Today is Sacred Thursday. I think it's the day Jesus is on the cross (or was that last Thursday and maybe he's about to rise). Anyways, it's a holiday. Around 2:00 I went out to get some provisions from the market and found it was closed. This entire week is a holiday for schools and other kinds of institutions, though only today and tomorrow are real holidays for all businesses of the kind that normally work 9-5 (well, 9-2:30 and 5:30 - 9, here in Spain). Instead, I found the streets full of people dressed up and crowding the bars. Especially bar Maypa, a seemingly nondescript and unimportant place which tends to be frequented mostly on special occassions. A bar next door owned by the same people, called the Taberna Jerezana is closed all year, except for one week: this week, Semana Santa. Then it is open till all hours, as the guys carrying pasos (floats) duck out from under the Virgen Maria as they are substituted out, and as the procession passes this historic and important corner down the block from our house, they go to the stark, traditional but beautiful Taberna for a beer, their airplane pillows around their necks (for prevention of serious damage to the neck and back).

I tried to contact a few friends who were busy so after Geoffrey finished laying some bricks I dragged him out to join the festive atmosphere in Bar Maypa. This is the perfect time of year. I normally prefer hot weather but the heat is so intense here for so long, and worse than that, the sky is unrelentingly blue and cloudless for months on end, that I am enjoying extremely, this month of 10 minute changes between clouds/rain and sun, and cool, but warm enough to wear a t-shirt and thin jacket today. I pulled out some heels and wore them with bare ankles, no problem. We bar hopped and then had some ice cream, meandering down the street and sat in a beautiful square. I felt very traditional, relaxing on a day off, wearing nice clothes and going out for stand up lunch at the bar. The ancient church in the Plaza Asuncion was starting mass and we stepped in for a few minutes.

On the way back we stopped in as well at the Iglesia San Miguel, which is more cathedral like. It was full today, everyone dressed in black and high heels after their lunch out, full of mayonnaise and fat (mayonnaise is the main feature at bar Maypa, on top of their famous tortilla and on top of almost all their other tapas - halved boiled egg and canned various types of fish... we had the fat at the Tabanco - chicharrones, and Geoffrey had kidneys).

Tonight the processions go all night long. Our street's balconies are lined with burgundy coloured drapes, waiting for the inhabitants to look out over the processions. I plan to see the end of one procession at 8:30 am tomorrow morning in a famous church over in Santiago, where they will sing Saetas, an a capella type of flamenco, sung to the Virgen Maria or Jesus statues as they enter the church after the night of procession.

We heard several of these already, one on Monday night at 2 am, two more especially stunning ones on Tuesday night at the more reasonable hour of 11:30.

The Semana Santa here in Jerez seems slightly more serious than in Sevilla. The Monday night procession (there are 5 but I watched only a portion of two) was a silent one, the only music a choir of young girls chanting a Latin prayer. The followers of the procession also recited prayers. As the float entered the church in Plaza Angustias, three Saetas were sung.

I see these Saeta singers in the market and down the street at the Peña, hanging out in the day. It is amazing to me that such art and tradition are there on the corner of the street...

Tuesday night was more intense, with the procession stopping in the middle of a fairly busy road, blocking traffic (police organised). A large crowd had gathered and at certain points, many people joined in the reciting of prayers. Then the very plain Virgen, holding a crown of thorns, crossed the street and the guys carrying her turned her around, ready to enter the church. The crowd had gathered suddenly because everyone knew Saetas are sung at this point. The second one was particularly haunting, sung by a woman. The statue's crown of stars made a shadow on the white church lit up by the full moon. It was stunning. Of course, the people walking in the procession are many times wearing the conical head covering with only the eyes showing, and carrying huge candles and so on.

Well, off to see what time and where to go tonight.

The Tres Reyes is run by Emilio, a man of about 60 or 70, who serves beer and fino and makes excellent fried fish and caracoles. Today we saw a few acquaintances there, young Ruben, talking with an old man who seemed less drunk today than he was last weekend in the little bar in the alley. Ruben was there with a guitarist and a cajon player, before they went off to another bar to perform. There was an old man at the bar having the special racion of the day - habas (broad beans). We asked for some and then later some fish - pijotas from the north. The bar is small and has a grungy feeling. You can usually find guys singing there on a Saturday afternoon, hitting the bar and clapping loudly. There are some pictures of a very formal horse parade tacked onto the wall below an archway, and two little plants in plastic pots (one of them a cut off container painted black) hung above the pictures. Some fake flowers are stuck behind framed pictures above the arched entryway, and above the bar hang sketches of the Three Kings: Juan Carlos of Spain, Camaron, of flamenco, and a Semana Santa statue of Jesus, of San Telmo (a neighbourhood which houses this Jesus statue).

