Sometimes I wonder if it is worth it trying to change your life, trying to pursue something you want. Sometimes anxiety and paralysis happen. Not having very clear goals and even less clear ideas about how I am going to accomplish them makes decision making hard. The problem was deciding where to live and having spurious suggestions from friends, making the decision process harder.

Eventually after a painful day, I decided to just call up the original apartment that I felt comfortable with. Now I am really not sure if I made the right decision, because I went over and over it in my mind, and doubted it so much. The problem is fear of making a mistake. The mistakes have cost me too much in the past - mental health. This place lacks light. But it is an old, interesting building and the girl who is the owner's daughter is a very artistic person, seems really relaxed - like she exists in a different world from mine, kind of, and seems cool. There will be two others - I don't know who they are yet. All of that might be a bad idea. I can still change my mind before Monday, or even before the 1st.

Who knows. Hopefully this won't be another bad judgement thing like the pee lady. But my problem is this: I am at a crossroads where I have to start living. That means actually being consumed by something else other than thinking and worry. The only way forward is to start letting something I love take me over. It is going to take re-training to do that. If your conscious and unconscious thoughts and emotions during the day are taken over by some pursuit that you truly love and are passionate about - that has taken hold of you from the inside, then small issues with people or silly problems with physical surroundings will not matter very much. Or at least you can bear them until such time as you can change.
I don't really know how to do this yet. It seems so obvious but never knew it before.

There is no simple way to become like that. You can't just wait until you have more confidence, or wait for something to fall from the sky. You have to just DO something. No wonder that large multinational company that has factories in China and produces shoes is so successful. Their slogan that everyone knows is the key to success.

Whether this apartment turns out to be totally wrong and my entire time here turns out to be a tonteria, is beside the point. I need to take action, I need to start doing what I love and as for the rest of the incidental decisions, like which apartment to live in or which crappy job to support myself while I pursue what I want, I just need to grab one and go.

Yum, the best pancake I've had for a long time; better than the ones I managed to make at home.

Yesterday Sachiko asked me if I could please sort out my stuff that she'd been keeping for me in her closet. I got a little anxious, because I don't know where I'm going to live nor what on earth to do with all that stuff. But it contained some Harina Integral de Trigo (whole wheat flour) and azucar moreno (brown sugar), so I made pancakes.

Last night we put on helmets and whipped along the river on Sachiko's scooter and went to T-Triana - one of the touristy flamenco tablaos, where you can see flamenco free. It is frequented by other flamenco student dancers, because their friends are dancing. This was the case last night. We met another very together Japanese professional friend of Sachiko's there. There are a lot of silly, showoffy flamenco dance students, but then there are some amazing people as well. She was one of the latter; someone who had left unsatisfying work to risk it all for flamenco, and was just getting by, teaching dance in Japan, coming here whenever she could to study more. Sachiko and this woman are both really inspiring. It is something like certainty in the face of total uncertainty; belief in being able to do it - whatever "it" is.

Sachiko and her friend got up and danced impromptu bulerias at the end. She invited me to come, but my eyes were only half open, so I really didn't feel like attempting it; besides, this is Spain and it was crowded. I could have done it, as it would not have been too extremely far over my head, but there is a next time.

The interesting stuff

I saw Mara two nights ago. We hung out at her place and traded stories of what had happened since December 5th. She had some interesting ones about travels in Vietnam. She shared midnight dinner with me, and then walked Faro out to see me off.

I met Salome (fellow Vancouver flamenco dancer) and her brother Milton (from Costa Rica, as is she originally) by the cathedral earlier that day and we decided on stuff to go see.

Last night I met them again and we went to Torres Macarena. We squeezed in beside the lady who always dances at casual singing nights, and Carmen Ledesma (a dancer with solera) and some gentlemen at another table, around a real fire. An hour late, the show finally started.

So I guess this is why I'm here. I need to follow what keeps my soul and heart alive, and this is it. Again, I sit with an overjoyed friend, both of us shaking our heads and trying to fight back tears. Riveted is the word that always comes to me, about shows there. I think I am in an altered state of consciousness while watching. What I most want in the whole world, and the core thing inside me is being engaged by what I'm seeing and hearing.

