I got home from the traumatologist, and the chicas were practicing. I could not have asked for a more perfect apartment. Alicia is like a lively bird. She must be one of the most vibrant people I've ever met, but still grounded. She seems like one of the most genuinely happy people I've met. The clarinet suits her, and I love listening to her play it. Marta is more serious in comparison, though not overly so. She is a really solid person; someone who seems totally trustworthy. I get the feeling that she is unusually talented. She was in Madrid for the weekend, playing a concert.
I feel I am doing pretty well with my Spanish; hanging out all night talking about culture and society, seeing three types of doctors and explaining my issues to them and getting their instructions in Spanish. But sometimes I mess up simple things.
Pablo, Alicia's boyfriend, was over and they were making strong coffee and eating sweets around 5:00. I understood that they were about to take an exam (in sociology and aesthetics of music). As I ran out of the house I wished them good luck for an exam they'd already taken.
I have to quit calling myself a male foreigner. "Perdon, soy extranjero," I say. The other day someone noticed, "Ah, eres extranjera," and I realised what I'd been doing all this time. Another one of my well used favorites is, "oh, yes, I will want to do that the other day but I couldn't,"... I need to study some verb tenses.
When I moved in last week, I had to ask if toilet paper could be flushed. I know numerous ways of saying, "where is the bathroom?" but have never had the need to refer directly to the toilet itself. I stopped in mid-sentence, "can I throw paper in the ... cosa (thing)?" They rattled off whatever word meant toilet and I didn't hear it. I tried again to make sure I'd understood that I could indeed flush it, and Marta said very kindly and without making fun of me, but with a smile in her voice, "yes you can throw it in the cosa".
I don't think my foot has any fractures, but I am still going to get an x-ray. The traumatologist is the guy with lots of degrees, who does the least for you, but costs the most. The podologa analysed my walking and made insoles that are significantly affecting my overall body posture. This was a mere E130. The osteopata adjusted my neck, checked my skeleton over in detail and massaged my neck and shoulders in a style which cost him great physical effort, and only charged me E30 for 1.5 hours! The traumatologist bent a few parts of my body, wiggled my toes a bit and wrote me an invitation for an x-ray. That cost E120. Will be E70 for the follow up and then more for the x-ray itself.
I've visited them between 6 and 9 at night because those are normal working hours, since the afternoon is not. Also notable is the total lack of receipts for money paid. Neither the podologa, the osteopata, nor the traumatologo gave me any receipt at all, and in each case, I paid money during one visit that would partly or wholly cover the next one coming up (I had the option to pay during the first visit or the second, whichever I preferred, in two out of the three cases).
In totally disparate news, I think one of the most attractive men I've ever laid eyes on (well only on TV or in a magazine) must be Fernando Rivera, the torero. Before I came here I had a hazy idea of bullfighting and didn't think they necessarily still did it or at least took it as seriously as they do. Anyways, he is a terribly good looking guy who has the most glamorous, dangerous and romantic job (not that I actually even agree with bullfighting being an acceptable thing to do, due to the cruelty!) I was fortunate enough to find a copy of "Hola" in the waiting room of the traumatologist, a trashy rag dedicated to celebrities. Perhaps part of the attraction is how sweet of a person he appears to be juxtaposed against the profession. I think somewhere in the back of my head, the part that might have ever stored any ideas about bullfighters, is an idea that they would be really rough and dirty with scars all over. They had a picture of him in his sleek and modern living room with his brother and two paintings of bulls on the wall between them. One was like a splatter painting - more like a suggestion of a bull, but with lines that made the horns obvious; and the other was a kind of primary colour minimalist red cape with bull horns behind.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Jorge and the air quality in Sevilla
I just don't have the motivation to get on the train to Jerez this weekend. I was going to see El Torta tonight, and am probably missing big things like Manuela Carrasco's group... If I get too bored or lonely later on, maybe I'll go at the last minute.
Yesterday I got up and went for breakfast at a bar at the corner of Teodosio and Marques de la Mina, the same place I saw the guys labouring under their float. The bar seems to be lively late at night and appears to have some tapas that would suit my foodie friends. It is small, as most are, but decorated in a modern but tasteful style. An older lady was sitting at the bar eating her tostada, and a couple with a weiner dog were at the only high table with stools. The weiner dog was a puppy and got the attention of everyone including the owner/bartender who left an employee behind the bar while he went to play with the dog. An old geezer in one of those hats that European men wear, walked in and livened up the conversation even more, with quite raucous laughter and teasing of the dog. I listened to everyone else talking and was worrying myself about trying to join in, as I can't go through my time living here and be afraid of interacting. Anyways it was morning and I hadn't had enough coffee and didn't really feel like it. I had no need to worry though, as Jorge walked in (pronounce "Hor-hey"). Jorge as well, was wearing one of those caps, thick glasses and carried a cane. He started talking to whoever would give them his attention, which would be me. "Apocalypse..." he said. So many cars, it's like Africa here. And smoking. For goodness sakes. Where are you from? Cana-DA... Yes, in your country... "Apocalyptica Now," he repeated several times, to which the young woman behind the bar laughed, probably aware that he was Spanish-izing the title. I didn't understand what he was exactly talking about, but I believe there may have been a good deal of sarcasm involved, and possibly it would have been about the smoking laws, as he appeared to smoke. He kept saying things were going down, and motioned with his hand like going down a steep slide. I don't think he was crazy; he seemed like a pretty with-it guy who was just annoyed at the world. I have a feeling it was about the vast number of cars that are putting off pollution, yet he is not allowed to smoke. I think he was trying to say the air was clean in my country. Possibly one reason for a person like him to actually be aware of air quality is a large digital readout on the corner of the circumnavigation road, and Calle Resolana. It gives the current percent of particulate and of other bad stuff in the air and then gives the air an overall rating of fine, to not so bad to really bad.