A 50-ish man and wife tell Emilio to make them beans but to put an egg in it. He argues back but eventually makes it. The guy asks about his umbrella. Emilio tells him that Uncle Juan took it with him when they were all last there. They ask him for the recipe and he explains, yes, of course there is a little pepper, there is cumin but only a mijita... so it sings bulerias. The beans were frozen, which the woman chastises him for, and says it is the edad (the era). He says, come on! The fields are not right here! She says, the market is (which it truly is, right across the street). Anyways, testimony to Emilio's cooking skill that frozen beans taste that good.

The short and very stocky old man eating his beans on the other side of us has complained, looking very annoyed, at one of the young men with his guitar on his back, that kept knocking him as he moved around. Everyone laughs, presumably due to the way the old man demonstrated his complaint. He goes to stand on the other side of the couple and when the young men leave they go over and purposely bump him, as a joke, to which the old man responds loudly, but tongue in cheek, and everyone laughs. When we leave we thank Emilio, who thanks us instead and does a slight bow. It is a dramatic gesture but at the same time he means it. He chats in a totally down to earth way with his customers about everyday life stuff and answers their questions that are not really appropriate but that is a moot point here because this is not a contrived place like most restaurants are, that I've ever known in my life. Emilio is very gracious and genuine, though there is a sort of joking around that has a certain degree of bullshitting to it, and is like playing a game.

When we leave, the couple, who we haven't really spoken to, also say Buenos Dias and Adios. The atmosphere is such that pretty much anyone can talk to anyone, it would just happen naturally and easily.

There are two more details I almost forget to mention because I don't even notice them any more: we are all standing, and the doors are open even though it is March and raining out.

This place summarizes why I live in Spain.

Envidia tiene la fuente del color de su carita divina

Envy has the fountain, of the color of your divine face.
And I am seeing on the front of my God,
a crown of thorns,
what pain, what pain

Shepherds of the lagoon,
all start crying
that the child that is in the cradle
on a cross will die

Christmas eve, all start singing
so that this brown face
smiles and doesn't cry.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=819e7rR5yig

Here is just one example of a villancico, a christmas carol of Jerez.

I have been in parties all weekend and with people singing for hours on end.

Friday was a party in the afternoon at Pena Cernicalos. They started off with a lunch. Geoffrey and I met my friend Rosanna and her son Leo. Lots of other people I knew were there. Hagit, the Jewish lady of around 65, who's recently arrived in Jerez in Ani's dance classes, expressed things the best. She says, struggling valiantly to communicate in Spanish with me, that she can't believe this exists in the world anywhere, still. She is in heaven. So am I. Recently I feel that I live in heaven on earth. She says the people sing and dance spontaneously because they love it, not to show off or put on a show, to boost their egos. (This may not always be true but it is more pure than many types of art). Anyways, here it is a community - Ani and Carmen (my dance teachers) and Junquerita (singer for the class) and Jose (pro singer) have organised it, but  it is casual and those in community who know what they are doing are unofficially welcome (assumed) to join in spontaneously.

Later we go to Pena Buleria, a pena just down the street, where we've been going all November. It's their Zambomba (Christmas party). It is utterly packed, there aren't the usual crowd of die-hard flamenco fans, but there are a ton of other people from the city. There are pestinos and bunuelos for sale (deep fried sweets) and a group singing and leading Christmas carols, dancing and some bulerias.

Saturday there is a zambomba in the street at the Lola Flores square. (We live near a famous square with a statue of an flamenco dancer and very famous artist, Lola Flores). Starting at 2 pm there is a party there. There are fires in barrels and food and drink for sale from a bar at the side. Anyone can just come along and join in clapping, singing, dancing if it strikes them, and so on. Geoffrey cuts a hole in the ceiling and the roof Saturday and puts in a fireplace, so we don't get going until 9 pm. The fiesta is still going but quits just as we finish having food in an utterly packed bar. I am surprised as it lasted till 2 am last year. We go back and have dinner and end up in Plaza Plateros at a bar there in a big zambomba around 11 pm. This is a great one. One man is kind of leading or keeping things going. He is very tipsy, and between choruses, sings verses, then waving his arms with much rhythm, he signals the end of each one. He points at the crowd, looking at individuals, encouraging them to sing. We clap loudly, as are most people, as well as many playing tambourine and a couple guys playing the zambomba (the instrument made of an earthenware jar with a cloth over the top and a stick). It is hilarious. It has been going on for hours and there are several hundred people. When one song dies down, someone starts another one. Occassionally someone tries to get everyone to shut up so a seated woman can sing a solo bit, which is really quite stunning. Sometimes people seem to be arguing over what is sung next or getting people to shut up or sing along or whatever. Someone brings more wood for the fire, someone throws a plastic tambourine into the fire, I guess by mistake and someone rescues it. Someone else knocks over a table with drinks. Stuff happens and people with fiery attitudes gesture and argue, but mostly in good spirits and in the end everyone having a good time, and everyone, young and cool to old and traditional, singing at the top of their lungs and clapping. Everyone keeping it going and going. A waiter who sings bulerias interrupts the villancicos and various girls dance.

