Abajando Jesus

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

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

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

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

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

The quintet is playing in my living room. They are of course, all nearly professionals, it is unbelievable - so awesome.

I am spoiling my dinner, eating at 7pm. But I ran this afternoon and then danced. And when I got home I discovered I had a sunburn. I am also alternating between a glass of manzanilla and Casera - carbonated lemon drink.

Yesterday I met people - kind of. There was a barbeque and flamenco gathering in the dirt lot outside someone's studio in the complex of rundown buildings where I practice. I don't know, but I judge that for most people, it's not the easiest thing to walk up to a crowd of people you don't know and attempt to hang out, and chat with some of them. I would never, ever do this in Vancouver, but I sauntered up and stood there looking at them. That attempt failed because I'd used up all my nerve just to go nearby and look. But I ended up back there with the help of others. They'd advertised it as something anyone could join, but it was a bunch of amigos, who were the core of the group, playing and taking turns singing bulerias.
I ended up meeting a guy from Chicago who's lived here 10 years and a Japanese guy with whom I had a great discussion. He knows people in Moron - a small town between here and Olvera, with a reputation for its flamenco - for the soul it has, I guess. Tepe (not sure how to write his name) believes, like the purest of the purists, that once a person starts performing flamenco for money, something happens to it. He takes guitar lessons with the nephew of Diego del Gastor, who he sees as being very puro.
I still am not sure where I stand on the subject. I understand most of the views and sympathise with the complaints of the purists, but I do believe in evolution of art forms. Sometimes I think they are just killjoys, and I feel like they ruin everything. But I am starting to believe that what it's really about is the death of a way of life. Then this is the same everywhere in the world - just that it has happened already long ago in most places. What really made sense was when he explained how a theatre company in the States took a particular Native North American tribal dance and performed it on a stage. I think it should be obvious to most people without explanation that it would lose a lot. I would guess it would be near impossible to compare - not that it's not worth doing but it's almost ridiculous to think it could be the same - that kind of a dance came from a certain context, and taken out of it, a lot of meaning/feeling, something intangible, is lost. I believe the problem with flamenco is similar.

Saetas

The hermano from the Hermandad de Jesus del Gran Poder got up from the front row of suits. 600 years of history, giving important dates, it's in my neighborhood. Besamano de Nuestro Padre Jesus and de Maria Santissima, her face inclined down to the left, and with tears streaming down her cheeks. The two bells in the tower of the church in Plaza San Lorenzo, they have a charity for the needy. This man's face is shiny - because he is a super clean-cut dude, but he's animated too... Pastora Pavon, something her husband said, they both sung at dawn in Plaza del Duque, where I get the bus. They sang Saetas, as did Manuel Torres and in Calle Sierpes, Antonio Mairena, one time.
Pastora Pavon, Niña de los Peines, whose voice was declared a "national treasure".
Teenagers - cool ones that look like the popular kids in school. Short mini-skirts and heels, thick makeup. But they get up on stage and without any to-do, start singing a capella, with gravity.

Afternoon silence, heat, and quiet cooing of pigeons

Blinding light on white buildings, stopping under the shade of a bougainvillea...
After finishing my practice today I wanted to run through a sprinkler. That is not a desire I usually have. I didn't really do all that much but my little studio is already toasty.
It is utterly cloudless and brilliant blue out. I rode a bike back and noticed the fountains of water coming out of the ground - like a water park - in the Alameda. I doubt that I could convince Kathy to run through them with me. My only other friend/ possible romantic interest (unsure), Oscar, I don't think so either. Probably only a fellow Canadian would do that.
I don't drink anything refrigerated if I can avoid it, usually. But I put a liter bottle of Casera in the fridge and the mixed it with some vino tinto. And took a cold shower.
Suffice it to say that this all makes me very happy.
By the way, Sevilla is not a place to visit in the summer (for non-Kims). Not unless you only care about hanging out in a city at night and sleeping in an airconditioned room during the day. Perhaps only the desert area to the east rivals it for heat; I don't know. Some people say this is warmer than normal for this time of year, others say it depends on the year, and it is around now that it starts to heat up - that there is only winter and then summer.
Marta is playing the opera Hansel and Gretel - some 20th century composer I forget - tomorrow, two shows in a theatre, that have been sold out for month. I'd guess that this differs from home, in the importance people here place on these kind of activities. She said in her city Segovia, a smaller city in the north, it is even more difficult to get tickets to cultural events like ballet and opera, in a reasonably large theatre.