I wish I could share the real flamenco with you all. I am sure there is not anyone alive who would not love bulerias, if they could hear them done here in Andalucia, by a group who knows what they're doing and isn't playing just for tourists.

I have never noticed palmeros so much (the guys who stand behind the singer and guitarist and clap). Their art can be quite subtle - the rhythm so complex, but changing constantly in exactly how they mark it, and in volume, and stopping exactly with the end of the phrase the guitar makes. It is totally enthralling, compelling, the steadiness and strength of their rhythm, and "catchier" than any pop music melody.

There are no rules but the rhythm, and the tone and overall structre of the particular type of song, along with some typical ways of strumming and melodic elements that the guitar and singer need to incorporate. Inside that it is all what moves the singer, with phrase endings being emphasised by a sudden shrug of the shoulders, a stamp of her foot or some feisty piece of dance move that just surges up from her gut.
It would not be possible not to be moved by this art form that breaks the rules of my culture and upbringing. The singer wears a huge, hot pink cloth flower smack in top center of her head. Sometimes she struts, other times collects her arms and shoulders and energy inwards if she sings about "luto que llevo en mi corazon" (mourning that I carry in my heart), with her voice breaking and her face contorted. But it is not fake, and that is why you are riveted. My Canadian peers have come to distain any art or music that is so obvious; so "dramatic". Pop singers that have done that kind of stuff over the ages are a dime a dozen, but you don't feel anything because it is trite and all bad acting and fails to touch you anywhere close to the core; it is merely sentimental and comfortable. But here they have not lost the ability to express it sincerely (well, if you see a good singer); or perhaps they have not let the triteness of what many people do badly, cause them to become cynical and disdain intense expression of any kind, or quit trying.

The guitar is equally as blatantly dramatic, with lightening quick, rhythmic pulses that speed up and then stop suddenly. The palmeros stamp their feet making the whole stage shake, and accent the guitar with erupting shouts.

Laura danced, as do many female flamenco singers, between her letras or slowly during the end of phrases, in a manner sometimes completely controlled, other times utterly unhinged; on the edge of appropriateness. Both palmeros did a tiny bit of dancing at the very end. Male dancers are so uncommon at home, I still have not seen very many of them live. The small, younger guy was all unbelievably controlled, quick movements that are like a moving piece of art.

An anxious ramble on my troubles and decisions. Just ignore this - it's probably uninteresting reading.

I am trying not to get stressed by everything I have to do. Writing to you all is a way to keep sane.

Figure out a decent resume, go around looking for both restaurants and hostels that might want to either do an unpaid exchange or pay me. Look for an apartment maybe, instead of an interchange, work on my English teaching certificate, so I can give classes. Think about my visa, which runs out in May, and if I end up wanting to stay (or even to leave and come back) friends say it takes forever. Try again to figure out if there is any possible way I could actually apply for a work permit myself, if I can convince someone to hire me. Think about whether I should instead go off looking in small towns in the mountains for shoemakers and see if there is some way to survive there because this might be closer to what I really want.
Look at shoemaking workshops online and try to decide if this is the way to go, and perhaps end up studying in Hungary or in the US. Try to stretch and not forget about flamenco which helps keep me going.

Listen to what seems like the wisest advice: do what you love. So then do I just get an apartment and buy a sewing machine and start drafting patterns and looking for shoemaking supplies and start trying to make them? And try to teach a bit of English to get by until I can sell some of these? Right now I am utterly envious of people who have a definite plan, however good or bad, and don't have to consider 1000 options, trying to decide which one will work.

The worst is having people give their opinions or judgements about what they think is a good idea or isn't, and what is or isn't possible. All my life I have listened to them, for a sense of duty to heed them, lest they think badly of me for not listening. That is why I have been so utterly lost and turning in every direction. No amount of education or talent will help you in this life if you cannot stand on your own two feet and say, "I am going in this direction, damn you all and your predictions and warnings!"

The most difficult is trying to make a wise, strategic decision about how best to use X amount of money, to do Y, considering other limits such as how long I can legally stay here. I have never had the ability to think strategically about my life. I meander about in a half-ass way, afraid to really commit to any real step, without a concrete plan for how to get where I am going, hoping that an answer will appear out of the blue.

