sunday night and that means I wasn't going to get any. So I got "fixed" up properly and after a short walk along the river, I ended up at the Abaceria. They have no tapas that are really vegetable - or at least enough vegetables to make it worth while, so I ordered a racion (a larger sized plate). It turned out to be highly composed of goat cheese with a slice of eggplant and potato, but their wine is good there, as is everything. All the people there recognise me, of course, because I buy my bread there practically every day, and often my cheese. A big table was free and one of the girls told me to sit. I don't like to sit at a table alone, here. I would rather stand (or perch) at the bar, where it is more appropriate to be alone. Anyways I went and sat there reading the newspaper and they told me the PP had won the election. I think they are the right wing party. Ramon came along and told me (or tried to clarify) that he had tried to "liberate" me from Cervantes but that I went off to his house... I said, "well he was really funny and it was okay". I'm not sure what he thinks now...!
I ended up spending the evening with a totally lovely German couple, probably about 60-ish. They asked if they could share the table, which I like to do, but is not really ever appropriate in most places.
Despite a large communication problem, we managed to communicate anyways. They bought me a second glass of wine, and we talked for a long time about whatever we could manage to talk about. I desperately reached for any German I could remember. The man seemed to speak more English but a few times ended up just saying stuff in German, from which I could gather a few words. The lady, Martina, didn't seem to know much English at first, but managed more English than my German.
I pulled out my usual phrases, which will be with me till the day I die, and will probably (hopefully) remain useless until then: "mein schlussel ist ferloren" (my key is lost) and "ich bin ein schlukspekt auf dem schlakschiff" which my German friends taught me in Tibet. Martina quite liked that. (I am the drunkard on the battleship). I have gotten some mileage out of that, thanks a million to Nina and the gang for teaching me it.
They had been to a bullfight today and he showed me pictures. They told me Spain is supposed to ban bullfighting next year and we attempted to discuss that, though we only barely understood each other. At least the words "tradicion" and "gut", "schon" are understood. A lot of sign language happened and we also drew in my notebook. I suppose my education gave me more than I know. The word "langsam" is something that comes from my music education. They were not yet used to the Spanish way of serving tables and were mildly frustrated.
They were from Dresden, in East Germany and described the river with mountains on either side. It sounds like a place I should visit. They had driven all the way from Germany, and were planning to drive through France along the coast, Italy and Switzerland on their way back.
Anyways, they were really lovely people, and Martina is one of those ladies, I hope to be like when I am her age.
I ended up spending the evening with a totally lovely German couple, probably about 60-ish. They asked if they could share the table, which I like to do, but is not really ever appropriate in most places.
Despite a large communication problem, we managed to communicate anyways. They bought me a second glass of wine, and we talked for a long time about whatever we could manage to talk about. I desperately reached for any German I could remember. The man seemed to speak more English but a few times ended up just saying stuff in German, from which I could gather a few words. The lady, Martina, didn't seem to know much English at first, but managed more English than my German.
I pulled out my usual phrases, which will be with me till the day I die, and will probably (hopefully) remain useless until then: "mein schlussel ist ferloren" (my key is lost) and "ich bin ein schlukspekt auf dem schlakschiff" which my German friends taught me in Tibet. Martina quite liked that. (I am the drunkard on the battleship). I have gotten some mileage out of that, thanks a million to Nina and the gang for teaching me it.
They had been to a bullfight today and he showed me pictures. They told me Spain is supposed to ban bullfighting next year and we attempted to discuss that, though we only barely understood each other. At least the words "tradicion" and "gut", "schon" are understood. A lot of sign language happened and we also drew in my notebook. I suppose my education gave me more than I know. The word "langsam" is something that comes from my music education. They were not yet used to the Spanish way of serving tables and were mildly frustrated.
They were from Dresden, in East Germany and described the river with mountains on either side. It sounds like a place I should visit. They had driven all the way from Germany, and were planning to drive through France along the coast, Italy and Switzerland on their way back.
Anyways, they were really lovely people, and Martina is one of those ladies, I hope to be like when I am her age.
Me gustas te gustas te gusto me gusto
"Me gustas montón, te gusto?"
"Te gustas, no... me gusto... no sé si me gusto...no, te gustas... los verbos... no puedo"
Culture shock. Not really shock, but culture head-shake... laugh and smile in wonderment. I can't help it, I love the lack of filter here between what people really feel and what comes out. Well, most of the time anyways.
I met David (pronounce Dah-veed) crossing the street yesterday. A bunch of palomas were in the street and one had just about flown into a girl, who had to duck. David said something about the pigeon beside me being good luck, and I turned to say, "como?" I mostly knew what he was talking about as I'd caught the words "paloma" and "luck" but I couldn't quite make out the rest of the words. There was a brief exchange and then he said goodbye, encantado, and went to catch up with his friends, but Luis turned around and said, "he wants your phone number". David hadn't had time to tell Luis this, so I think Luis was just trying to help him out. I could have said no, but Luis had the "6", which all cell phone numbers start with, already entered, and was expectantly waiting. For some reason I didn't find them pushy, despite that, and just went for it.
They were all from Huelva, the province and capital to the west, from whence come one kind of Fandangos. I suprised myself again when I answered "where and when" did they want to meet, without really feeling worried about it. Instincts are always right, and the best instincts are when it doesn't cross your mind what you are actually doing, that you just do it.
After a faulty start (partly due to my Canadian going out habits that I still haven't broken), we finally met up and went to the Arenal area, in the center of the city. (In Spain, you pretty much should not be worried about meeting someone until they tell you "NOW", because it will mostly always be later than you were thinking).
Fortunately I've managed to meet a guy one year older than the last one, which is a step in the right direction. If I keep doing that, I'll end up with someone od an appropriate age eventually, the problem is I think there is a limit here. I probably won't meet anyone over 30 because that's the magic number by which time they all have to have the knot tied or else they will go drifting off into... I have no idea what. He made me guess his age, and he actually looked younger than 29, so I probably insulted him by throwing out various possible ages in the 20s, in random order.
I am not going to lose my fascination with life and people here any time soon, I don't think. Canadian guys are usually smoother and more subtle than the guys here, and usually make things easier as far as giving a girl space. But they could handle some tips from Spanish guys as far as meeting girls. And it is awfully attractive to be approached directly with complete honesty and courage, which makes me consider guys that I might not normally. Then again that seems to be the way they live. Part of it is easier because they will start up conversations with anyone, at the drop of a hat, whereas that is almost some sort of a crime in Vancouver.
Bullfighting continues in this country partly due to the way it connects people to facing life and death (and the rest in between) with courage, and head-on. Too many writers have already written about all that and analysed it.
"I like you monton (heaps - a "mountain"). You are beautiful, wow you are so guapa". Later on, "do you like me?" (dancing with the bull..)
"I don't know... I am not used to the way you do things. I like that you are very direct. You are a good person."
"No, no, I am not direct. Most Spanish men are direct (semantics - directo does not translate well into direct, as far as usage - he thinks I mean quick, aggressive)... I have verguenza (shame/embarassment). Here, feel my heart (it is beating very fast)."
He puts my hand on his heart, looks me straight in the eyes, with a nothing-hidden kind of look. "I don't think you like me".
(unfortunately the knife is in my hand and if feels as though I am required to stab the bull).
Aside from feeling as though I had to either be enamored of him or stab him in the heart, I had a good time with these guys. They were really nice and funny, and I didn't feel worried at all, with them. I learned a few sayings, like "meter en el cuello" which means something like, "to go for the neck", which refers to guys who are attempting to pick up, in a less than subtle way. Alvaro, one of David's friends, was pretty drunk near the end, and was being somewhat of a harassment to the girl at the bar and to some foreign girls near us. He was being an "aguila" - eagle.
I've talked to various girlfriends at home about "dating" and the difficulty of it - how it is a slightly artificial thing. A date, by its very nature, is not an organic thing that just happens naturally. But the manner in which many guys here do things (guys like David anyways) makes it more comfortable, as it is so completely honest. Despite him saying he was embarassed, he seemed extremely confident and laid back.
Today is the election, and David asked me how I usually vote - izquierda o derecha; right or left. I say probably more likely left, but none of them are any good, which is the same in all countries. He doesn't seem bothered by that but says he votes on the right.
I will have to go check the election results. I turned David down as far as meeting up tonight. I was waiting for a procession to pass yesterday (Semana Santa is just over and a month later, there are new ones), and a garbage bin on the other side said, "leave your vote here". Cervantes had tiny packages made up to distribute to his friends, for voting purposes. They were to be put into the envelope with the ballot. Each package contained a slice of chorizo.
(By the way, for those learning Spanish, "I like you" should not be translated. You should learn that it has no translation. You have to say, "you please me", "do I please you?" If you try to translate directly subjects and objects get mixed up.)
When all is said and done, I think people have less shame for their real feelings here, than we do. I suppose that is why I am here.
"Te gustas, no... me gusto... no sé si me gusto...no, te gustas... los verbos... no puedo"
Culture shock. Not really shock, but culture head-shake... laugh and smile in wonderment. I can't help it, I love the lack of filter here between what people really feel and what comes out. Well, most of the time anyways.
I met David (pronounce Dah-veed) crossing the street yesterday. A bunch of palomas were in the street and one had just about flown into a girl, who had to duck. David said something about the pigeon beside me being good luck, and I turned to say, "como?" I mostly knew what he was talking about as I'd caught the words "paloma" and "luck" but I couldn't quite make out the rest of the words. There was a brief exchange and then he said goodbye, encantado, and went to catch up with his friends, but Luis turned around and said, "he wants your phone number". David hadn't had time to tell Luis this, so I think Luis was just trying to help him out. I could have said no, but Luis had the "6", which all cell phone numbers start with, already entered, and was expectantly waiting. For some reason I didn't find them pushy, despite that, and just went for it.
They were all from Huelva, the province and capital to the west, from whence come one kind of Fandangos. I suprised myself again when I answered "where and when" did they want to meet, without really feeling worried about it. Instincts are always right, and the best instincts are when it doesn't cross your mind what you are actually doing, that you just do it.
After a faulty start (partly due to my Canadian going out habits that I still haven't broken), we finally met up and went to the Arenal area, in the center of the city. (In Spain, you pretty much should not be worried about meeting someone until they tell you "NOW", because it will mostly always be later than you were thinking).