My neighborhood is actually a neighborhood. This city is made for human beings to live in. There are gathering places maximum a block away, where people are crowded in the evening talking. Some places are larger and more sophisticated, others are nothing more than two tables outside Juan's tiny abaceria. But they are all right here where we live. The same people can go meet each other at one of many little places right in this neighborhood, where they know everybody. There are enough though, and some of them are large enough, that strangers can go too, and if you get sick and tired of so and so gossiping, you could go further into the city. This is what life is about. I am not part of it yet; I still go by and look most of the time, but it is there, and if I want to join in bad enough, I suppose I'll find a way eventually.

Sevilla is unbelievably beautiful on a random April evening. 26 degrees at quarter to nine in the evening, the sun is just setting and along the river a band of youth is practicing for Semana Santa. Kids in their teens and early 20s, a guy does a beautiful trumpet solo and the drums do their weird thing that does fit a known time signature but has tempo rubato... alright sorry for the nerding out on music. Plaza Salvador is full, like an enormous outdoor party, as are all the plazas all over the city. Buildings in this light are all colourful but in pastels. It's too hot to wear jeans and a t-shirt riding a bike on an evening like this. In the middle of the day, it's already necessary to seek shade. I started getting a tan about a month ago. There's been some rain in between but enough sun on my face every few days to keep up the tan. In Vancouver I almost never attempt to be in the shade even in mid-summer. But this is different.
You would eat one or two oranges every day too if they were this good. Extremely juicy and sweet - I've maybe had oranges this good a couple times at home. Every bar serves fresh squeezed orange juice. Some days I've had two oranges and a glass of fresh juice - actually I did today.

I had a terrible cold on the weekend, and then my feet were horrible so I could hardly walk. It's not been easy psychologically. I doubt everything I'm doing and where I am, and fear everything. But today they are way better - almost well, it seems. I walked all over and rode all over - made myself get out, sit in a bar, talk to someone. I decided this would be the day I finally took my receipt to Senovilla and got refunded for my shoes that they kept trying to make and failed. Wouldn't you know it but Miguel himself was there, and took care of me. Assured me that he could make them honest-to-goodness to measure. I knew since last May before I got on the plane that I needed to talk to the actual shoemaker himself and should have gone to his workshop in the industrial area north of Madrid. So I chose a different colour this time and went for it: turquoise with striking brown trim and visible wood heel. He's going to shape the toe differently for my odd feet, and make the reinforcement softer for my sensitive toes.

Some phrases that sum up the problem with learning Spanish, as a native English speaker: some nearby signage for a play says, "Triangulo de amor bizarro". What English speaking person can't understand this!? But how to work it into everyday conversation is not as obvious as, "Dame una tostada con prínga, cuándo puede" or "Dime, ¿como puedo ayudarte?" I'd guess that unless you've studied Spanish you wouldn't have any idea what those mean; I didn't until last summer!!?
It's easy to deceive yourself, as I have, that I'm so great at this language. Newspapers discuss "el ex-ministro del exterior (del Gobierno)" and "un grave perjuico al interés público." I'd guess the gist of these is understandable to you all. But I really wonder what I sound like to them when I talk!

Okay, dinner at ten to ten and then going to try to catch a flamenco show. Casual this time, at my studio.

