If you wait too long to do something, stopping yourself for various reasons, then sometimes if just comes out unexpectedly.
Last night I seem to have suddenly gotten myself to take singing lessons, in Puerto Real. It's near Cadiz, so that means a train ride. Probably a good idea to get out of Sevilla. There are many singers in Sevilla and several that I'd already thought of asking to teach. But it didn't happen until last night. I was sitting at the bar, because I went alone and wasn't having dinner. For some reason, in the intermission, I grabbed Rocio's arm and told her I really liked her singing and does she give lessons. I knew that asking this question is serious - it is not just a casual what if. At first she said no, and then her guitarist came over and said she can help me. So we talked a bit and then she introduced me to her daughter, Paloma, who is eight, and seems really curious about me.
The concert was near the port and in a long building with lots of rounded doors, for different venues. This peña was very typical, traditional. Tiles and coloured chairs and mantons hanging behind the stage. The roof was round, so it was a little like being in a cave.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Magic slippers
In Vancouver there are almost no shoes that are even close to fitting me. There are two stores that might have shoes that fit properly. They are always patent leather.
In Spain there are a lot of shoes that almost fit, but not that many that actually do. Tonight I discovered the spot. It is Antonio Orsillo or something like that. It has numerous brands I've never seen before, most of them Spanish.
I fit numerous pairs of shoes in this store, including stilettos of a sort no Canadian would ever wear. But the only summer sandals that actually fit in the entire city are of course the most exclusive - they make only one pair in each size. These magic ones are from London, called Audley, made in Spain. They are unusual - London style high fashion, you could say, and quality.
I apologise for my inability to just be a hippy, but if some hippy shoemaker somewhere would like to make me a pair of shoes that weren't two of my feet wide, then I might stand a chance, eh?
Of course they are outside my budget. But still cheaper than what I could find at home. I will probably buy two pairs. When you can search the whole world ... I wanted to cry. The salesperson went on about how comfortable they were and explained the 1 shoe in each size thing. I couldn't actually care less about that. For once I wish a shoe salesperson would take my problem seriously. They fit ME. That means there are very, very few other people that will fit these shoes. No wonder they only make one in each size!!!
In Spain there are a lot of shoes that almost fit, but not that many that actually do. Tonight I discovered the spot. It is Antonio Orsillo or something like that. It has numerous brands I've never seen before, most of them Spanish.
I fit numerous pairs of shoes in this store, including stilettos of a sort no Canadian would ever wear. But the only summer sandals that actually fit in the entire city are of course the most exclusive - they make only one pair in each size. These magic ones are from London, called Audley, made in Spain. They are unusual - London style high fashion, you could say, and quality.
I apologise for my inability to just be a hippy, but if some hippy shoemaker somewhere would like to make me a pair of shoes that weren't two of my feet wide, then I might stand a chance, eh?
Of course they are outside my budget. But still cheaper than what I could find at home. I will probably buy two pairs. When you can search the whole world ... I wanted to cry. The salesperson went on about how comfortable they were and explained the 1 shoe in each size thing. I couldn't actually care less about that. For once I wish a shoe salesperson would take my problem seriously. They fit ME. That means there are very, very few other people that will fit these shoes. No wonder they only make one in each size!!!
better late than never - Semana Santa visuals
My collection: Upper left and second lower given to me by Jose. Lower left from "Pepe de Jerez" - lol - Pepe was an older dude we met at Pena Buleria who had gotten a new cell number and this was his calling card. I am missing Virgen de la Dulce Nombre, who is being used as a bookmark.
Hermandad del Amour, I think. Giralda in the background, sorry can't see it. Jose's top pick of the processions.
Hermandad Estrella going over Puente Triana.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Mala pinta in tropical wonderland.
Tengo la peor mala pinta del mundo. I look terrible (not a very expressive translation but roughly eso).
The otro lado del río is like a tropical - well not really a tropical forest - tropical bushes-by-the-river. María told me to call Jose Luis if I wanted to go to the futbol campo (actually go to the field to watch a game), and they were all going for drinks beforehand, so I could go meet them, but to call Jose. Jose had texted me that we'll talk later, but I am not about to invite myself with someone when that specific person has not invited me. So I went for a walk by the river instead. Things may be different in this group... they know each other so well and know what each other is doing often, they were talking, and perhaps she related the invitation to me. I am guessing. I cannot apply my Canadian rules to social situations here. But when in doubt I'll be on the safe side.