After that I went to the iglesia again and took in the activity, then returned via the same street, and stopped in at the Antigua Abaceria San Lorenzo, where I picked up tiny croissants and very nice bread, and more goat cheese covered in a thick, variegated blanket of mold, as well as a more cured type, covered in rosemary. It is a really cool, atmospheric place that is both a specialty meat/cheese/bread/olive oil/wine shop, and a bar.
Yesterday I got up and went for breakfast at a bar at the corner of Teodosio and Marques de la Mina, the same place I saw the guys labouring under their float. The bar seems to be lively late at night and appears to have some tapas that would suit my foodie friends. It is small, as most are, but decorated in a modern but tasteful style. An older lady was sitting at the bar eating her tostada, and a couple with a weiner dog were at the only high table with stools. The weiner dog was a puppy and got the attention of everyone including the owner/bartender who left an employee behind the bar while he went to play with the dog. An old geezer in one of those hats that European men wear, walked in and livened up the conversation even more, with quite raucous laughter and teasing of the dog. I listened to everyone else talking and was worrying myself about trying to join in, as I can't go through my time living here and be afraid of interacting. Anyways it was morning and I hadn't had enough coffee and didn't really feel like it. I had no need to worry though, as Jorge walked in (pronounce "Hor-hey"). Jorge as well, was wearing one of those caps, thick glasses and carried a cane. He started talking to whoever would give them his attention, which would be me. "Apocalypse..." he said. So many cars, it's like Africa here. And smoking. For goodness sakes. Where are you from? Cana-DA... Yes, in your country... "Apocalyptica Now," he repeated several times, to which the young woman behind the bar laughed, probably aware that he was Spanish-izing the title. I didn't understand what he was exactly talking about, but I believe there may have been a good deal of sarcasm involved, and possibly it would have been about the smoking laws, as he appeared to smoke. He kept saying things were going down, and motioned with his hand like going down a steep slide. I don't think he was crazy; he seemed like a pretty with-it guy who was just annoyed at the world. I have a feeling it was about the vast number of cars that are putting off pollution, yet he is not allowed to smoke. I think he was trying to say the air was clean in my country. Possibly one reason for a person like him to actually be aware of air quality is a large digital readout on the corner of the circumnavigation road, and Calle Resolana. It gives the current percent of particulate and of other bad stuff in the air and then gives the air an overall rating of fine, to not so bad to really bad.
After that I went to the iglesia again and took in the activity, then returned via the same street, and stopped in at the Antigua Abaceria San Lorenzo, where I picked up tiny croissants and very nice bread, and more goat cheese covered in a thick, variegated blanket of mold, as well as a more cured type, covered in rosemary. It is a really cool, atmospheric place that is both a specialty meat/cheese/bread/olive oil/wine shop, and a bar.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Hot men stuck in an upside down boat
Spain is a trip. After listening to the church bell striking midnight, I headed down past a few lively bars and heard some muffled music. There were a bunch of really hot looking men all about my age, mostly with white towels wrapped around their head. The majority were stuck under the wooden frame of an unfinished float, wedged in tightly as if they were poverty stricken European pioneers in the hold of some dreadful ship bringing them to the new world; except it was upside down, wedged onto their heads and braced by their arms. They shuffled slowly and in time to the music, and looked like they were a sort of chain gang or bunch of prisoners in matrix configuration (a rough guess would be 7 men wide and 10 or 12 long ...would mean 70 men squashed into a tiny space, which seems unbelievable, but perhaps necessary, considering the weight of the thing on their heads...) Ha ha - would have been hard to tell they were a bunch of attractive guys my age, looking like that, but the ones walking alongside or in front helping to direct the practice session, brought that to my attention.
After writing my last post, I left to meet Kathy and Savas. I was going to be early so I stopped into the other church in Plaza San Lorenzo, the older one. It was about 8:30, and the church had a lot of people sitting, as well as others entering. This one had Jesus. There was a man waiting to wipe his hand off as people kissed it. A small string orchestra and choir were playing, and incense was fogging the place up. Jesus was in a kind of alcove, and this time he was standing straight up, with his hands crossed in front of him; not the normal hunched over with the cross on his back stance. Behind him were him again, and a Virgen. All of them were surrounded by loads of precisely lined up and mounded fresh red flowers. The Virgen and Jesus behind were strikingly clothed (statues with clothes on - as they usually are here). The place was really alive. But alive with such an ancient and odd thing. I have never seen any kind of church, anywhere like this. It didn't really seem like a mass or service in particular was happening. There was just stuff going on inside the church and people were listening, walking in, sitting, kneeling, praying, paying limosnas (alms or whatever). Protestant churches of all descriptions are so orderly, even the hallelujah-ing ones. They always know what they are supposed to be doing there, and it is all very clear in their minds - either singing hymns or getting crazy, directed by someone and extremely purposeful, and starts and ends properly at an identifiable point in time. Here, maybe there is order, but it felt like something else was going on. It is like our friend last night said; this is some gut level human expression. It is about the art, not about theology. It is about the beauty of the statue that expresses so clearly the feelings of Jesus as he was carrying the cross down the road for miles, about the intensity of the red flowers and the care with which they've been placed there by the people. It is not a mental thing that is happening here. It isn't a belief system that comes from the mind, like the religion I am used to.