A "cold" day (as opposed to the previous two which must have been in the high 20s and it was tank top weather). I am almost over a very bad cold which lasted 2 days. I've done nothing for 3 days except read a trashy Spanish wild west "mini" and attempt to watch a movie which didn't work. And whatever else doing nothing entails.
I went for a walk along the river, it was cloudy and had rained earlier. I really wanted to sit at the bar in the Sardinero in Plaza San Lorenzo and watch the futbol game but I just didn't have the nerve. The inhabitants of the bar consisted only of men, mostly older. WEIRD, if you ask me. I'm not trying to judge, it's just so totally diverso from what I'm used to. Can anyone think of a single public place in Vancouver where you'd find only men? I don't have the nerve to break some kind of unspoken rule that may or may not be in existence in a culture I don't yet understand well. So I sat outside with my Manzanilla. I sipped it slowly and the sky got a bit darker. Some German tourists were nearby ordering lots of food. The plaza is full of couples with kids. Most people are dressed fairly conservatively (children more than anyone else!) and many of them are coming to and from the churches. But there are others which make me feel normal. There are just enough people passing by wearing coats with totally bizarre patterns, or hippy knit sweaters, or all black, in shorts with chain around their neck (a dad). By the time I'd done there were a few women inside. I stepped into the church for a minute just as mass was ending.
This place is one of the most beautiful I could possibly live in...
I thought I had missed the quintet but they were just arriving when I got home. They are now bowing their instruments slowly to a metronome. They asked if it would be okay (LOL!)

What life is for

I finally feel like I am not in the dark. That does not by any means that I do bulerias or tangos well yet, but I can hear where things are supposed to go and when they fit right I know. My feet are suffering even worse for all that. I even bought and took Ibuprofen cause my left joint was swollen, and I had to walk around Jerez (slowly limped).I left my skirt at home, cause I thought my feet were too bad to dance even in her class. But when I got there I changed my mind. I didn't pre-plan what I was going to do. I am not very afraid of her classes now. Ani told me both times "very good". Perhaps she has softened her standards even more, but I know that something has happened between last summer and now; things have sunk in even during my total break from bulerias. The only thing she said was my entrada needed more energy. "Eat a platano before you come," she said. "Eat two, and have a coca-cola". Later that night at the Peña, she told me I am too worried.
(Ha ha - on that note, a random man at a cafe the day before walked over and told me to relax. Then he bought me a plate of olives and a while later came over and kissed my foot. That's what I get for wearing black strappy sandals. That and wrecking my already fragile feet.)
Saturday I tried to help Keiko make sushi rolls but gave up. Then a lot of people gathered at Mika's place for her send-off party. She had food from 2 in the after noon to 11 at night. I met more cool people, and a large part of the afternoon/evening were spent jamming. It started off with a very flamenco-looking non-flamenco guy playing recorders. He had three and Kiko joined him as well as an Israeli girl. Later Manu and Kiko got going with two voices and two guitars doing the awesome Latin and French stuff that they do professionally. We had flamenco-rap. We had blues, with various voices improvising as we went. Another guitar and several more guitarists were present. Various people sang including Julz, a cute rapper boy from London studying bulerias with Ani, who made up his own words as he went. We had various random percussion instruments that made their way out of the depths of Alicia's house; some of them proper instruments, and others grabbed by people who had recently finished them off: a bottle of sherry and a bottle of wine, clunked artfully together or tapped with a plastic spoon. Everyone did a lot of palmas and several of us danced. A bit of flamenco, a bit of flamenco people dancing Latin. 
I had quite a good talk with Isabel, a Venezuelan girl who tried to help me sort myself out, flamenco-wise. It's a bit confusing that I so love Israel and Pastora Galvan, but I love Agujetas and the most rancio Jerez cante.
I saw Pastora Galvan live for the first time the other night, dancing with Rafael at Casa de la Memoria. I was so excited I didn't know what to do. She was amazing, as expected. What she did was not really out there, because of course it was for tourists. I am too shy to do much more than a few quiet "oles" or "esos" or whatever. But I do them anyways, when there is not a single other soul in the audience making a sound. By the end, I was really heartened that an older English man beside me started saying "Ole!" These tourists from the cold north or wherever just need a bit of permission.