Fortunately I've managed to meet a guy one year older than the last one, which is a step in the right direction. If I keep doing that, I'll end up with someone od an appropriate age eventually, the problem is I think there is a limit here. I probably won't meet anyone over 30 because that's the magic number by which time they all have to have the knot tied or else they will go drifting off into... I have no idea what. He made me guess his age, and he actually looked younger than 29, so I probably insulted him by throwing out various possible ages in the 20s, in random order.
I am not going to lose my fascination with life and people here any time soon, I don't think. Canadian guys are usually smoother and more subtle than the guys here, and usually make things easier as far as giving a girl space. But they could handle some tips from Spanish guys as far as meeting girls. And it is awfully attractive to be approached directly with complete honesty and courage, which makes me consider guys that I might not normally. Then again that seems to be the way they live. Part of it is easier because they will start up conversations with anyone, at the drop of a hat, whereas that is almost some sort of a crime in Vancouver.
Bullfighting continues in this country partly due to the way it connects people to facing life and death (and the rest in between) with courage, and head-on. Too many writers have already written about all that and analysed it.
"I like you monton (heaps - a "mountain"). You are beautiful, wow you are so guapa". Later on, "do you like me?" (dancing with the bull..)
"I don't know... I am not used to the way you do things. I like that you are very direct. You are a good person."
"No, no, I am not direct. Most Spanish men are direct (semantics - directo does not translate well into direct, as far as usage - he thinks I mean quick, aggressive)... I have verguenza (shame/embarassment). Here, feel my heart (it is beating very fast)."
He puts my hand on his heart, looks me straight in the eyes, with a nothing-hidden kind of look. "I don't think you like me".
(unfortunately the knife is in my hand and if feels as though I am required to stab the bull).
Aside from feeling as though I had to either be enamored of him or stab him in the heart, I had a good time with these guys. They were really nice and funny, and I didn't feel worried at all, with them. I learned a few sayings, like "meter en el cuello" which means something like, "to go for the neck", which refers to guys who are attempting to pick up, in a less than subtle way. Alvaro, one of David's friends, was pretty drunk near the end, and was being somewhat of a harassment to the girl at the bar and to some foreign girls near us. He was being an "aguila" - eagle.
I've talked to various girlfriends at home about "dating" and the difficulty of it - how it is a slightly artificial thing. A date, by its very nature, is not an organic thing that just happens naturally. But the manner in which many guys here do things (guys like David anyways) makes it more comfortable, as it is so completely honest. Despite him saying he was embarassed, he seemed extremely confident and laid back.
Today is the election, and David asked me how I usually vote - izquierda o derecha; right or left. I say probably more likely left, but none of them are any good, which is the same in all countries. He doesn't seem bothered by that but says he votes on the right.
I will have to go check the election results. I turned David down as far as meeting up tonight. I was waiting for a procession to pass yesterday (Semana Santa is just over and a month later, there are new ones), and a garbage bin on the other side said, "leave your vote here". Cervantes had tiny packages made up to distribute to his friends, for voting purposes. They were to be put into the envelope with the ballot. Each package contained a slice of chorizo.
(By the way, for those learning Spanish, "I like you" should not be translated. You should learn that it has no translation. You have to say, "you please me", "do I please you?" If you try to translate directly subjects and objects get mixed up.)
When all is said and done, I think people have less shame for their real feelings here, than we do. I suppose that is why I am here.
The Abaceria de San Lorenzo does have some variation in their clientele but to a large extent it tends to be fairly proper, distinguished looking people, and in the middle of the afternoon, of course mostly older men. Due to the former, I was suprised to find a character like Cervantes hanging out there. He told me right off that he was Cuban, but later I found out he was born here in Sevilla, but his grandfather was Cuban, and he goes there a lot. "For the easy women," interjects his friend. Cervantes invited me for a coffee, and I accepted, having just about driven myself crazy that day (friday) with indecision about whether I would jump on a train late in the afternoon and escape Sevilla. (I decided for and against it several times, and even went and sat in the train station for a little bit.) So I was happy to have an interesting person to talk to. Cervantes made it clear he liked me, but was a gentleman, and really a sweetheart. Him and his friend couldn't quit joking around and making the girls at the counter shake their heads and roll their eyes. One of the friends turned out not to be a friend but a random proper neighborhood man, whom Cervantes tried to introduce by saying he was Italian (not at all the case). They went outside to smoke and I felt dumb sitting in there by myself so I said I would leave, and went out the door with them. We kept talking and Cervantes then yelled back through the door to introduce me to Ramón, the owner (we already know each other by sight, to say hello). Ramón told me if Cervantes was being too "pesado" just let him know and he would tell him to get out of the way so I could go home. "Did you understand what he said?" Cervantes wanted to be sure, "he says if I am too pesado to just let him know."
Manolito's wife ran off just before I sat down with them for coffee, but joined us again later, after Cervantes invited me to his house, kitty corner to the Abaceria. I had a brief moment of doubt, thinking what a stupid thing to do, as I walked through the door with two men. I wondered what the very proper Ramon would think, but didn't worry as much as before. Cervantes has travelled a lot. His house is a very small but typical Sevillan courtyard house, and the bottom courtyard is full of awesome and fascinating collected items from all over the world, as well as some family heirlooms, like a beautiful ivory set on his dresser. He turned on ABBA really loud and handed Manolito and I each a set of maraccas. He played a weird tin can with a handle, covered in raised bumps, with a wooden handled thing with small metal rods. Then some Latin stuff came on; some bachaca from Dominican Republic.
Manolito rolled a huge joint from the marijuana Cervantes was practically throwing around. He told me Cervantes' azotea is full of plants. This would be the second time I've met someone, out of a relatively small number of people I've met in Spain so far, that grows it on their rooftop. Spain is completely ideal for that... no need to waste electricity when you have a rooftop with massive amounts of sun all the time. I had my first glimpse of a real marijuana plant, from four little ones they had in pots, in a bag near the door.
At the Abaceria, Cervantes couldn't stop talking or making jokes, and generally saying stuff out of the ordinary, or rocking the boat in a joking way. I don't think he listened to me too well, but words are only part of the story. There are not that many people I feel comfortable enough around to be very expressive. But I grabbed a crazy looking instrument off his wall that had what looked like a bunch of squashed chestnuts all attached on the end of a wound rope, and was pretty much playing whatever he had there in a way that surprised myself. Maybe I am a sucker for men that pay me attention, but what it's really about is that I feel truly comfortable around people when they are crazy - when they let it all out. I've only had a compliment that I considered this great maybe one other time in my life. He said, "if you are not an artist, it's because you don't want to be," and told me I have a great sensitivity or feeling.
Marie Carmen is really pretty, and looks amazing for whatever age she is 50 something. She wasn't too impressed by Cervantes though, and is pretty proper. Despite rolling her eyes and looking annoyed at his comments, she reluctantly shook a wooden thing with tambourine-like metal clackers that Cervantes handed her.
"I don't know when we'll see each other again," he said. I tried to tell him I live nearby and will probably see him in a few days, as I go in to the Abaceria every day and pass his house every day. "He is enamorado," said Manolito as he and Marie Carmen dragged me away.
Manolito's wife ran off just before I sat down with them for coffee, but joined us again later, after Cervantes invited me to his house, kitty corner to the Abaceria. I had a brief moment of doubt, thinking what a stupid thing to do, as I walked through the door with two men. I wondered what the very proper Ramon would think, but didn't worry as much as before. Cervantes has travelled a lot. His house is a very small but typical Sevillan courtyard house, and the bottom courtyard is full of awesome and fascinating collected items from all over the world, as well as some family heirlooms, like a beautiful ivory set on his dresser. He turned on ABBA really loud and handed Manolito and I each a set of maraccas. He played a weird tin can with a handle, covered in raised bumps, with a wooden handled thing with small metal rods. Then some Latin stuff came on; some bachaca from Dominican Republic.
Manolito rolled a huge joint from the marijuana Cervantes was practically throwing around. He told me Cervantes' azotea is full of plants. This would be the second time I've met someone, out of a relatively small number of people I've met in Spain so far, that grows it on their rooftop. Spain is completely ideal for that... no need to waste electricity when you have a rooftop with massive amounts of sun all the time. I had my first glimpse of a real marijuana plant, from four little ones they had in pots, in a bag near the door.
At the Abaceria, Cervantes couldn't stop talking or making jokes, and generally saying stuff out of the ordinary, or rocking the boat in a joking way. I don't think he listened to me too well, but words are only part of the story. There are not that many people I feel comfortable enough around to be very expressive. But I grabbed a crazy looking instrument off his wall that had what looked like a bunch of squashed chestnuts all attached on the end of a wound rope, and was pretty much playing whatever he had there in a way that surprised myself. Maybe I am a sucker for men that pay me attention, but what it's really about is that I feel truly comfortable around people when they are crazy - when they let it all out. I've only had a compliment that I considered this great maybe one other time in my life. He said, "if you are not an artist, it's because you don't want to be," and told me I have a great sensitivity or feeling.
Marie Carmen is really pretty, and looks amazing for whatever age she is 50 something. She wasn't too impressed by Cervantes though, and is pretty proper. Despite rolling her eyes and looking annoyed at his comments, she reluctantly shook a wooden thing with tambourine-like metal clackers that Cervantes handed her.
"I don't know when we'll see each other again," he said. I tried to tell him I live nearby and will probably see him in a few days, as I go in to the Abaceria every day and pass his house every day. "He is enamorado," said Manolito as he and Marie Carmen dragged me away.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Senderismo - my new religion - lol
I realised when it was too late that I might be risking death by intense sun rays or circling vulture colonies again, but it was cold when I got to Cazalla de la Sierra. And there were mostly sheep and poppies. I wore the lightest clothing that would still cover me, as it must have been high thirties in the last few days in Sevilla.
So I put on the two other shirts I'd brought and after a coffee and mollete with tomate, aceite and jamon, I set off. In the last two days I've discovered two places with trees - trees that matter. Yesterday was in the Real Alcazar gardens, where in the Garden of the Cross, some odd pines substituted enough for the very tall trees of coastal B.C., and some ferns in ceramic pots with the sun shining on them through these trees, gave me a sudden pang of memory of the Endowment Lands' ferns. It is something physical with which I am attached to the terrain and nature of home. I feel almost ill missing it, if something makes me take notice.