We got to Torres Macarena on the dot, like a bunch of foreigners. They told us at the door that the show would be starting 3/4 of an hour later than what was advertised. Again I was riveted by the cantaora. I liked her Tientos and Siguiriyas best.
Jesus and the Virgen are everywhere. Just up from Cristo del Buen Fin street is Jesus del Gran Poder, a much larger, longer and important street. I think I would translate this as "Almighty Jesus" street. The word poder can mean power, but it is a multi-use word, most often meaning "to be able to" or "can". Santa Ana street is the closest cross street to my apartment on Cristo del Buen Fin.
Posters say "Hermandad of our padre (father) Jesus the ... (fill in the blank with a quality of Jesus)". As far as I know, Jesus was the son. I think they're a bit confused here. Often the posters advertising some kind of religious function involving the Virgen, say "(something - the type of function) of the Virgen in her solemn sadness".
After writing my last post, I left to meet Kathy and Savas. I was going to be early so I stopped into the other church in Plaza San Lorenzo, the older one. It was about 8:30, and the church had a lot of people sitting, as well as others entering. This one had Jesus. There was a man waiting to wipe his hand off as people kissed it. A small string orchestra and choir were playing, and incense was fogging the place up. Jesus was in a kind of alcove, and this time he was standing straight up, with his hands crossed in front of him; not the normal hunched over with the cross on his back stance. Behind him were him again, and a Virgen. All of them were surrounded by loads of precisely lined up and mounded fresh red flowers. The Virgen and Jesus behind were strikingly clothed (statues with clothes on - as they usually are here). The place was really alive. But alive with such an ancient and odd thing. I have never seen any kind of church, anywhere like this. It didn't really seem like a mass or service in particular was happening. There was just stuff going on inside the church and people were listening, walking in, sitting, kneeling, praying, paying limosnas (alms or whatever). Protestant churches of all descriptions are so orderly, even the hallelujah-ing ones. They always know what they are supposed to be doing there, and it is all very clear in their minds - either singing hymns or getting crazy, directed by someone and extremely purposeful, and starts and ends properly at an identifiable point in time. Here, maybe there is order, but it felt like something else was going on. It is like our friend last night said; this is some gut level human expression. It is about the art, not about theology. It is about the beauty of the statue that expresses so clearly the feelings of Jesus as he was carrying the cross down the road for miles, about the intensity of the red flowers and the care with which they've been placed there by the people. It is not a mental thing that is happening here. It isn't a belief system that comes from the mind, like the religion I am used to.
We got to Torres Macarena on the dot, like a bunch of foreigners. They told us at the door that the show would be starting 3/4 of an hour later than what was advertised. Again I was riveted by the cantaora. I liked her Tientos and Siguiriyas best.
Jesus and the Virgen are everywhere. Just up from Cristo del Buen Fin street is Jesus del Gran Poder, a much larger, longer and important street. I think I would translate this as "Almighty Jesus" street. The word poder can mean power, but it is a multi-use word, most often meaning "to be able to" or "can". Santa Ana street is the closest cross street to my apartment on Cristo del Buen Fin.
Posters say "Hermandad of our padre (father) Jesus the ... (fill in the blank with a quality of Jesus)". As far as I know, Jesus was the son. I think they're a bit confused here. Often the posters advertising some kind of religious function involving the Virgen, say "(something - the type of function) of the Virgen in her solemn sadness".
De la Pipa de mi Conyo
I don't know if I've gotten the saying right, but this is what Spanish women say to end all discussion, to top everything, when they've had enough. They win.
Fernando was trying to explain to Kathy-Carmen how to be a Spanish woman, how to strut her stuff and so on.
This phrase means: "down the passageway of my vagina..." and basically refers to the capabilities that women have, that can't really be beat by anything else, and in particular, those women who have already born children. This was one part of the conversation I didn't understand perfectly. I believe women may use it in different circumstances, but possibly in particular when talking to children... "I gave birth to you, you came out from down there, so shut up!"
Fernando was trying to explain to Kathy-Carmen how to be a Spanish woman, how to strut her stuff and so on.
This phrase means: "down the passageway of my vagina..." and basically refers to the capabilities that women have, that can't really be beat by anything else, and in particular, those women who have already born children. This was one part of the conversation I didn't understand perfectly. I believe women may use it in different circumstances, but possibly in particular when talking to children... "I gave birth to you, you came out from down there, so shut up!"