I think the absolute number one is not to get freaked and start running around like a chicken with my head off, passing out resumes to every place and feeling terrible about myself. No one can succeed by freaking out and grabbing at the easiest/lowest possible way of surviving. Dominic told me it will be hard to bear difficulties and to make decisions and go forward if you don't have a goal that excites you - that is really coming from your heart. No wonder I have been wandering in the desert. But then told me he felt the most energy and a complete change in me, when I talked about my former abilities and interest in music. This is a crushed dream that I don't think can be resurrected, and I definitely cannot start making a living with it right now, and don't know if I ever want to. It's weird and unsettling when someone else mirrors back something else to me - music - piano, playing music, that I am not in touch with right now. I feel that perhaps I am missing out, am going in the wrong direction, and it makes it hard to take concrete steps I need to take in this moment.

Windows are sometimes kept wide open during the day. Usually the problem is letting heat out and wasting energy, but here there is no heat to be let out.
At Sachiko's house, the heat is a tiny space heater that is in the living room and so the door to this room is kept shut whenever the heater is on. This is preferrable to most people's solution: a heater under the dining room table, from which hangs a heavy table cloth, all the way to the floor (there is a typical kind of table cloth, synthetic with long nap, like stuffed animal material from the 70s, usually a green or brown colour. It even has a fancy embroidered edge.) Obviously, the only way to warm yourself is to be stuck sitting at the table. You put your legs under and pull the table cloth up over your lap. (Normally you also wear a housecoat over top of your clothes).
I bought myself a hot water bottle yesterday. I thought, "10 Euros for only another month and a half or two...?" I didn't want to spend it but I don't like needless suffering all that much. Besides, I realized I use hot water bottles even during the summer, for sore muscles. Anyways, it is quite an exciting hot water bottle, as it comes from Germany and has a pretty velour cover. Even the shop keeper at the farmacia was so excited about the new hot water bottles that had just come in that she went off babbling, "Que MOOOONAA!" (how cute) and had to go show them to her friend who was in the store before seeing if I wanted one. I am caressing my hot water bottle right now.

Clothes driers don't exists, for all intents and purposes here in Andalucia. Well, probably if you are really extravagant. But I have never seen one. The majority of people never use one. The only trouble is that although this apartment is beautiful, there isn't a good place in the sun for drying clothes, so they have been sitting in a dark corner still wet after a full day.

The radio in the morning has a comedy talk show, like radios do. Yesterday I listened half asleep to them going on and on in a fake Chinese accent, pretending to be Chinese and joking a lot. Something about Chinese people or issues concerning them was a main theme. This morning it was not the main theme but somehow they managed to imitate an Arab guy, and an Italian. Sponge Bob ("Bob Esponja") was made mention of, as well as something to do with casinos and Indios de America en sus reservas. Probably not all of this was denigrating to the various ethnic groups. They do have a strong sense of the idea that one should not be racist, but they don't quite put that into practice the same way we do. They don't quite see how asking "the one with the feather or the dot" to identify "Indios" is a problem, nor I suppose, imitating someone's accent.

Anyways, I should be off looking for work, but I got up too late and have to meet Sachiko relatively soon to practice Concha's Solea, about which I am very excited, having not practiced with anyone else since August. I am going to work on my "resume", which so far says, "I am professional, I am good at making and fixing stuff, I speak languages." I refuse to put a list of how long my bum has sat in a chair at different places over the years.

Then I am going to go talk to Senor Chavez, who I ran into yesterday leaving his shop, while attempting to go visit him. I am very happy to have people here who recognise me and seem excited to see me.

Finally warmth. You would not think it would be such a problem in a place where people are sitting outdoors at cafes all over the place, all day. I am finishing off a glass of wine and defrosting.

After hanging out on the rooftop at the Triana Backpacker's hostel (which is too nice for the word "backpacker" and even has older Spanish men staying there) I came to Sachiko's place. I went out to enjoy the last bit of sun, and then called Mara to see if I could borrow some blankets, because Sachiko has no extra ones. Mara was in Matalascañas (a beach in Huelva) and coming back later. All of this is hard for me - asking to borrow stuff. Luckily this time, Sachiko and Mara both asked me if I needed a place to stay, seeming actually enthusiastic to let me do so. I got some groceries from the Chinese corner store (Sunday night, it's the only possibility), and looked desperately at various possible blanket sources on my walk through the city, as well as trying to find a 24 hour farmacia that might sell hot water bottles.