Anyways, I had found out about paths in the Sierra Norte de Sevilla a while ago and finally looked up more details, train and bus schedules and walking path descriptions. After the third day in a row, I finally managed to get up at 7:00 and get to the bus by 8:00, to get to Cazalla, in the national park, by around 10:00. I was hoping I'd get started early enough and the paths I had a choice of were only 2-3 hours long, so as not to be toasted by the sun.
This area suits me much better than Olvera, as far as its walkability. Besides the Real Alcazar, I've finally found another place in Andalucia where there are trees that one can actually walk under, and there are just enough of them along the path (real trail - not a road, in most places) that it resembles more the kind of walking/hiking I'm used to; not a desert place suitable only for bandits.
Many of the trees are oak. There were goats, sheep, mules and a few cows along the way, some of the sheep and goats wearing cowbells. I had to go through various gates meant to keep livestock in or out. The walk was loaded with
wildflowers of many kinds, all along the way. I sat by an arroyo (creek) for lunch, which reminded me of a Sevillanas letra, which I then kept singing and learning off my ipod for the rest of the way:
Una paloma bajo --------------- A dove/pidgeon went down
A un arroyuelo a beber ----------------------- To a steam to drink
A un arroyuelo a beber,
Y en el agua se miró ------------------------- And in the water he looked at himself
Con vanidad de mujer ----------------------- With the vanity of a woman
En el agua se miro
Con vanidad de mujer
Ay, orgullosa paloma ------------------------ Oh proud dove/pidgeon
Que te olvida de la sed ------------------------ That you forget your thirst
Ay, orgullosa paloma que te olvida de la sed
Cuando el espejo te asoma ---------------------- When in the mirror you appear.
This is my favorite Sevillanas, not only because of the letra (words) which I love, but because of the recording from the solo compas CD, in which Miguel de los Reyes sings. He sounds like an old man, one that has seen much pain in life and made serious mistakes, but still views life as incredible and beautiful, and is proud. I don't know if that is true, but his voice while singing this particular Sevillanas makes me feel that.
There was not one single other person walking. The only humans passed in a vehicle on the railway and a few in a car, as well as a couple farmers in their fields. There were numerous spots along the way where I wanted to stay forever.
I took almost double the suggested time for the walk. It was 4:00 when I got back and Cazalla was dead, except for a castanet class that was practicing somewhere I couldn't see them. I sat on a bench in the main square where a few little kids were kicking a soccer ball, below the church, which had 3 storks on top. I stared up at 3 eagles soaring way above a wrecked white building across from the church, which had swallows circling in and out of nests stuck into its corners.
Around 5:00 I found the only bar that seemed to be open, as I still had an hour to wait for the late bus. I had no choice but to ignore the hearsay about normal social behaviour and went in and ordered myself a manzanilla and sat at the bar near a bunch of old men, the only people in many bars in small towns at that time. Worrying about things I'd been told about the abnormalcy of sitting in a bar or restaurant alone, especially as a woman, and drinking, I was pretty stiff when the men started talking to me. At least I managed to make myself look up to Spanish presentability standards today. Jose Maria told me in English, "you look like a Spanish woman". Then he asked if I spoke Spanish and told me the same thing in Spanish, due to my hair and my manzanilla drinking. I told him I do try to appear Spanish.
Jose Maria introduced everyone to me, and they went back and forth between talking among themselves and talking to me, until his brother started to sing and knock on the bar (flamencos do that). So I mentioned something about it and someone started to do bulerias palmas, and I joined. One man was particularly impressed that I was studying flamenco and asked what kinds I liked and knew, and told me Jose Maria was a "gitano, entiendes?" He's a gypsy, do you understand? I said yes, and Jose Maria started to sing a bit of Alegrias.
They told me they and all the other small towns in Spain, and indeed much of Europe is in crisis right now, economically, and checked to see if I understood. But we have other things and we are happy anyways, they said. Jose Maria owned the restaurant next door and seemed to be taking charge, buying everyone as many drinks as they would drink. I tried to listen a few times while they talked among themselves or to the barman, and knew they were talking about politics (there is an election very soon), and then caught the gist of something about living life being most important, which was said emphatically and with a bit of frustration.
Gradually the town was waking up and two more of their friends wandered in one at a time. They both kissed my hands and made me flattering comments, and I ended up dancing a tiny bit of Alegrias and bulerias, with Jose Maria singing again. By that time he'd paid for my drinks (insisted I had a second one), and several of them tried to convince me to stay longer. I managed to leave, but told them I'd come back again.
These men made my day - well, it would have been incredible even without them, but it was even more so. I really love Andalucian people. Some say that in Andalucia they are really open and friendly to everyone right away but it's all on the surface, and they aren't true friends this way. I don't really care much about whether this is true - I love this way of interacting with others. It's my way, even though I'm not really used to it yet. I would rather have a lot of surface friendliness (call it superficial if you like), happiness, and togetherness, than aloofness. I'd rather have relaxation and partying, singing and dancing.
As far as flamenco, it thrills me much more to walk into a random bar in a small town and find myself among flamenco people, than most of the shows in Sevilla.
So I put on the two other shirts I'd brought and after a coffee and mollete with tomate, aceite and jamon, I set off. In the last two days I've discovered two places with trees - trees that matter. Yesterday was in the Real Alcazar gardens, where in the Garden of the Cross, some odd pines substituted enough for the very tall trees of coastal B.C., and some ferns in ceramic pots with the sun shining on them through these trees, gave me a sudden pang of memory of the Endowment Lands' ferns. It is something physical with which I am attached to the terrain and nature of home. I feel almost ill missing it, if something makes me take notice.
Anyways, I had found out about paths in the Sierra Norte de Sevilla a while ago and finally looked up more details, train and bus schedules and walking path descriptions. After the third day in a row, I finally managed to get up at 7:00 and get to the bus by 8:00, to get to Cazalla, in the national park, by around 10:00. I was hoping I'd get started early enough and the paths I had a choice of were only 2-3 hours long, so as not to be toasted by the sun.
This area suits me much better than Olvera, as far as its walkability. Besides the Real Alcazar, I've finally found another place in Andalucia where there are trees that one can actually walk under, and there are just enough of them along the path (real trail - not a road, in most places) that it resembles more the kind of walking/hiking I'm used to; not a desert place suitable only for bandits.
Many of the trees are oak. There were goats, sheep, mules and a few cows along the way, some of the sheep and goats wearing cowbells. I had to go through various gates meant to keep livestock in or out. The walk was loaded with
proper trees
wildflowers of many kinds, all along the way. I sat by an arroyo (creek) for lunch, which reminded me of a Sevillanas letra, which I then kept singing and learning off my ipod for the rest of the way:
Una paloma bajo --------------- A dove/pidgeon went down
A un arroyuelo a beber ----------------------- To a steam to drink
A un arroyuelo a beber,
Y en el agua se miró ------------------------- And in the water he looked at himself
Con vanidad de mujer ----------------------- With the vanity of a woman
En el agua se miro
Con vanidad de mujer
Ay, orgullosa paloma ------------------------ Oh proud dove/pidgeon
Que te olvida de la sed ------------------------ That you forget your thirst
Ay, orgullosa paloma que te olvida de la sed
Cuando el espejo te asoma ---------------------- When in the mirror you appear.
This is my favorite Sevillanas, not only because of the letra (words) which I love, but because of the recording from the solo compas CD, in which Miguel de los Reyes sings. He sounds like an old man, one that has seen much pain in life and made serious mistakes, but still views life as incredible and beautiful, and is proud. I don't know if that is true, but his voice while singing this particular Sevillanas makes me feel that.
There was not one single other person walking. The only humans passed in a vehicle on the railway and a few in a car, as well as a couple farmers in their fields. There were numerous spots along the way where I wanted to stay forever.
I took almost double the suggested time for the walk. It was 4:00 when I got back and Cazalla was dead, except for a castanet class that was practicing somewhere I couldn't see them. I sat on a bench in the main square where a few little kids were kicking a soccer ball, below the church, which had 3 storks on top. I stared up at 3 eagles soaring way above a wrecked white building across from the church, which had swallows circling in and out of nests stuck into its corners.
Around 5:00 I found the only bar that seemed to be open, as I still had an hour to wait for the late bus. I had no choice but to ignore the hearsay about normal social behaviour and went in and ordered myself a manzanilla and sat at the bar near a bunch of old men, the only people in many bars in small towns at that time. Worrying about things I'd been told about the abnormalcy of sitting in a bar or restaurant alone, especially as a woman, and drinking, I was pretty stiff when the men started talking to me. At least I managed to make myself look up to Spanish presentability standards today. Jose Maria told me in English, "you look like a Spanish woman". Then he asked if I spoke Spanish and told me the same thing in Spanish, due to my hair and my manzanilla drinking. I told him I do try to appear Spanish.
Jose Maria introduced everyone to me, and they went back and forth between talking among themselves and talking to me, until his brother started to sing and knock on the bar (flamencos do that). So I mentioned something about it and someone started to do bulerias palmas, and I joined. One man was particularly impressed that I was studying flamenco and asked what kinds I liked and knew, and told me Jose Maria was a "gitano, entiendes?" He's a gypsy, do you understand? I said yes, and Jose Maria started to sing a bit of Alegrias.
They told me they and all the other small towns in Spain, and indeed much of Europe is in crisis right now, economically, and checked to see if I understood. But we have other things and we are happy anyways, they said. Jose Maria owned the restaurant next door and seemed to be taking charge, buying everyone as many drinks as they would drink. I tried to listen a few times while they talked among themselves or to the barman, and knew they were talking about politics (there is an election very soon), and then caught the gist of something about living life being most important, which was said emphatically and with a bit of frustration.
Gradually the town was waking up and two more of their friends wandered in one at a time. They both kissed my hands and made me flattering comments, and I ended up dancing a tiny bit of Alegrias and bulerias, with Jose Maria singing again. By that time he'd paid for my drinks (insisted I had a second one), and several of them tried to convince me to stay longer. I managed to leave, but told them I'd come back again.