La cultura explained
Last night was worth years of study. What I found out straight from the mouths of two men who had no reason to tell me anything other than how it really is, explains it all. I feel a little in shock but have almost no more questions. Most of what they told me, I have read, or heard second hand from others outside the culture that seem to know, but that for me is only a tantalising thing that makes me wonder, "is all this really true?" Like in China, I have to see it for myself, or hear it directly from the people about whom it has been told.
Fortunately, I shared this experience with a similarly reserved, Spanish speaking English girl, and the free-spirited, not even remotely reserved Susanne, who interjected irreverent and hilarous remarks in English. The English girl was working on a new name, at the behest of one of our hosts, Fernando. She has the similarly odd and difficult to pronounce name of "Kathy", back in England.
Kathy, Susanne and I met at Bar Alfalfa, and Kathy and I immediately bonded over some intense issues surrounding differences between our culture and this one. At the bar full of sandwiches around the corner, a bit later, we stood around an up-ended keg-table spilling out onto the sidewalk, with two men and a dog. Fernando, a grey haired, spectacled man with a hot pink scarf, and otherwise normal clothes for a respectable man his age, started off the conversation with Semana Santa. With some intense gesturing and big, excited looking eyes, he explained that it is the primitive things that are within humans, that Semana Santa is all about; that religion has appropriated them. That civilisation is an accord, among us all, that is fragile, and that what is underneath is the strongest. He mentioned the veneration of the virgen, and how Jesus is there, but possibly a bit of a side note.
He told us a line from a famous Sevillan poet: Seville would be great without all the Sevillanos. He said, "We know it. Sevillanos are classist, people that are always looking around them at others, not very open."
Fernando explained that modern art is not possible in Sevilla. When you see Semana Santa you will understand. Art installations and whatnot all fall flat - there is no need for anything else to be said - in comparison to Semana Santa (this was the gist, anyways).
Javi (a young man in his 30s, probably) and Fernando took us to three more bars. The first one, they apologised, would be some word none of us understood and they could not find a way of explaining. Dirty, they said... but not dirty, dangerous? not really dangerous. It is where all the flamencos go. I should have told them they do not need to explain that to me. We stayed for a while, but no random guitar or cante was happening that early. A bowl of smouldering coals was pushed back and forth in the little alleyway, and after standing around it with some other young guys, listening to jokes about Australian animals smoking joints, in Spanish, we had to leave, cause the police were coming and the alley had to be vacated. The bar was too small of a little passageway to fit many inside.
Fernando told us we were going to El Muerte next. The owner, amigo mio, looks like a cadaver serving copas, he said. El Muerte was their name for the bar, because it didn't have a name - it was an unmarked, corrgated metal door pulled down below an archway in the brick, during the day. Again, it was described as a dirty place, but this time in a different way. Indeed, it was a place with ugly brown paint peeling off the walls, that looked utterly ancient, with barrels from which the wine was taken. High on the wall were extremely old bottles with a fur of dust so thick it might keep you warm if you could collect and put it on. The proprietor was indeed a rather unattractive looking and pasty guy; a fat cadaver, I suppose.
Some young, cool looking dudes with gelled up hair were looking at an article on something to do with some of the hermandades and Semana Santa in a magazine, and discussing it. We stood while Javi and Fernando proceeded to explain Spanish society. It might have started with a question of mine, when Fernando got tired of whatever we were previously talking about and asked us to choose a subject. "La FAMILIA," said Fernando, in a deep and ominous sounding voice. They are like the mafia, he said. Javi explained that in the family of a former girlfriend, he had to find or build his own place within the family. That this would be what is expected. Over the course of the next several hours I began to understand stuff I've been wondering about. We talked about the differences between Anglo Saxon culture and theirs, and on the subject of physical distance, and touching others, Fernando expounded in more depth than I had previously discussed this topic. We grow up being told to kiss our cousin, kiss our uncle, kiss so and so. We play close together and we are always touching each other when we talk. He said it is nothing for him to grab an amiga around the waist and give her a big hug. It doesn't mean anything. Fernando told us that in Anglo culture, we are very careful with physical touch, and that it borders on the sexual, whereas for them, it is just part of life. I don't know if you would all identify it that way, but I agree with him. He said the Spanish don't get it when they watch English films, in which the touching of knees is supposed to be erotic.
"Comportamiento" is one that scares me. The Spanish live outside. I can't say this too strongly. It is part of who they are. Their society has evolved from the casas de vecinos and neighbours always meeting in the streets, to the point where essentially, the rules of the house, have to a certain extent been taken out into the street. For this reason, it is very important how you behave in public, in the street, because you want to behave yourself properly when you are in someone's house. This is why they do not appreciate the behaviour of foreigners at times, and specifically stated rowdy groups of drunken English young people. It is just not acceptable for Spanish people to be drunken and rowdy in the streets. There are rules against singing in bars, due to the tendancy for people to start singing loudly and unpleasantly when drunk. So I asked him if this importance in comportment includes things I do, when I want to sit on a bench in public and feel like relaxing, with my arms and legs stretched out and slouching down, perhaps leaning my head back to look at the sky. "No, no, no...!" he said, you're a woman!