We leave after a while and at the suggestion of Manu and Pati who passed by earlier, go to Barrio Santiago. We find a group of teenagers, cool kids, standing around outside a bar. A few in a circle are singing bulerias, and doing palmas. People are sitting around a fire in a barrel. It's a different atmosphere from our barrio. Flamenco seems more the domain of the young tough kids of the hood, which makes it all the more cool and down to earth. This is what I really want to see - not some perfected art form danced on a stage by some woman in a frilly dress. I want to see the kids with spiked up hair standing around in a conspiratory circle clapping with incredible rhythm and singing.
We go around the corner to the Pena Luis de la Pica and find the most enormous zambomba. There must be 300 people at least. They are gathered around in a huge circle several people deep, watching a guy in the center with a guitar, and various people getting up to sing and dance. They take a break and we meet various other mostly foreign flamenco die-hards. We hang out longer and watch the locals doing their thing. This is the closest you often get to really authentic flamenco. There is nothing for show here, it is for each other. This wasn't advertised - you have to kind of know to go look for it.

Today we meet Linda, my BC friend for a goodbye lunch with a bunch of random Jerezanos and French die hard flamencos. There is Kiki, who to me is an angel - a man who seems to live to sing, with his entire soul, a white haired man of at least 65 with more energy than 5 men half his age. During this season he has already led two zambombas, singing and leading the crowd for hours till his hands are raw from playing the zambomba. Then there is Juan, a funny dude who always has a characterful hat, and what appear to be false teeth, who sings and lives flamenco. Then there is Marco, a French guitarist who seems to dedicate himself totally to flamenco, and Isabel, a lovely French lady who owns a guitar shop in Paris and who hangs out here a lot. Then there is Paco, a younger man who loves flamenco and sings a bit too. We go for lunch at a funny little place 5 km out of Jerez, with barrels of wine in the back and casual food. We sit in the sun in short sleeves, and dig the food out of common plates with just our forks and spoons. Kiki and Juan sing a bit and we all do palmas (clapping). A very drunk man comes along and starts to sing classic Camaron for us. We end up back in Jerez at some little dive, where we ask them to turn off the tv and Marco gets out his guitar and Kiki, Juan and Paco sing. We are there for a few more hours just hanging out and singing. To me this is what will happen if I die and go to heaven but it is already happening now and here.

I love the words of the villancicos too. They can be quite intense. And everybody seems to really get into them. Jesus came to ask for alms at the door of a rich man, but the rich man's dogs attacked him. God then made the rich man become poor.
Or the virgen gitana (gypsy virgin). Or the ones about the entry God had into the world, very humble, something the gitanos can relate to and their christmas songs like to talk about. Or the ones with semi-erotic lyrics about the virgin Maria who is the mother of God.

Here are some Christmas carols I am already familiar with because they are very popular.

La virgen Gitana (gypsy virgin)

Azucar y Canela, Gloria

the most typical of jerez that I can find from famous movie



Zambomba - parties in the street that happen all month and go for hours and hours

This is perhaps the best:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORoqKVhUQEU


Feliz Navidad

Another weekend in the pueblo. My neighborhood and the crowds that hang out at the places I do are like a tiny village.
Tonight I sat beside Hagit from Israel and Linda from Vancouver Island. I went to the bar to get some Jerez with tonic and got talking to Norman, an American who bartends. He said Momo, aside from commenting on my hair being up, had told him that I was married to a Brazilian guitarist. Norman asked me hesitatingly if this was true.
Matteo Solea sang about little boys sitting at the door of the jail, and their father telling them his pain that the mother had found another man. And of little boys playing in the street, without mothers, and of mothers dying, and of not believing in anything or anyone, not even one's mother. That's flamenco.

Benji is trying to prepare himself for a trip to the west coast. Of Canada, that is. Victoria and Vancouver would do well to prepare themselves for Benji.
He is scared. He has rarely been as far as Sevilla, he doesn't speak English. He thinks it is terribly cold and doesn't know what kind of clothes he should bring. So far his preparation has consisted of trying to sing bulerias with an English sounding accent (Spanish or English sounding gibberish) and trying to get someone to translate various worries to Linda. After quite a bit of effort, Linda and I managed to get him to say, "where are you going?" Though he does know a lot of Pink Floyd, Deep Purple (which he calls peupa), Black Sabbath lyrics. We told him to bring jeans and he said he likes his suit with its vest, and his cravat. It has never been very certain that he would go, though he already has a ticket.