These men made my day - well, it would have been incredible even without them, but it was even more so. I really love Andalucian people. Some say that in Andalucia they are really open and friendly to everyone right away but it's all on the surface, and they aren't true friends this way. I don't really care much about whether this is true - I love this way of interacting with others. It's my way, even though I'm not really used to it yet. I would rather have a lot of surface friendliness (call it superficial if you like), happiness, and togetherness, than aloofness. I'd rather have relaxation and partying, singing and dancing.
As far as flamenco, it thrills me much more to walk into a random bar in a small town and find myself among flamenco people, than most of the shows in Sevilla.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Rant
Sharky fish dinner at 1 am. It is another night for sleeping without clothing or covers. Maybe a sheet. Three glasses of wine - well, one manzanilla and two rosados, are enough to make me adequately drunk. Just right; any more would be bad.
A big band jazz orchestra is practicing upstairs in the wrecky building on Calle Castellar. Listen here, this is enough reason to stay in Spain forever... I practice my siguiriyas, fearing heat stroke, and then Esther tells me they are having a show at 7. I am surprised that they are practicing there in the first place because they sound like they will be performing in a grand theatre. I am exhausted, am forced out of the house by loud bad music from a neighbor. I arrive really late. The second floor loft has ancient, tiny single paned windows, all dusty and some broken. The band takes up half the space and the rest is crowded standing room only. It is free. People of cualquier sort are there: one proper older English couple, but most are young, most are Spanish. Most are average looking, a few have dreadlocks and weird piercings. Dios bendiga a the rich guy who owns the buildings at Calle Castellar number 46 all the way to 52. He has some enchufment going on, but he loves art, creativity, music obviously. The police turn a blind eye, or something like that. I don't know. Anyways this place exists. People have free concerts all the time in little tiny bars, where they make their money by selling drinks.
Amanda tells me to join her and her colleagues. Diane, also from the deep south, and Jose, from Sevilla. Four North American girls, all attempting to speak Spanish. Jose can actually speak pretty good English but it is his country so we generally speak Spanish, but sometimes the girls lapse into English among themselves. These are a bunch of very smart, very cool American girls. I have the most fascinating conversation with Diane, who explains one of the most major things in my world: the reactionary, negative stuff that comes from the States, comes from the rural areas (no secret). But she understands the poverty there. People talk about poverty in large American cities, but rural poverty in the south is just as bad, she says, and the people are less educated even. They used to have agriculture, but agri-business has taken away their livelihood.
Hear me now. This is the biggest subject on my mind, as far as anything outside of myself, and concerning the world in general. This is the evil of our times. The fault lies with those of us (me included) who choose cheaper food, provided by larger monopolies, who supported and encouraged types of farming that have destroyed the soil, and taken work away from people who need it. My friend Shanee just posted something on facebook the other day, from the periodical "foreign affairs" (I think that's what it's called), discussing this among other subjects. It's not controversial. Even the major decision makers in mainstrea institutions around the world are understanding that the methods employed in the commerce of agribusiness has wreaked havoc. Since I don't believe in socialism politically, and only as a philosophy (I don't believe in revolution by violence), the only way out is that we stop supporting what is causing the problem. That takes intelligence and foresight and a lot of discipline and some going without. That is what it takes to work within the capitalist system we have.
I don't believe we have the same kind of rural poverty in Canada. We have the aboriginal people who have problems, but widespread rural poverty across boundaries, I don't know of. Anyways, Diane's understanding made complete sense. Everybody knows that the conservative, frightening kinds of stuff that comes out of the States, comes largely from the more rural states. Both Amanda and Diane have inside understanding of the deep south and Diane describes it as a very messed up place, but concedes that out of this kind of ambiance, comes great art - such as the music that exists there - Sacred Harp that my friend Caroline is so taken by, being one example. In other words Diane's understanding is multidimensional. I've often criticised and looked down on the stupidity of the horrible attitudes that come out of the conservative parts of the States and looked down on the people that hold those attitudes. It was a revelation to me why. Poverty drives a lot of negative behaviour and probably attitude as well. This is a kind of poverty and in an area of the States that is virtually ignored. As she explained, they call it the "fly-over" area. You have to fly over it to get from one important place to the other. I am not sure of how to excuse this, but her take was that poverty is also a part of the racism there. It is often the poor whites who look down on the blacks. They have so little that they can at least put down someone else. Probably the bigger problem is that they lack education.
This is where my own thinking kicks in. The price of corn (or canola, I forget) is now tied to the price of oil (which will only rise) because Americans are using it as fuel - biofuel. This is one of the reasons (admittedly only one) for the spike in prices of grain, and the current cause (or catalyst) of a lot of trouble in the world including the middle east at the moment. I am not trying to say that middle class Americans who drive are to blame for the crisis around the world, but essentially there is some responsibility... What it comes down to is that some people want to drive cars, with biofuel, and the result is that a large number of other people around the world are pushed closer to starvation. I think there are two solutions: one is what my socialist friends propose: laws and government have to fix this. That is only going to happen when there is bloodshed. The other option is that the rest of us try to have a bit of conscience (as well as being informed and thinking a little bit, and not putting up with stuff that seems great in our own lives but actually sucks). We are the "market". We decide what rises and falls, essentially. Everyone through their own choice. We have screwed ourselves out of value added production, trades and crafts that provide a decent living and above all dignity, pride and satisfaction in our work, because WE have supported monopolies and transnationals that have undermined these and provided us with CHEAPER products. It is our fault (the opposite of what my socialist friends would say, though I thank them for making me aware of this problem in the first place), and now we are the ones without work (okay you guys in Canada are not yet, but I am in a part of the western world in deep trouble and the rest is close to it).
My strong opinion on the state of affairs in the world is that each and every person should stop buying "more" and cheaper. Should sacrifice a little, and should attempt to buy artesan made things, organic food, products with integrity. My socialist friends say that the "poor" can't afford this. I agree with my socialist friend that the poor should not be poor; they should be paid better, but while this is the situation we are in, we all need to do something about it. In my parents' day, there was poverty. I don't know if it was thought of as poverty. It was simply hardship. I think a lot of the "poor" now just expect more (I am not saying they shouldn't - that is a different question). What I am talking about here is expediency, and the method for change, and in my opinion it is personal responsibility. All of us, even the ones who feel too poor, need to try to support business that is small, local, quality, ethical, and most of all for those who are poor because it is them that these businesses can give work to, if they don't go under. It is the poor who end up with no choice but to work at some shithole (that includes a white-collar worker in a dead, inhuman office with dividers, as well as some kid working at Staples).
My dad's family could only afford one pair of shoes per year per person. My dad could not afford bus fair to go to the library. But the shoes that were available in his youth were undoubtedly of better quality and probably worth a higher percentage of the yearly earnings of his family. The person who made those shoes probably had a higher quality of work life and life in general, than the factory worker that makes the crap available in shoe stores these days. Also, back then one would have been able to choose to be a shoemaker, if he wanted, and do a job that had dignity, in which one could be proud of one's work. Since these jobs have been extinguished, the other choices are being a clerk at Staples, as a stereotypical example. I could work at a small, privately owned stationers shop for a boss I knew personally, but I believe I might have to slit my throat if the only choice available to me were Staples (or any of its kind, in the various different areas of retail or manufacturing. The same goes for work in fields of supposedly "higher" skill).
I am not perfect. I may still buy stuff at Staples. But I am aware, and I make an effort. If we all were at least aware of the bullshit we are supporting with where we put our money, and willing to do what we all can, it would make a difference.
Jose used to build buildings. He has a fair bit of technical knowledge and is thinking of becoming qualified as an engineer. He hasn't worked for a while. He paid for the first round of drinks tonight, and I felt bad. He told me he went to work in England, doing something more in a service industry. He told me the chicas treated him badly. Like an "immigrant". He wanted to tell them he had more training and education than them, and has previously made more money than they ever would. But that is what it has come to in Spain now. Nobody knows where to go next. As far as I'm concerned it is not on in the same direction as before. Some say that the problem is fiat money but I'm convinced it is deeper than that. That may be one of the mechanisms by which this bullshit has come to dominate the world, but what is basically happening is not simply that too much money has been printed.
A big band jazz orchestra is practicing upstairs in the wrecky building on Calle Castellar. Listen here, this is enough reason to stay in Spain forever... I practice my siguiriyas, fearing heat stroke, and then Esther tells me they are having a show at 7. I am surprised that they are practicing there in the first place because they sound like they will be performing in a grand theatre. I am exhausted, am forced out of the house by loud bad music from a neighbor. I arrive really late. The second floor loft has ancient, tiny single paned windows, all dusty and some broken. The band takes up half the space and the rest is crowded standing room only. It is free. People of cualquier sort are there: one proper older English couple, but most are young, most are Spanish. Most are average looking, a few have dreadlocks and weird piercings. Dios bendiga a the rich guy who owns the buildings at Calle Castellar number 46 all the way to 52. He has some enchufment going on, but he loves art, creativity, music obviously. The police turn a blind eye, or something like that. I don't know. Anyways this place exists. People have free concerts all the time in little tiny bars, where they make their money by selling drinks.
Amanda tells me to join her and her colleagues. Diane, also from the deep south, and Jose, from Sevilla. Four North American girls, all attempting to speak Spanish. Jose can actually speak pretty good English but it is his country so we generally speak Spanish, but sometimes the girls lapse into English among themselves. These are a bunch of very smart, very cool American girls. I have the most fascinating conversation with Diane, who explains one of the most major things in my world: the reactionary, negative stuff that comes from the States, comes from the rural areas (no secret). But she understands the poverty there. People talk about poverty in large American cities, but rural poverty in the south is just as bad, she says, and the people are less educated even. They used to have agriculture, but agri-business has taken away their livelihood.
Hear me now. This is the biggest subject on my mind, as far as anything outside of myself, and concerning the world in general. This is the evil of our times. The fault lies with those of us (me included) who choose cheaper food, provided by larger monopolies, who supported and encouraged types of farming that have destroyed the soil, and taken work away from people who need it. My friend Shanee just posted something on facebook the other day, from the periodical "foreign affairs" (I think that's what it's called), discussing this among other subjects. It's not controversial. Even the major decision makers in mainstrea institutions around the world are understanding that the methods employed in the commerce of agribusiness has wreaked havoc. Since I don't believe in socialism politically, and only as a philosophy (I don't believe in revolution by violence), the only way out is that we stop supporting what is causing the problem. That takes intelligence and foresight and a lot of discipline and some going without. That is what it takes to work within the capitalist system we have.