Javi explained that divorce is getting more and more common; it is quite normal. It started with his parents' generation, but only became legal in 1985. Fernando told us a different story; that no, even now, it is not something people do much. Javi is certainly correct, but relative to our culture, Fernando's take is more accurate.
We moved to a bar which Fernando explained was a "bar of homosexuales". Well, it was run by some, anyways. The way it was decorated might have had something to do with that, but less so than most Canadians would think. The entire places was Semana Santa themed (as are other bars in Sevilla). There was barely a bare inch of wall, everything being covered by framed pictures, statues, hanging lanterns, and a lot of red velvet with virgen statues and fresh white flowers everywhere. It was like walking into an iglesia. Around the neck of one of the virgens were several ornate and heavy necklaces that would have been worn by someone in a hermandad, while marching in the religious processions. (The first experience of a Semana Santa bar was a place I dragged poor Savas, a Cypriot classical guitarist here to learn flamenco. He wasn't so into the "church-like" bar, that all the rest of the locals of all ages loved. They were playing videos of Semana Santa processions, and burning incense the whole time, which by the way, is utterly heavenly and unlike any other incense I've smelled.)
In this ornate, dark, velvety, religious, antique decor, was playing some very modern, pulsating music, as if we were in a disco, though reasonably quietly, so as to add ambiance and not disturb the locals discussing who was cheating on who. Or the locals explaining to the foreigners how all of that works. Fernando told us that he met a woman he fell in love with more intensely than ever in his entire life. She was a widow. But eventually, she forced him to choose: his family or her. It seemed as if there were no choice to make - of course he chose his family - he had to. Then his voice rose, and he came close to our faces as he said, almost as if he were angry, but it was just pure passion and intense pride, "how do you think we bear a 22% unemployment rate?!... THE FAMILY. The children, get help from the uncles, the parents tell them to come home and stay." It is true, I've heard the rate is 28%, and there are extremely few people begging on the streets or sleeping in parks. Everybody is still going to the bars, living what appears to be normally.
Adultery is bad, but it is not looked upon badly, they said. The most important thing is for the children to grow up in a stable home, to have all the grandparents and relatives there for their birthdays, to protect and look after them well. They love their wives, but when they no longer are in love, they sometimes find a little of that on the side.
Javi explained Semana Santa and how it works. That it originally was a publicity campaign for the various artisans guilds, and today, the hermandades are often connected by the work they do. And that the difference between the celebrations here in Sevilla and in the North, is that in the north they are truly religious - they take it very seriously and solemnly, and it is all about doing things properly. Here it is all about emotion. It is just a gut level thing. The actual religious aspect of it is symbolical. Many people who march in it are not religious at all. These two were obviously very liberal minded people.
It was also explained to us that the Rocio, a pilgrimage in which about a million people walk from somewhere, to somewhere in Huelva, is where the most enormous sale of condoms takes place, and where it is easiest to pick up a married woman.
That was last night, and I am continuing in a state of utter fascination with this culture. Like I said at first, I am in a slight bit of shock. When you begin to understand how utterly different a culture is and you are surrounded by it; living in it, it can be like that. Most of the time it is easy to overlook, here. I can pass for one of them, in the street. Unless you are an insider here, you would miss a lot of it. This has been a more subtle reaction, but a similar one to when I entered the small towns in Tibet and saw the cow poop smushed onto the walls of all the houses with a hand print in the middle. Shock at the mind-boggling differences.
I am getting ready to go to an evening at the pena tonight, but I just got back from doing an errand and on the way, went into both churches in Plaza San Lorenzo, along with a stream of people. The churches don't usually have much activity, but there are posters out today saying that it is the "besamano (kisshand) of the virgen" and something about our "padre jesus". In the more modern church I went in and bought a pin of Jesus bent over, carrying the cross, and was given two cards, one of the face of the virgen statue with tears, and one of the face of Jesus, with his characteristic gold rays emanating from his downcast head. I watched the stream of people going past the virgen at the front of the church, each one kissing her hand, as a lady wiped the hand between each kiss. I sat for a moment. There was a series of some quite beautiful works of art lining the domed walls, each one an important moment in the few days before Jesus' crucifixion, and up to and including his burial. I have never seen anything like these, and thought of being a child hearing bible stories. These pictures were very moving and very immediate - it would have taken me right there. I went around the raised up stairway behind the "pulpit" area, and watched the old ladies and the young high heeled, tight jeans and frizzy haired ones touching the foot of the statue of Jesus, and crossing themselves and kissing their own fingers afterwards.
Fortunately, I shared this experience with a similarly reserved, Spanish speaking English girl, and the free-spirited, not even remotely reserved Susanne, who interjected irreverent and hilarous remarks in English. The English girl was working on a new name, at the behest of one of our hosts, Fernando. She has the similarly odd and difficult to pronounce name of "Kathy", back in England.
Kathy, Susanne and I met at Bar Alfalfa, and Kathy and I immediately bonded over some intense issues surrounding differences between our culture and this one. At the bar full of sandwiches around the corner, a bit later, we stood around an up-ended keg-table spilling out onto the sidewalk, with two men and a dog. Fernando, a grey haired, spectacled man with a hot pink scarf, and otherwise normal clothes for a respectable man his age, started off the conversation with Semana Santa. With some intense gesturing and big, excited looking eyes, he explained that it is the primitive things that are within humans, that Semana Santa is all about; that religion has appropriated them. That civilisation is an accord, among us all, that is fragile, and that what is underneath is the strongest. He mentioned the veneration of the virgen, and how Jesus is there, but possibly a bit of a side note.