We shall see. I shall have to put the word out to Spanish speakers to look after him.

normal life

Today I feel very lucky. I rode back across the city on my magic bike and bought some stewing pork (cause they have that instead of stewing beef), and made myself some stew with vermouth out of a 2 liter jug that we got from some guys with their own bodega near Arcos.

This evening I realise how good English speakers have it. The priviledged position anyone with English speaking background has in the world.

In a place where there are fires on the street from garbage bins being burned in garbage strike protests, because there is not enough money to pay people and nobody has work, any English speaker can do okay.

My student who I saw tonight is a really wonderful girl, probably slightly younger than me. She has a music degree but has for some reason suddenly been thrust into the position of bilingual science teacher for 9-year olds. Her English pronunciation is excellent and her accuracy is impressive. I have not met anybody who thinks so carefully while speaking, in order to get the grammar right before it comes out her mouth. She is also really a great person - very warm, very funny.
But today she was in an awful state of mind, completely stressed and near collapse. She has an Australian as a helper in her class, and her students all are supposed to be bilingual. Some may even be English native speakers or have lived abroad or something. She is embarassed in front of them all to begin with, about her pronunciation, but next week there will be bilingual English teachers visiting from England and Italy, and she will have to play hostess both during school hours and in a range of activities outside. A law was passed recently that requires almost everybody (anyone who wants to have a Masters degree or teach in any school or university) to pass certain Cambridge English exams. On top of all this she thinks she will lose her job next year if she cannot get the certificate by May.

Anyways, I am feeling like I have it really easy, after talking to her tonight. (A few weeks ago we had to go through the entire teaching section on the reproductive system, and correct pronunciation of all the body parts and stuff like that. Funny enough for two mature women but much funnier for her 9-year olds). On the other hand, she and her boyfriend have at least one expensive car and a nice apartment whereas I have a well, a house that is interesting... and a rusty, magic bike.

I can't remember ever having a bike like this. It is old fashioned, painted black, and the struts holding the mud guard onto the wheel fork as well as a bunch of other bolts are totally rusty. We got it second hand, from a bike renovation guy with a warehouse outside of town. 90€ is a lot for a second hand bike but it has some kind of amazing bearings or something. There is only one gear, but I can't see the need for any more. The one gear is so perfectly balanced between getting uphill and going surprisingly fast on long stretches... I don't understand how it does it. You pedal a little bit and it just seems to keep rolling and rolling. It's very weird. It goes great but doesn't stop so well - the breaks leave a little to be desired. I think I've gotten used to them so it's not too dangerous. Other times people have to get out of my way or I have to weave around them.
In Andalucia people don't need to wear helmets. It's also not a problem to ride on the sidewalk, whereas I consider it rude at home. It's just the way things are here. Luckily there's a bike path down the most main road of the city, going from the center all the way out to the North edge, where most of my students are. It's lined with palm and orange trees. They're blooming right now, some of them. The dates have fallen off the palms back a while ago.

Things are getting interesting here in Jerez.

There have been several great weekends...This one started on Friday afternoon, when I went out for a walk and ran into the soundman who works at the penas. He recognised me and said, let's go for a beer at Pena Cernicalos. I went and there were a couple of old guys hanging out there. The father of Momito, who sang a few weeks ago, and brother in law to El Torta, another family member, (actually both related to the soundman - all with the family nickname of "Momo"). So I hung out drinking Jerez and having tapas. There was some singing, but most importantly connections made with people. The roof was leaking and Jesus, the president whom I met back in 2010, got Geoffrey to look at it.

Evening was Juan Villar of Cadiz, whose name is legendary - and Nino Jero. There was a huge fiesta afterwards, with a lot of old characters singing. 

Tonight was Paco Cepero in the Claustro de San Domingo... a gorgeously renovated building dating from 1200 or 1400. Then over to pena Cernicalos again where Carmen danced and Jose Carpio sang.

I am starting to not only get to know people, but to have an idea of the interweaving of the families, and who belongs to what family. 

Two weekends ago I met Dolores Agujetas, who invited me to her house. I haven't gone yet, because I'm just really intimidated, although she is completely down to earth. 

Well, that and my leatherwork class in the mornings... new students. That is my life.

Tomorrow a non-lethal bullfight, maybe, or a drive in the country or to Sanlucar, maybe with Benji and Linda. 

Last weekend was a party nearly all night with many many foreigners packed into Manu and Pati's house, and the night before that, an incredible concert of the Rubichis ... Tomas and Domingo. Uncle-nephew. 

That night I felt as though I were one of the sick being brought on a palette to be healed. Laying there lame and half dead, by the burning fire... the life energy in this place. There is nothing like it. Sevilla is a pale shadow compared to Jerez, where flamenco is concerned.