I don't believe we have the same kind of rural poverty in Canada. We have the aboriginal people who have problems, but widespread rural poverty across boundaries, I don't know of. Anyways, Diane's understanding made complete sense. Everybody knows that the conservative, frightening kinds of stuff that comes out of the States, comes largely from the more rural states. Both Amanda and Diane have inside understanding of the deep south and Diane describes it as a very messed up place, but concedes that out of this kind of ambiance, comes great art - such as the music that exists there - Sacred Harp that my friend Caroline is so taken by, being one example. In other words Diane's understanding is multidimensional. I've often criticised and looked down on the stupidity of the horrible attitudes that come out of the conservative parts of the States and looked down on the people that hold those attitudes. It was a revelation to me why. Poverty drives a lot of negative behaviour and probably attitude as well. This is a kind of poverty and in an area of the States that is virtually ignored. As she explained, they call it the "fly-over" area. You have to fly over it to get from one important place to the other. I am not sure of how to excuse this, but her take was that poverty is also a part of the racism there. It is often the poor whites who look down on the blacks. They have so little that they can at least put down someone else. Probably the bigger problem is that they lack education.
This is where my own thinking kicks in. The price of corn (or canola, I forget) is now tied to the price of oil (which will only rise) because Americans are using it as fuel - biofuel. This is one of the reasons (admittedly only one) for the spike in prices of grain, and the current cause (or catalyst) of a lot of trouble in the world including the middle east at the moment. I am not trying to say that middle class Americans who drive are to blame for the crisis around the world, but essentially there is some responsibility... What it comes down to is that some people want to drive cars, with biofuel, and the result is that a large number of other people around the world are pushed closer to starvation. I think there are two solutions: one is what my socialist friends propose: laws and government have to fix this. That is only going to happen when there is bloodshed. The other option is that the rest of us try to have a bit of conscience (as well as being informed and thinking a little bit, and not putting up with stuff that seems great in our own lives but actually sucks). We are the "market". We decide what rises and falls, essentially. Everyone through their own choice. We have screwed ourselves out of value added production, trades and crafts that provide a decent living and above all dignity, pride and satisfaction in our work, because WE have supported monopolies and transnationals that have undermined these and provided us with CHEAPER products. It is our fault (the opposite of what my socialist friends would say, though I thank them for making me aware of this problem in the first place), and now we are the ones without work (okay you guys in Canada are not yet, but I am in a part of the western world in deep trouble and the rest is close to it).
My strong opinion on the state of affairs in the world is that each and every person should stop buying "more" and cheaper. Should sacrifice a little, and should attempt to buy artesan made things, organic food, products with integrity. My socialist friends say that the "poor" can't afford this. I agree with my socialist friend that the poor should not be poor; they should be paid better, but while this is the situation we are in, we all need to do something about it. In my parents' day, there was poverty. I don't know if it was thought of as poverty. It was simply hardship. I think a lot of the "poor" now just expect more (I am not saying they shouldn't - that is a different question). What I am talking about here is expediency, and the method for change, and in my opinion it is personal responsibility. All of us, even the ones who feel too poor, need to try to support business that is small, local, quality, ethical, and most of all for those who are poor because it is them that these businesses can give work to, if they don't go under. It is the poor who end up with no choice but to work at some shithole (that includes a white-collar worker in a dead, inhuman office with dividers, as well as some kid working at Staples).
My dad's family could only afford one pair of shoes per year per person. My dad could not afford bus fair to go to the library. But the shoes that were available in his youth were undoubtedly of better quality and probably worth a higher percentage of the yearly earnings of his family. The person who made those shoes probably had a higher quality of work life and life in general, than the factory worker that makes the crap available in shoe stores these days. Also, back then one would have been able to choose to be a shoemaker, if he wanted, and do a job that had dignity, in which one could be proud of one's work. Since these jobs have been extinguished, the other choices are being a clerk at Staples, as a stereotypical example. I could work at a small, privately owned stationers shop for a boss I knew personally, but I believe I might have to slit my throat if the only choice available to me were Staples (or any of its kind, in the various different areas of retail or manufacturing. The same goes for work in fields of supposedly "higher" skill).
I am not perfect. I may still buy stuff at Staples. But I am aware, and I make an effort. If we all were at least aware of the bullshit we are supporting with where we put our money, and willing to do what we all can, it would make a difference.
Jose used to build buildings. He has a fair bit of technical knowledge and is thinking of becoming qualified as an engineer. He hasn't worked for a while. He paid for the first round of drinks tonight, and I felt bad. He told me he went to work in England, doing something more in a service industry. He told me the chicas treated him badly. Like an "immigrant". He wanted to tell them he had more training and education than them, and has previously made more money than they ever would. But that is what it has come to in Spain now. Nobody knows where to go next. As far as I'm concerned it is not on in the same direction as before. Some say that the problem is fiat money but I'm convinced it is deeper than that. That may be one of the mechanisms by which this bullshit has come to dominate the world, but what is basically happening is not simply that too much money has been printed.
Pili y Andres Siguiriya
Project this morning... Trying to get where everything goes within the compas (rhythm/phrase) of 12 counts with accents on 1, 3, 5, 8, and 11. She taught pieces of this at the end of January. I've been working on her other more simple choreography even while my foot was bad, but since dancing again last week, I've started to work on the Siguiriyas. The first part up to 2:00 minutes is part of what I'm working on. Much of it, I've got the basic moves (note basic!) but without certainty of how they fit with the music.
I'm also debating grabbing a random train to any nearby village.
Project this morning... Trying to get where everything goes within the compas (rhythm/phrase) of 12 counts with accents on 1, 3, 5, 8, and 11. She taught pieces of this at the end of January. I've been working on her other more simple choreography even while my foot was bad, but since dancing again last week, I've started to work on the Siguiriyas. The first part up to 2:00 minutes is part of what I'm working on. Much of it, I've got the basic moves (note basic!) but without certainty of how they fit with the music.
I'm also debating grabbing a random train to any nearby village.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Enchufamiento and sharky fish, a random Friday night post
Keiko continues to be a wealth of inside information. She probably can tell more than the locals in some ways, as she can see things from an outsider's perspective, while being inside too. She doesn't understand how things keep on going here. The mayor never showed up to turn on the lights for the Feria, to "inaugurate it". They didn't have the money to pay for the lights. There were protests.
Bus routes were going to be less during the Feria due to protests from unpaid/ill-paid workers.
Keiko has been working again but again has not been paid for some of the work she did. Unpaid workers of various kinds have probably been protesting ever since last summer. There is all sorts of political trouble. I don't need to ask what she means by there is a lot of "enchufar-ing" going on. Enchufar normally means to plug something in, like to a wall outlet. Anyways, as is usual everywhere, those who have, get to make the decision that they will keep, and that others will go without. Except that it sounds worse in Jerez. She says there are about 4 people that control stuff and do dirty stuff of their own with taxpayers' money while of course the average guy has to take cuts. Some bars have been fixed up a lot and others kind of wither. She believes there is a lot of enchufamiento happening with these. A bar may not sound like a very important part of the economy but it is here, and this is one example where she has some clues of what goes on.
Anyways, this happens because Jerez is very old, and so are the connections. Sevilla is big and dynamic, with a lot of foreigners so of course it's not the same kind of thing. Luckily, Keiko is a with it enough person to see that these kind of connections and deep history also have a good side - in things like flamenco, although she did warn me not to take Rocio's singing prizes as too much of an indication that she's so great, as these are often a result of enchufment.
BTW I am eating a fish that has skin like a shark; I had to turn the skin over cause it's scaring me with its perfectly smooth blackness, and have another drink of wine. I am home alone on Friday night cause my two friends in Sevilla are busy. Buying fish is akward here. I walk past the fish sellers' stalls a bunch of times today in the Arenal market before getting the nerve to try one fish that looks more like cazon. Of course cazon is a shark too. It's difficult because most of the fish are whole, and dealing with that on a regular basis when you just don't have time to look up a recipe is a hassle. Alicia broke the kitchen scissors the other day, cutting open a fish. I am used to such sanitised eating! I can deal with sole or red snapper filets, salmon filets or steaks, but not much else. This sharky thing is called marujo ("marooho", with the arabic gutteral "h" of course). The good thing about these shark family types is that they only have one big backbone and absolutely no other bones, the sort of which ruined my dinner of fresh sardines the other day in Cadiz and made it difficult to have a decent conversation with another Italian friend. (I have met some really cool Italian women about my age, various different times).
Bus routes were going to be less during the Feria due to protests from unpaid/ill-paid workers.
Keiko has been working again but again has not been paid for some of the work she did. Unpaid workers of various kinds have probably been protesting ever since last summer. There is all sorts of political trouble. I don't need to ask what she means by there is a lot of "enchufar-ing" going on. Enchufar normally means to plug something in, like to a wall outlet. Anyways, as is usual everywhere, those who have, get to make the decision that they will keep, and that others will go without. Except that it sounds worse in Jerez. She says there are about 4 people that control stuff and do dirty stuff of their own with taxpayers' money while of course the average guy has to take cuts. Some bars have been fixed up a lot and others kind of wither. She believes there is a lot of enchufamiento happening with these. A bar may not sound like a very important part of the economy but it is here, and this is one example where she has some clues of what goes on.
Anyways, this happens because Jerez is very old, and so are the connections. Sevilla is big and dynamic, with a lot of foreigners so of course it's not the same kind of thing. Luckily, Keiko is a with it enough person to see that these kind of connections and deep history also have a good side - in things like flamenco, although she did warn me not to take Rocio's singing prizes as too much of an indication that she's so great, as these are often a result of enchufment.
BTW I am eating a fish that has skin like a shark; I had to turn the skin over cause it's scaring me with its perfectly smooth blackness, and have another drink of wine. I am home alone on Friday night cause my two friends in Sevilla are busy. Buying fish is akward here. I walk past the fish sellers' stalls a bunch of times today in the Arenal market before getting the nerve to try one fish that looks more like cazon. Of course cazon is a shark too. It's difficult because most of the fish are whole, and dealing with that on a regular basis when you just don't have time to look up a recipe is a hassle. Alicia broke the kitchen scissors the other day, cutting open a fish. I am used to such sanitised eating! I can deal with sole or red snapper filets, salmon filets or steaks, but not much else. This sharky thing is called marujo ("marooho", with the arabic gutteral "h" of course). The good thing about these shark family types is that they only have one big backbone and absolutely no other bones, the sort of which ruined my dinner of fresh sardines the other day in Cadiz and made it difficult to have a decent conversation with another Italian friend. (I have met some really cool Italian women about my age, various different times).