He told us a line from a famous Sevillan poet: Seville would be great without all the Sevillanos. He said, "We know it. Sevillanos are classist, people that are always looking around them at others, not very open."
Fernando explained that modern art is not possible in Sevilla. When you see Semana Santa you will understand. Art installations and whatnot all fall flat - there is no need for anything else to be said - in comparison to Semana Santa (this was the gist, anyways).
Javi (a young man in his 30s, probably) and Fernando took us to three more bars. The first one, they apologised, would be some word none of us understood and they could not find a way of explaining. Dirty, they said... but not dirty, dangerous? not really dangerous. It is where all the flamencos go. I should have told them they do not need to explain that to me. We stayed for a while, but no random guitar or cante was happening that early. A bowl of smouldering coals was pushed back and forth in the little alleyway, and after standing around it with some other young guys, listening to jokes about Australian animals smoking joints, in Spanish, we had to leave, cause the police were coming and the alley had to be vacated. The bar was too small of a little passageway to fit many inside.
Fernando told us we were going to El Muerte next. The owner, amigo mio, looks like a cadaver serving copas, he said. El Muerte was their name for the bar, because it didn't have a name - it was an unmarked, corrgated metal door pulled down below an archway in the brick, during the day. Again, it was described as a dirty place, but this time in a different way. Indeed, it was a place with ugly brown paint peeling off the walls, that looked utterly ancient, with barrels from which the wine was taken. High on the wall were extremely old bottles with a fur of dust so thick it might keep you warm if you could collect and put it on. The proprietor was indeed a rather unattractive looking and pasty guy; a fat cadaver, I suppose.
Some young, cool looking dudes with gelled up hair were looking at an article on something to do with some of the hermandades and Semana Santa in a magazine, and discussing it. We stood while Javi and Fernando proceeded to explain Spanish society. It might have started with a question of mine, when Fernando got tired of whatever we were previously talking about and asked us to choose a subject. "La FAMILIA," said Fernando, in a deep and ominous sounding voice. They are like the mafia, he said. Javi explained that in the family of a former girlfriend, he had to find or build his own place within the family. That this would be what is expected. Over the course of the next several hours I began to understand stuff I've been wondering about. We talked about the differences between Anglo Saxon culture and theirs, and on the subject of physical distance, and touching others, Fernando expounded in more depth than I had previously discussed this topic. We grow up being told to kiss our cousin, kiss our uncle, kiss so and so. We play close together and we are always touching each other when we talk. He said it is nothing for him to grab an amiga around the waist and give her a big hug. It doesn't mean anything. Fernando told us that in Anglo culture, we are very careful with physical touch, and that it borders on the sexual, whereas for them, it is just part of life. I don't know if you would all identify it that way, but I agree with him. He said the Spanish don't get it when they watch English films, in which the touching of knees is supposed to be erotic.
"Comportamiento" is one that scares me. The Spanish live outside. I can't say this too strongly. It is part of who they are. Their society has evolved from the casas de vecinos and neighbours always meeting in the streets, to the point where essentially, the rules of the house, have to a certain extent been taken out into the street. For this reason, it is very important how you behave in public, in the street, because you want to behave yourself properly when you are in someone's house. This is why they do not appreciate the behaviour of foreigners at times, and specifically stated rowdy groups of drunken English young people. It is just not acceptable for Spanish people to be drunken and rowdy in the streets. There are rules against singing in bars, due to the tendancy for people to start singing loudly and unpleasantly when drunk. So I asked him if this importance in comportment includes things I do, when I want to sit on a bench in public and feel like relaxing, with my arms and legs stretched out and slouching down, perhaps leaning my head back to look at the sky. "No, no, no...!" he said, you're a woman!
Javi explained that divorce is getting more and more common; it is quite normal. It started with his parents' generation, but only became legal in 1985. Fernando told us a different story; that no, even now, it is not something people do much. Javi is certainly correct, but relative to our culture, Fernando's take is more accurate.
We moved to a bar which Fernando explained was a "bar of homosexuales". Well, it was run by some, anyways. The way it was decorated might have had something to do with that, but less so than most Canadians would think. The entire places was Semana Santa themed (as are other bars in Sevilla). There was barely a bare inch of wall, everything being covered by framed pictures, statues, hanging lanterns, and a lot of red velvet with virgen statues and fresh white flowers everywhere. It was like walking into an iglesia. Around the neck of one of the virgens were several ornate and heavy necklaces that would have been worn by someone in a hermandad, while marching in the religious processions. (The first experience of a Semana Santa bar was a place I dragged poor Savas, a Cypriot classical guitarist here to learn flamenco. He wasn't so into the "church-like" bar, that all the rest of the locals of all ages loved. They were playing videos of Semana Santa processions, and burning incense the whole time, which by the way, is utterly heavenly and unlike any other incense I've smelled.)