I wish I could tell you the number of odd things I've cooked up in my wandering, for lack of alternatives; for scarcity of space to carry anything more than absolutely necessary in my suitcases, and for lack of stores open on Sunday and so on. I made up a little snack of oats with hot water and honey while I waited for my rice cooked in pureed tomato, with some fava beans and a bit of green pepper. (I made bay leaf tea in Jerez in the beginning of December, and in Granada stuck some mint into my rice with tomato, onion and salt, because it was on the hostel shelf).

Sachiko has a beautiful apartment, but it is miserably cold. It has this cutout in the white walls, stylishly showing off the bricks below and unfortunately giving away to a critical Canadian, that there is no insulation - I think they are part of the main structure of the outside walls. What a wonderful invention wooden houses with fiberglass insulation are. Don't take them for granted.

I nearly fell asleep on the couch, after shivering for hours by the tiny space heater. Thank goodness I have friends that force me to do sensible things like call other friends at midnight to see if they forgot to get me blankets. If not for that I would suffer, shivering, I suppose. So I called Mara, and then went across to Triana to collect some blankets from her, managed to fit them into a bike basket and ride back. I had planned to take a taxi but it seemed easy enough to bike with them. Good Lord, what you don't do at 20 you end up having to do at some point. This stuff should have been done back then, and not at 40. I think I will eventually get over the feeling of shame at wheeling suitcases instead of taking a taxi or carrying blankets around in a bike basket. Spain is a better place to do that than elsewhere; the land of "I don't give a shit what you think". Something in the back of my head feels like people are going to think I am too poor (which I am) or a homeless street person (close but no).

I realised today that I want to stop all this nonsense. I either have to live somewhere, or travel; not a stupid combination of both. If I am going to go live in another country then I need to get stable there and have a life. If I am going to travel, then I should have some kind of a money-raking 9-5 job that lets me go stay in a nice hotel for a few weeks, take taxis everywhere and eat out (or rent some kind of luxury holiday apartment with kitchen). I seem to have some kind of ridiculous desire to see how I can get along on practically nothing - an instinct for survival - a sort of game with myself to see how frugal I can be (because I believe I will have a hard time making money). This is not a healthy way to approach life. Why don't I try to financially succeed? I think it is all a reaction against "normal" North American values and an attempt at solidarity with the rest of the world which is so far below our standard.

Midnight snack (which is kind of dinner) alcapparones (big capers, small ones being simply alcapparas), fried squid and lentejas (lentils). Sachiko and me had a great catching up talk; you know, all the usual stuff: flamenco, goals and life purpose. Then I met Dominic. We sorted out car stuff and walked around the city a bit, and I showed him cool night spots but neither of us wanted to imbibe, really. The city was dead because of a futbol game between the two Sevillan teams in the league. I crossed the bridge, passed the pescaderia/freidura (fishery/fry-er-y) place and noticed the customers and owners all glued to the TV, and at the same time noticed the jars of preserved stuff. I stopped in to get something, as I had not one thing I could put with my lentils and rice other than water, which did not sound appealing. I stared at the shelf for a second, and the guy asked if I wanted a drink. I said I'm cooking dinner and have nothing in the house to add to my lentils and rice. Give me some capers. The only other choices were gherkins, olives, and mayonnaise. Ugh, both customers exclaimed. Lentils, rice and capers! At least you could make a salad with the capers and put the lentils and rice together or something... They asked where I was from and said we certainly cook strange food in Canada. The game was ending and fortunately for everybody, it was a tie, so the city won't be divided between happy and bummed out people tomorrow.

It's kind of like this: it probably takes the same amount of time to get to know Spanish people as it does reserved Canadians; I mean, to become really close, true, good lasting kind of friends. But they kind of make it more happy, fun, warm and pleasant in the meantime by talking and joking with everyone all around them all the time.

Happily full of lentils, capers and squid, I am dragging myself to bed now, as I have not had enough sleep since I left the countryside, farm life. I will move to Sachiko's house tomorrow, till the 1st or until I find somewhere else.