Feria del Caballo
The sky was pink behind ornate lacy structures that I walked under for a distance. I should have caught the 8:48 train back to Sevilla, but Yoshimi came to meet us and we had to have some deep fried, chocolate filled and sugar sprinkled things. There were a few large drops of rain, just as I was leaving the dustbowl that is the Feria grounds.
I get the Feria now. It is about horses. Sure, there are a lot of ruffles, there is dancing Sevillanas, and there are rebujitos (sherry mixed with something that gets you drunk fast). Indeed the Feria de Jerez is actually the "Feria de Caballo", Jerez being the center of Andalucian horse breeding and equestrian training. Of course the original idea of the Feria was to show off and sell/trade horses, in Jerez anyways. The Feria in Sanlucar de la Barameda was to show off manzanilla, as that is where it is made.
I was going to make all my meals at the hostel but I couldn't help myself - I went to the old man bar down by the Teatro Falla, and ordered a cafe solo and a mollete with tomate y aceite. I can't get those in Sevilla. They are my favorite breakfast ever. I got to Keiko's house and hung out for several hours till Yumiko showed up and then Nuriko. Nuriko is impresionante; the first Japanese flamenco singer I've met, she's been singing for 10 years and makes part of her living doing it. What I don't understand is how she has managed to do this without speaking as much Spanish as the dancers that come here regularly. Anyways, whatever she's missing in language, she makes up for in personality.
When we got to the Feria grounds we were all starving and Keiko headed us towards the "tent for seniors" which was full of everyone of any age. On the way, Nuriko had to keep making sure I didn't get lost.
I get the Feria now. It is about horses. Sure, there are a lot of ruffles, there is dancing Sevillanas, and there are rebujitos (sherry mixed with something that gets you drunk fast). Indeed the Feria de Jerez is actually the "Feria de Caballo", Jerez being the center of Andalucian horse breeding and equestrian training. Of course the original idea of the Feria was to show off and sell/trade horses, in Jerez anyways. The Feria in Sanlucar de la Barameda was to show off manzanilla, as that is where it is made.
I was going to make all my meals at the hostel but I couldn't help myself - I went to the old man bar down by the Teatro Falla, and ordered a cafe solo and a mollete with tomate y aceite. I can't get those in Sevilla. They are my favorite breakfast ever. I got to Keiko's house and hung out for several hours till Yumiko showed up and then Nuriko. Nuriko is impresionante; the first Japanese flamenco singer I've met, she's been singing for 10 years and makes part of her living doing it. What I don't understand is how she has managed to do this without speaking as much Spanish as the dancers that come here regularly. Anyways, whatever she's missing in language, she makes up for in personality.
When we got to the Feria grounds we were all starving and Keiko headed us towards the "tent for seniors" which was full of everyone of any age. On the way, Nuriko had to keep making sure I didn't get lost.
What has happened to me here has caught me off guard. There is not a lot of difference in my responses these days from the dramatic “ooohhhh, a hoooorse!!!!” that came from my section of the bench seat of the orange 1974 Ford where my family was squished in, heading out of the city.
I might have sounded annoying back then, but it wasn't all that dramatic. The sight of them pulls on my heart/soul in some way that it doesn't with most people. None of the rest of them had to stare like I was, and just about lose the others, or keep commenting or having practically pained feelings. It is like being a dog lover and not being able to go up to dogs you see and pet, hug, and making smoochy noises at them.
The Feria consisted of rows and branches of lanes with "casetas" - places belonging to various groups, where you can go sit, dance, eat. In Jerez you can go into any one you want, I believe, whereas in Sevilla they are all private. The grounds is covered in yellow dust. (Keiko tells me it is actually made with or of chemicals and that after several days at the Feria people start having headaches and whatnot.) The Feria consists of a massive parade in all directions, of horses. About half are horse teams pulling carriages of all types, all old and beautifully kept up or refinished, the other half are just single horses and riders. The riders are mostly men but there are women and little kids too.
The horses in Sevilla are beautiful. The ones at the Feria in Jerez even more so. They are extremely spirited, even though well trained. They really do look like they are nearly dancing. One guy's horse did a lot of prancing sideways and almost reared. Even one or two that were attached to carriages were getting slightly out of control.
Everywhere is also a grand parade of women in unbelievably fancy dresses with huge combs in their hair and a huge rose right on the top of their head. Women of ALL ages dress like this, including the wrinkled old ones who at home don't dare to dress up like that any more (okay, nobody dares to dress like this). The youngest had her ruffles and a soother sticking out of her mouth. The men's riding suits are quite formal. All of the men riding wear a tilted, wide brimmed and flat topped hat. Some of the men accompanying stunningly dressed women are wearing suits and others wear jeans.
We ate serranitos (sandwiches with grilled pork, jamon and a grilled pepper) and tortilla and had beer, then went to another caseta and got rebujitos and danced Sevillanas. The caseta started to fill up just after we came, and a large group of guys came in and danced up a storm with each other, and tried to impress Yumiko and gave her carnations (which everyone was buying from ladies hawking them). There were several more tents and more dancing after the girls left and Yoshimi joined us.
Singing
I've taken a cold shower and am wearing short shorts even though I've gotten used to wearing jeans in heat that Vancouverites would never wear jeans in. Now that the internet connection is working I need to change into a lighter shirt. And tomar some more cold manzanilla.
I called Rocío Tuesday night and made an appointment to meet her at the train station in Puerto Real the next morning. I missed the train by about 1 minute, so took the next one straight to Cadiz, and signed into the hostel. Unfortunately I had to change my lesson to the evening so that cut out my beach possibilities.
She is an amazing singer, as far as I'm concerned, but I am indeed her first ever student. That didn't bother me, going into it, but I suppose it may not have been the best idea after all. I didn't tell her I could only afford an hour, so we took two. Anyways, she was really keen to teach me. There is a room set up for music at her parents' place, so we went there. I met her mom, her sister. Later her husband dropped off her daughter, and her dad came to play the guitar for me at the end of our lesson, so I could sing with it.
She was really surprised how well I can get the right "tone". That is only half of singing flamenco, though. And even the melodies are extremely complex. To be true to it, the intricate melodic lines should be improvised but I have to stick with copying, and perhaps even simplifying the melisma.
Being in a less professional atmosphere, meeting her family and having the whole gang minus dad walk me to the bus stop, is the kind of thing I wanted, but I'm feeling pretty intimidated about putting boundaries around how often I can come, how much money I can spend and what I do and don't need to go over during the lesson time. How to balance heart warming with boundary setting is the problem.
Rocío is only 25. Her daughter I think is 8. She doesn't need to work because her husband makes enough. Her expectations may be different from her peers in North America, I would guess. She makes a bit of money on the side with her singing - being paid to sing at functions, shows, penas. She is self-taught, or rather, family taught, you could say. She learned the way flamenco is supposed to be learned - by absorbing it at numerous family functions all your life. I didn't know that when I heard her sing, but I did feel that her singing was different from some others I heard in Sevilla. They may or may not have learned the same way, but Rocío's style seems more gitana, and she appears to be of that lineage, though those things can be deceiving. There is a postcard all over Sevilla of a little kid flamenco dancer. They have a large one on the wall. It is Rocio Fantova's cousin, Paloma Fantova, who dances with Farruquito and travels the world charging big bucks. You can watch her dancing at Casa Patas on youtube.
I called Rocío Tuesday night and made an appointment to meet her at the train station in Puerto Real the next morning. I missed the train by about 1 minute, so took the next one straight to Cadiz, and signed into the hostel. Unfortunately I had to change my lesson to the evening so that cut out my beach possibilities.
She is an amazing singer, as far as I'm concerned, but I am indeed her first ever student. That didn't bother me, going into it, but I suppose it may not have been the best idea after all. I didn't tell her I could only afford an hour, so we took two. Anyways, she was really keen to teach me. There is a room set up for music at her parents' place, so we went there. I met her mom, her sister. Later her husband dropped off her daughter, and her dad came to play the guitar for me at the end of our lesson, so I could sing with it.
She was really surprised how well I can get the right "tone". That is only half of singing flamenco, though. And even the melodies are extremely complex. To be true to it, the intricate melodic lines should be improvised but I have to stick with copying, and perhaps even simplifying the melisma.
Being in a less professional atmosphere, meeting her family and having the whole gang minus dad walk me to the bus stop, is the kind of thing I wanted, but I'm feeling pretty intimidated about putting boundaries around how often I can come, how much money I can spend and what I do and don't need to go over during the lesson time. How to balance heart warming with boundary setting is the problem.
Rocío is only 25. Her daughter I think is 8. She doesn't need to work because her husband makes enough. Her expectations may be different from her peers in North America, I would guess. She makes a bit of money on the side with her singing - being paid to sing at functions, shows, penas. She is self-taught, or rather, family taught, you could say. She learned the way flamenco is supposed to be learned - by absorbing it at numerous family functions all your life. I didn't know that when I heard her sing, but I did feel that her singing was different from some others I heard in Sevilla. They may or may not have learned the same way, but Rocío's style seems more gitana, and she appears to be of that lineage, though those things can be deceiving. There is a postcard all over Sevilla of a little kid flamenco dancer. They have a large one on the wall. It is Rocio Fantova's cousin, Paloma Fantova, who dances with Farruquito and travels the world charging big bucks. You can watch her dancing at Casa Patas on youtube.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Vegetables and the Feria.
My diet has been consisting mostly of six things: olive oil, bread, tomatoes, oranges, cheese and sausage. I've not been cooking for myself much. When I do, I can only keep making the same old thing. Rice with eggplant or calabacin (long things) - oh yeah, zucchini!