In this ornate, dark, velvety, religious, antique decor, was playing some very modern, pulsating music, as if we were in a disco, though reasonably quietly, so as to add ambiance and not disturb the locals discussing who was cheating on who. Or the locals explaining to the foreigners how all of that works. Fernando told us that he met a woman he fell in love with more intensely than ever in his entire life. She was a widow. But eventually, she forced him to choose: his family or her. It seemed as if there were no choice to make - of course he chose his family - he had to. Then his voice rose, and he came close to our faces as he said, almost as if he were angry, but it was just pure passion and intense pride, "how do you think we bear a 22% unemployment rate?!... THE FAMILY. The children, get help from the uncles, the parents tell them to come home and stay." It is true, I've heard the rate is 28%, and there are extremely few people begging on the streets or sleeping in parks. Everybody is still going to the bars, living what appears to be normally.
Adultery is bad, but it is not looked upon badly, they said. The most important thing is for the children to grow up in a stable home, to have all the grandparents and relatives there for their birthdays, to protect and look after them well. They love their wives, but when they no longer are in love, they sometimes find a little of that on the side.
Javi explained Semana Santa and how it works. That it originally was a publicity campaign for the various artisans guilds, and today, the hermandades are often connected by the work they do. And that the difference between the celebrations here in Sevilla and in the North, is that in the north they are truly religious - they take it very seriously and solemnly, and it is all about doing things properly. Here it is all about emotion. It is just a gut level thing. The actual religious aspect of it is symbolical. Many people who march in it are not religious at all. These two were obviously very liberal minded people.
It was also explained to us that the Rocio, a pilgrimage in which about a million people walk from somewhere, to somewhere in Huelva, is where the most enormous sale of condoms takes place, and where it is easiest to pick up a married woman.
That was last night, and I am continuing in a state of utter fascination with this culture. Like I said at first, I am in a slight bit of shock. When you begin to understand how utterly different a culture is and you are surrounded by it; living in it, it can be like that. Most of the time it is easy to overlook, here. I can pass for one of them, in the street. Unless you are an insider here, you would miss a lot of it. This has been a more subtle reaction, but a similar one to when I entered the small towns in Tibet and saw the cow poop smushed onto the walls of all the houses with a hand print in the middle. Shock at the mind-boggling differences.
I am getting ready to go to an evening at the pena tonight, but I just got back from doing an errand and on the way, went into both churches in Plaza San Lorenzo, along with a stream of people. The churches don't usually have much activity, but there are posters out today saying that it is the "besamano (kisshand) of the virgen" and something about our "padre jesus". In the more modern church I went in and bought a pin of Jesus bent over, carrying the cross, and was given two cards, one of the face of the virgen statue with tears, and one of the face of Jesus, with his characteristic gold rays emanating from his downcast head. I watched the stream of people going past the virgen at the front of the church, each one kissing her hand, as a lady wiped the hand between each kiss. I sat for a moment. There was a series of some quite beautiful works of art lining the domed walls, each one an important moment in the few days before Jesus' crucifixion, and up to and including his burial. I have never seen anything like these, and thought of being a child hearing bible stories. These pictures were very moving and very immediate - it would have taken me right there. I went around the raised up stairway behind the "pulpit" area, and watched the old ladies and the young high heeled, tight jeans and frizzy haired ones touching the foot of the statue of Jesus, and crossing themselves and kissing their own fingers afterwards.
Podologa, Osteopata, Traumatologo
The day I moved in, I went to the osteopath, who is like a chiropractor. Except that he works in his own house, with Indian music playing. He had degrees and diplomas on the wall, and seemed like a trustworthy person, but it was a weird atmosphere compared to Dr. John in his Broadway and Pine highrise office.
The shadow his advice cast - that I'd better get my foot x-rayed - was somewhat lessened upon arriving home and hearing Mozart's extremely famous clarinet concerto coming out of the bedroom of Alicia. Marta was playing the viola too, but the clarinet kind of drowned her out. I got in the shower to wash off the sweat from the dance class that pushed my foot over the edge, and just about cried to hear such music.
The days in between then and now have been pretty eventful, compared to life in Vancouver, but nothing of a lot of note, until last night. But I'll make you read the next post, because the subject is quite different.
Actually I guess there is a lot that needs to be told. I've been limping around the streets looking for a "traumatologist". I should have done that immediately, when Manuel recommended it. I grabbed him before he was leaving for Jerez last Friday, with the Japanese TV crew milling around, and questioned him about everything possible to do with feet problems and what kind of doctors to see, and about getting decent shoes made.
I have no idea how long I will be unable to dance, but I don't think I will ever wear the shoes I've been wearing all fall, again, for dancing. I am also completely sure of what I need now, and what is and is not a proper fit for shoes. And that many salespeople and even some professionals do not understand how to fit shoes. Essentially, my left big toe has been hitting the front of my shoe every time I do a full foot "stamp", due to shoes that are too loose. That may not cause a problem practicing an hour here and there for years, but it will ruin you at 3 hours a day. I now suddenly am completely unable to wear any shoes that press my big toe inwards in the slightest. Imagine a joint that is either being pushed sideways or pushed inwards, and then required to rotate. Like a ball-bearing with too much pressure, it can't sustain that kind of abuse.
So last night I found a little old man with a newspaper clipping on his wall saying that he was one of the last remaining people in Sevilla who make shoes the time-honoured way; that people come from the surrounding towns to get shoes made to measure. I questioned the poor man quite insistently to be sure that his shoes were going to be made on a last that was made for my foot, and that these shoes would fit me perfectly when done. Between his son yelling at him to speak slowly so I could understand, and the father gesturing back with his hands in the air that I was understanding perfectly well, and me begging their pardon for my questions, the son traced and measured my feet and they assured me that I would try the unfinished shoes at least once, and that a last was indeed being made according to his measurements. They are only going to cost E300-400. Ten years ago in Vancouver rock bottom minimum for shoes fashioned this way was $600.
Right at this very moment, I am wearing my new insoles, made by the podologa, who analysed my walking last week. These insoles will correct my "pathological" foot and leg posture, she says.
The shadow his advice cast - that I'd better get my foot x-rayed - was somewhat lessened upon arriving home and hearing Mozart's extremely famous clarinet concerto coming out of the bedroom of Alicia. Marta was playing the viola too, but the clarinet kind of drowned her out. I got in the shower to wash off the sweat from the dance class that pushed my foot over the edge, and just about cried to hear such music.
The days in between then and now have been pretty eventful, compared to life in Vancouver, but nothing of a lot of note, until last night. But I'll make you read the next post, because the subject is quite different.
Actually I guess there is a lot that needs to be told. I've been limping around the streets looking for a "traumatologist". I should have done that immediately, when Manuel recommended it. I grabbed him before he was leaving for Jerez last Friday, with the Japanese TV crew milling around, and questioned him about everything possible to do with feet problems and what kind of doctors to see, and about getting decent shoes made.
I have no idea how long I will be unable to dance, but I don't think I will ever wear the shoes I've been wearing all fall, again, for dancing. I am also completely sure of what I need now, and what is and is not a proper fit for shoes. And that many salespeople and even some professionals do not understand how to fit shoes. Essentially, my left big toe has been hitting the front of my shoe every time I do a full foot "stamp", due to shoes that are too loose. That may not cause a problem practicing an hour here and there for years, but it will ruin you at 3 hours a day. I now suddenly am completely unable to wear any shoes that press my big toe inwards in the slightest. Imagine a joint that is either being pushed sideways or pushed inwards, and then required to rotate. Like a ball-bearing with too much pressure, it can't sustain that kind of abuse.
So last night I found a little old man with a newspaper clipping on his wall saying that he was one of the last remaining people in Sevilla who make shoes the time-honoured way; that people come from the surrounding towns to get shoes made to measure. I questioned the poor man quite insistently to be sure that his shoes were going to be made on a last that was made for my foot, and that these shoes would fit me perfectly when done. Between his son yelling at him to speak slowly so I could understand, and the father gesturing back with his hands in the air that I was understanding perfectly well, and me begging their pardon for my questions, the son traced and measured my feet and they assured me that I would try the unfinished shoes at least once, and that a last was indeed being made according to his measurements. They are only going to cost E300-400. Ten years ago in Vancouver rock bottom minimum for shoes fashioned this way was $600.
Right at this very moment, I am wearing my new insoles, made by the podologa, who analysed my walking last week. These insoles will correct my "pathological" foot and leg posture, she says.
Home on Cristo del Buen Fin - (belatedly posted from Tuesday)
I am sitting at a nice desk, in a big, nice room, on the INTERNET – yay!
I kiss-kiss-ed Loli and Marie Carmen goodbye just as they were galavanting out the door to Malaga, and I took my last load of bags across the Alameda, down Santa Ana, and over to Cristo del Buen Fin. That's where I live. When I first came to see the place, I said to Alicia on the other end of the line, “you mean Cristo as in Jesus Cristo?” to be sure I understood the street name. Indeed there is a typical Spanish picture of Jesus's head looking appropriately in pain, on a big tile, with the title of the street, “Christ of the Good End”, up high on the building at the corner of the street, where all the street signs are.
There are only two girls that I'll be living with, but them and the third one, who is the one vacating the room and leaving for Italy tomorrow, all got together in the kitchen for pre-dinner around 9:30 and had cheese, chips and stuff. Alicia just got back from somewhere in Andalucia, where her hometown is, and Marta was already here taking about six hours of classes today. She explained them just after I'd moved my stuff in and we pooled together our vegetables and weiners and whatnot to make lunch. She had classes playing in a symphony, a chamber orchestra, a baroque group, among other things. She was in Segovia, her hometown, where it was snowing, for the weekend.
I have been constantly meeting a revolving set of foreigners from the Taller Flamenco school, thanks to Susanne, my flat-mate at Loli's. Within that group are one or two that are staying for 4 or more months.
I forgot to mention Oscar. I think we might have gone on a date, but it was pretty low key. Oscar is a really cute Mexican boy with big black eyes who talks super fast. He's been living here for 9 years. He works at the most awesome bar on the bridge in Triana, and wears a formal white shirt and black pants while he works. He could speak awesome English, if he could remember it, as he took subjects like biology and history in English, for many years. He seems to be a language person, and has studied Russian as well.
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