I try to buy my vegetables from the same place. Behind the clock tower of the church in Plaza San Lorenzo, with the grass growing on top of it, and the sun hitting the grass, way up there, there is an unmarked metal sliding door that opens between 9 and 2:30 usually. I buy my stuff there despite occasional interminable waits behind ladies with rolling baskets, because it's good. The older man who runs the place is always as quick as his style of service permits, and pleasantly cordial. When you ask for oranges, you are asked for what purpose you want them. That goes for many other kinds of vegetables as well. These tomatoes are good for salads, those ones are perfect for salmorejo. He knows where his stuff comes from - these eggs are from the mountains; they're the best ones around. The oranges come with a coating of dust, and often there are leaves in the bin. Again, you never pick them for yourself. It is very awkward to get used to telling someone, "I want 5 mushrooms, 3 oranges and 2 tomatoes." I never think about the numerical quantity of fruit - it is always more of a rough feeling - how large of a bag-full I want. Especially with mushrooms. This week señor whoever he is, is closing at 2, as are many shops, due to the Feria.
There are vegetables at the supermarket in my neighborhood. They are really lame though, and there is only a small selection.
I don't really get the Feria. I prefer Semana Santa. I don't get that either, but I can more easily justify it and mentally understand the reason - it seems to have something of more depth behind it. The night before last I ended up there with Amanda, my southern belle friend. Sevilla suits her fine, as she's spent recent years in Miami. We put flowers in our hair and arreglar-ed ourselves. The bars in the center of the city have been unusually dead this whole week. We did find one near the cathedral full of people, and with 5 men drinking manzanilla, still seated on their horses. They of course had the full grey outfits with flat-topped hat. As we both love horses, we stood and stared until a Dutch guy came and told us we should go see the Feria. I'd never been in the Remedios - the neighborhood across the river where the feria-grounds are. It wasn't hard to find. We followed the stream of people and the first street we got to had an enormous spectacle of light at the end. It was no wonder the streets have been dead at night. The Dutch man said a million people come to the feria. I don't know over what time period, but I believe it could have been all at once - each evening, or each day. Decked out tents ran for great distances, in branching alleys. All week many women have been appearing even in the city and all the neighborhoods, attired for it. As far as I can see, it is the dresses that it's all about. And maybe the horses - though I have to go during the day to see them, as they are off limits during the night. This is of course the whole purpose of Sevillanas (the dance, a verse from which I took the title of this blog). Of course people in their dresses were dancing them in many of the tents, but it seemed slightly half-heartedly in many cases. The best was a group of young girls dancing outside the tents. The vast majority of women in this huge crowd in this enormous fairground, were dressed in the "flamenco" dresses, ruffles, hair piled up, combs, and huge flower on the top of the head. And they were of all ages. To Amanda and me it was bizarre. There are a couple of public tents, although it was not at all obvious which they were. The rest are like many, many private parties all held together in a public place. It really doesn't make any sense. As a teenager, it would have been exciting - a perfect place to hang out in your beautiful dress and dance with a cute boy, and maybe while hanging out just outside the tent, you might meet a new boy you don't know, from a neighboring tent. Other than that, it seems a bit meaningless. But again, that was my thought about Semana Santa when I tried to go alone, without locals. As far as a venue for wearing a beautiful dress and showing off, I find it totally illogical. If I were to go to a private party in a stunning dress, I'd prefer to go to some swank place, rather than an enormous dirt lot, surrounded by fairground candy sellers. Sure, one of the tents we saw was decorated more beautifully, and the insides were hidden, with security guards on the outside (only one out of hundreds, that we saw), but that is even more illogical. Why not go to an exclusive restaurant on the banks of the river? Obviously a tradition that has evolved from something that once made sense. Semana Santa on the other hand doesn't seem inappropriate, and has elements I find profound.
I wouldn't mind seeing the Rocio, a similar event, but in the form of a pilgrimage.
I try to buy my vegetables from the same place. Behind the clock tower of the church in Plaza San Lorenzo, with the grass growing on top of it, and the sun hitting the grass, way up there, there is an unmarked metal sliding door that opens between 9 and 2:30 usually. I buy my stuff there despite occasional interminable waits behind ladies with rolling baskets, because it's good. The older man who runs the place is always as quick as his style of service permits, and pleasantly cordial. When you ask for oranges, you are asked for what purpose you want them. That goes for many other kinds of vegetables as well. These tomatoes are good for salads, those ones are perfect for salmorejo. He knows where his stuff comes from - these eggs are from the mountains; they're the best ones around. The oranges come with a coating of dust, and often there are leaves in the bin. Again, you never pick them for yourself. It is very awkward to get used to telling someone, "I want 5 mushrooms, 3 oranges and 2 tomatoes." I never think about the numerical quantity of fruit - it is always more of a rough feeling - how large of a bag-full I want. Especially with mushrooms. This week señor whoever he is, is closing at 2, as are many shops, due to the Feria.
There are vegetables at the supermarket in my neighborhood. They are really lame though, and there is only a small selection.
I don't really get the Feria. I prefer Semana Santa. I don't get that either, but I can more easily justify it and mentally understand the reason - it seems to have something of more depth behind it. The night before last I ended up there with Amanda, my southern belle friend. Sevilla suits her fine, as she's spent recent years in Miami. We put flowers in our hair and arreglar-ed ourselves. The bars in the center of the city have been unusually dead this whole week. We did find one near the cathedral full of people, and with 5 men drinking manzanilla, still seated on their horses. They of course had the full grey outfits with flat-topped hat. As we both love horses, we stood and stared until a Dutch guy came and told us we should go see the Feria. I'd never been in the Remedios - the neighborhood across the river where the feria-grounds are. It wasn't hard to find. We followed the stream of people and the first street we got to had an enormous spectacle of light at the end. It was no wonder the streets have been dead at night. The Dutch man said a million people come to the feria. I don't know over what time period, but I believe it could have been all at once - each evening, or each day. Decked out tents ran for great distances, in branching alleys. All week many women have been appearing even in the city and all the neighborhoods, attired for it. As far as I can see, it is the dresses that it's all about. And maybe the horses - though I have to go during the day to see them, as they are off limits during the night. This is of course the whole purpose of Sevillanas (the dance, a verse from which I took the title of this blog). Of course people in their dresses were dancing them in many of the tents, but it seemed slightly half-heartedly in many cases. The best was a group of young girls dancing outside the tents. The vast majority of women in this huge crowd in this enormous fairground, were dressed in the "flamenco" dresses, ruffles, hair piled up, combs, and huge flower on the top of the head. And they were of all ages. To Amanda and me it was bizarre. There are a couple of public tents, although it was not at all obvious which they were. The rest are like many, many private parties all held together in a public place. It really doesn't make any sense. As a teenager, it would have been exciting - a perfect place to hang out in your beautiful dress and dance with a cute boy, and maybe while hanging out just outside the tent, you might meet a new boy you don't know, from a neighboring tent. Other than that, it seems a bit meaningless. But again, that was my thought about Semana Santa when I tried to go alone, without locals. As far as a venue for wearing a beautiful dress and showing off, I find it totally illogical. If I were to go to a private party in a stunning dress, I'd prefer to go to some swank place, rather than an enormous dirt lot, surrounded by fairground candy sellers. Sure, one of the tents we saw was decorated more beautifully, and the insides were hidden, with security guards on the outside (only one out of hundreds, that we saw), but that is even more illogical. Why not go to an exclusive restaurant on the banks of the river? Obviously a tradition that has evolved from something that once made sense. Semana Santa on the other hand doesn't seem inappropriate, and has elements I find profound.
I wouldn't mind seeing the Rocio, a similar event, but in the form of a pilgrimage.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Zapatos a medida
Translate - very important thing that just got finished. I feel a sense of calm and satisfaction, even though I had to spend a few hundred. Actually it was a lot less than I thought. I thought he might end up charging me more, due to the difficulty of fitting. He'd said 300 - 400. I got ready for it to be more than 400. It was 360.
They have arch support fitted decently to my feet. Everything is fit properly to my feet. Wow - and they are beautiful. The leather is rich looking, extremely shiny. The soles are so thick.
Alfonso's buddy that was hanging out in the shop drinking a beer shook my hand when I left but Alfonso said: "Dame un beso" (give me a kiss) which is as you all probably know, the normal mode of greeting anyone you are acquainted with. He told me he's just received a letter from New York, asking him to come and be paid what he feels is alot of money, to teach shoemaking (to measure). He has got to be in his 70s, and says he doesn't really feel like leaving his family to go do that. I told him I have questions for him sometime, about shoemaking, as I've been thinking about learning for a long time. he told me to come any afternoon I feel like it, bring a coffee, and sit and watch.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Antonio Reyes and Diego Amaya
I just realised it was Diego Amaya sitting at the end of the row from me the other night in Chiclana. I believe it was him who's name Ricardo put alongside Diego del Gastor's in naming two really great guitarists to listen to.
The same two in some bar
Aurora Vargas y Diego Amaya
Paco Cepero playing for Camaron y Turronero
This last video is why I dragged myself over to Chiclana and managed to get myself into such a place. (Well, it is the first thing I saw Paco Cepero playing).
I just realised it was Diego Amaya sitting at the end of the row from me the other night in Chiclana. I believe it was him who's name Ricardo put alongside Diego del Gastor's in naming two really great guitarists to listen to.
The same two in some bar
Aurora Vargas y Diego Amaya
Paco Cepero playing for Camaron y Turronero
This last video is why I dragged myself over to Chiclana and managed to get myself into such a place. (Well, it is the first thing I saw Paco Cepero playing).
Sunday, May 1, 2011
more Cadiz
Dios bendiga a la gente que me dicen de “follow my heart”. Thanks to Pierre, another very sweet Frenchman who works at the hostel, and with whom I chatted in a noisy club the other night. I need a reminder. My heart is not entirely in Sevilla. Not sure what to do about that or when. Those I met here in Cadiz told me I could find work there, or in Jerez.
I go in search of molletes with tomate y aceite (oil) this Sunday at noon for breakfast. Three older men are standing outside and one comes in to help me. He seems uncertain and asks a couple times about everything I order. The bar is dirty, the clock on the far wall has stopped, but the food and coffee are how they should be. The guys come in from outside and joke with Antonio. The real bar man comes out from behind a while later, and blames the lack of caracoles that day, despite the ad on the wall (displaying cartoon snails with smiles), on his “secretaria” Antonio, so the others all tell Antonio he better get up earlier and do his job right. Another older dude reaches behind the beer tap and pours himself a glass of water. I reach for the paper with articles discussing the 32% unemployment in the province of Cadiz, and the royal wedding, as well as saracstic editorials on the poor unemployed getting their pleasure in life from things such as watching this ostentatious display of wealth on TV. Antonio and one of the other guys tell me to take the papers with me – yesterday's as well as today's, and they all say Adio' as I leave.
The day I arrived, I thought, Cadiz makes me happy. It is easy to see why, with the light, and the incredible coloured ocean and white buildings. It is a spot known for that. Their humour seems unquencheable. The home of Alegrias (the most serious form of flamenco that still can be happy and in a major key), and the chirigotas (the guys who spoof and parody everything, during Carnival). I read stories in my book on the history of flamenco, about their attitude during the various times of seige or domination by troops or facists or whomever. How they wore gutsy colourful uniforms, that they are the only city that managed to maintain their Carnival under the reign of Franco, by taking it underground, and the moment he fell, they brought it out into the streets immediately. All over Spain they used to have Carnival, but Cadiz is the only place in which Franco didn't kill this tradition. It is the place I've visited most often from the other places where I've been staying.
The oldest city in Europe, enormous battles fought in the bay, the first ships leaving for the Americas, plundered riches passing through it. On a tour the other day some volunteers showed us the narrowest alley I've ever seen, where lived a Cardinal, centuries ago, who snuck out in the middle of the night to the nearby whorehouse, which is now a theatre. He became popularly known as “the gremlin” and they've stuck one made of clay into a plant pot in the alley in his honour. Mothers of Cadiz past used to scare their children by telling them if they didn't eat their food or do whatever else they were supposed to do that “Maria Mocos” would get them. She was a witch or some sort of ghost that was rumoured to live in the tunnels under the city, where formerly lived gitanos, and through which, undoubtedly contraband or whatever else would have been carried at various times. "Mocos" means "snot" - “something inside your nose; not nice”, our guides told us, due to stuff like that lining the walls of the tunnels.
I am home now and happily, someone across the street with their window open is playing Sevillanas on a guitar and others are clapping and someone singing. The Feria starts tomorrow or the next day. Next to Semana Santa it is the biggest holiday in Sevilla, where people will be dressed to the nines and dance Sevillanas all week.
The lowdown on Andalucian society
Luis is French by birth but Spanish in heritage. He grew up in a suburb of Paris, but moved back here and has owned or run a hostel in Cadiz for a few years now. He took me to two different bars that I'd never have discovered on my own or with other tourists, one a jazz bar run by a guy from Casablanca. We missed the show but had an intense discussion on ecomonics and the state of the world, and various other subjects. His accent is easy to understand. I don't know how he manages that, with Andalucian grandparents and parents born in France... Anyways, I feel proud of my Spanish again. It just takes a situation in which I am not rushed to communicate small phrases quickly. And I listened to him for hours, only having to ask what a few words meant.
He tells me he is tired of living here and is going to Italy. Or China, after hearing my story. He says Andalucian people are close-minded, due to lack of education and lack of travel - they think they are superior. We discuss cultural differences and he tells me how shocked he was when he first realised how different North Americans are. He learned the hard way not to burst the physical bubble that North Americans live inside of, when he was told by a girl to "respect" this bubble, and not touch her while talking to her. He explained what I know already, that people here are always touching each other when they talk - and that men do the same with each other as they would with women and that it doesn't mean anything - it is simply human. I tell him what I dislike about my culture and the inhibitions I have in striking up conversations with strangers - or even interacting to something others are talking about in a conversation that started out between them. He confirms how different they are - that it really is natural for them to comment easily to the group of random people next to us.
(And aside - I went for dinner earlier, alone in a place with a few people sitting around the bar. One guy playfully threw a wadded up napkin at the waitress, she made an offhand sarcastic or joking comment to a couple beside me. The cook in the kitchen started singing, and then his assistant followed suit. The two guys on the other side of the bar got up and went to the door between tapas, and started playing palmas and singing flamenco. The place initially looked really normal and the people sufficiently professional - more like something you might find at home, if it weren't for the legs hanging above the bar).
Luis explains a great deal about relationships in Spain, with only a few comments. He is determined not to be seriously involved with a Spanish woman, because he says they want to dominate their men completely, inside their home, but when they go out they expect the guy to act really macho. From a woman's point of view, I suppose one might see it the opposite way around, but the same problem would exist. He tells me the violence towards women in Spain is higher than other European countries, and indeed I remember Loli and Marie Carmen making emphatic comments about how bad it is, and seeing on TV protests of citizens in the street for cessation of domestic violence. I tell him I have male friends at home who think Spanish men are too macho and don't care much for them. He says the opposite is true - they are all wimps (my translation) and let women dominate them completely, which provokes violence as a reaction.
He also has opinions on where the country is headed economically and it is dismal. They have little to base their economy on - he says it is mostly speculative. That people between his and my age are living at home with their parents and that is how Spain is surviving the huge unemployment (which Fernando told us long ago), but that this is going to end when the parents don't have enough money to pay for that, which he believes is coming. Then there will be serious trouble.
He says the other spots where there is big economic trouble, Greece and Portugal for example, the people have hard working mindsets, but here they don't want to work, and there is nothing being done by anyone who could do it, to give them something to work at anyways.
Luis is on the other hand, very hard working. He mentions Thursday night that if I were staying for another day he would show me a great bar for manzanilla. when I end up staying two more days, I ask him Saturday, which is his day off, if he feels like going for manzanilla. He initially says yes, and then ends up having to work, as he is putting in a new wheelchair accessible room in the hostel.
He tells me he is tired of living here and is going to Italy. Or China, after hearing my story. He says Andalucian people are close-minded, due to lack of education and lack of travel - they think they are superior. We discuss cultural differences and he tells me how shocked he was when he first realised how different North Americans are. He learned the hard way not to burst the physical bubble that North Americans live inside of, when he was told by a girl to "respect" this bubble, and not touch her while talking to her. He explained what I know already, that people here are always touching each other when they talk - and that men do the same with each other as they would with women and that it doesn't mean anything - it is simply human. I tell him what I dislike about my culture and the inhibitions I have in striking up conversations with strangers - or even interacting to something others are talking about in a conversation that started out between them. He confirms how different they are - that it really is natural for them to comment easily to the group of random people next to us.
(And aside - I went for dinner earlier, alone in a place with a few people sitting around the bar. One guy playfully threw a wadded up napkin at the waitress, she made an offhand sarcastic or joking comment to a couple beside me. The cook in the kitchen started singing, and then his assistant followed suit. The two guys on the other side of the bar got up and went to the door between tapas, and started playing palmas and singing flamenco. The place initially looked really normal and the people sufficiently professional - more like something you might find at home, if it weren't for the legs hanging above the bar).
Luis explains a great deal about relationships in Spain, with only a few comments. He is determined not to be seriously involved with a Spanish woman, because he says they want to dominate their men completely, inside their home, but when they go out they expect the guy to act really macho. From a woman's point of view, I suppose one might see it the opposite way around, but the same problem would exist. He tells me the violence towards women in Spain is higher than other European countries, and indeed I remember Loli and Marie Carmen making emphatic comments about how bad it is, and seeing on TV protests of citizens in the street for cessation of domestic violence. I tell him I have male friends at home who think Spanish men are too macho and don't care much for them. He says the opposite is true - they are all wimps (my translation) and let women dominate them completely, which provokes violence as a reaction.
He also has opinions on where the country is headed economically and it is dismal. They have little to base their economy on - he says it is mostly speculative. That people between his and my age are living at home with their parents and that is how Spain is surviving the huge unemployment (which Fernando told us long ago), but that this is going to end when the parents don't have enough money to pay for that, which he believes is coming. Then there will be serious trouble.
He says the other spots where there is big economic trouble, Greece and Portugal for example, the people have hard working mindsets, but here they don't want to work, and there is nothing being done by anyone who could do it, to give them something to work at anyways.
Luis is on the other hand, very hard working. He mentions Thursday night that if I were staying for another day he would show me a great bar for manzanilla. when I end up staying two more days, I ask him Saturday, which is his day off, if he feels like going for manzanilla. He initially says yes, and then ends up having to work, as he is putting in a new wheelchair accessible room in the hostel.
chasing the real thing
Que me gusta Cádiz...
Turqoise water, against dark blue sky, beautiful sandy beaches. Sitting on the breakwater/wall with rain coming down, listening to “Cadiz tenia una perla, perla de la mar salada...” Camaron singing por bulerias about the place where I am.
They serve me a montadito with jamon asado (roasted ham – the leg is roasting on a spit), and a beer, with Estrella Morente singing in the background.
The taxi asks what number of Calle Canasteros, but they don't have a number. Just drive down that street and I'll look. Pine trees stick up out of the road, I don't think it's paved. The lots are large and all are gated, occasional Mercedes' are parked. I go into a huge concrete patio lit by flourescent spotlights. There's a huge fire burning with chairs set around it. A no frills bar is at the far side. My red wine is poured into a tall glass with icecube. Because there is no other choice but to be bold, I ask a woman in front of me where the concert will be held. Victoria and Victor turn out to be “socios” (members of the club) – newly minted – and she grabs my hand and drags me in with them amongst the crush of people. I get a seat three rows back from the stage, about 3 meters away from Paco Cepero, the reason I roused myself from the hostel with drousy eyes and got the bus from Cadiz to Chiclana. There must be more than 200 people squeezed in, those who are “invitados” (not members), standing at the back. The few that couldn't be stuffed in watch from a video screen outside at the bar. This is a family home that opens once a month as a peña. They point out Rancapino sitting on the far side, whom some consider to be the last remaining maestro of pure flamenco the way it used to be.
Antonio Reyes' voice reminds me of Camarón. His and Paco's sense of timing, their use of tempo rubato is exquisite. Paco plays with his phrases – one moment strumming with all the force he has and the next, finishing it off with a delicate line of single notes, placed exactly where he wants them. Everyone in the audience yells at the remates (ending of phrases). Victoria reminds me to call the taxi at 11:40, but I can't turn on my phone and start talking, and there's a crush of people I don't feel I can squeeze by. After the siguiriyas, I have forgotten to try calling. He finishes with a Zambra, something I've rarely heard. It's over at just after 12:00 but that was when the last bus left. It's more than worth it to pay E33 to take a taxi back.
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