I went over the pedestrian bridge and then through the gated gardens on the other side, in the "American" part. A sign said they have various riverside plants, including a chopo/chodo/choto/chupo tree from Canada. I am not aware of any such tree, but then again, I'm sure they have strange names for our trees. There were enormous mounds (bushes) of a various types of plants we think of as annuals in Vancouver, and can only grow in the very height of summer with our fingers crossed and our tongues held the right way. The honeysuckle vines are in full bloom, bougainvillea are crawling over everything, forming numerous enormous bushes beside the bridge entrance. The thing I can't remember starts with a "la-" and comes in red/orange and purple/yellow. It was getting towards dusk and there were some birds unlike anything I've heard since being in China. Their "song" (more like a teasing, witty dialogue) can be extremely loud and sharp, and at times can crescendo from nothing to a loud trill, but with personality. There is a large range of sounds they made. They seem far more human than bird, and remind me of some kinds of human only found here in the Mediterranean - like the guy I met the other night - teasing and unabashed and insistent; rascally. Like a very creative, loud kid, playing. The bird was exactly like that. Both the man and the bird are way outside the box of possibilities that I am aware of for men and birds. I looked for a long time before I saw one. It was very plain and fairly small, like the size of a finch, and looked similar.
It wasn't all that warm yesterday, as it had been raining and there was a small storm in the early evening. All this tropical splendour is lovely, but last night at 11:30 I involuntarily yelled when I saw a large cockroach crawling on our counter. Luckily for me, Alicia had gotten home earlier, and told me, "tranquila". No pasa nada... Then all night I could hear a mosquito buzzing and my only thought was, "just don't bite my eye". Wouldn't you know it, this morning I've got a hideous puffy, red eye.
By the way, the nasturtiums near the Triana bridge have been blooming in huge mounds for quite a few weeks already. They may be just about past.
The otro lado del río is like a tropical - well not really a tropical forest - tropical bushes-by-the-river. María told me to call Jose Luis if I wanted to go to the futbol campo (actually go to the field to watch a game), and they were all going for drinks beforehand, so I could go meet them, but to call Jose. Jose had texted me that we'll talk later, but I am not about to invite myself with someone when that specific person has not invited me. So I went for a walk by the river instead. Things may be different in this group... they know each other so well and know what each other is doing often, they were talking, and perhaps she related the invitation to me. I am guessing. I cannot apply my Canadian rules to social situations here. But when in doubt I'll be on the safe side.
I went over the pedestrian bridge and then through the gated gardens on the other side, in the "American" part. A sign said they have various riverside plants, including a chopo/chodo/choto/chupo tree from Canada. I am not aware of any such tree, but then again, I'm sure they have strange names for our trees. There were enormous mounds (bushes) of a various types of plants we think of as annuals in Vancouver, and can only grow in the very height of summer with our fingers crossed and our tongues held the right way. The honeysuckle vines are in full bloom, bougainvillea are crawling over everything, forming numerous enormous bushes beside the bridge entrance. The thing I can't remember starts with a "la-" and comes in red/orange and purple/yellow. It was getting towards dusk and there were some birds unlike anything I've heard since being in China. Their "song" (more like a teasing, witty dialogue) can be extremely loud and sharp, and at times can crescendo from nothing to a loud trill, but with personality. There is a large range of sounds they made. They seem far more human than bird, and remind me of some kinds of human only found here in the Mediterranean - like the guy I met the other night - teasing and unabashed and insistent; rascally. Like a very creative, loud kid, playing. The bird was exactly like that. Both the man and the bird are way outside the box of possibilities that I am aware of for men and birds. I looked for a long time before I saw one. It was very plain and fairly small, like the size of a finch, and looked similar.
It wasn't all that warm yesterday, as it had been raining and there was a small storm in the early evening. All this tropical splendour is lovely, but last night at 11:30 I involuntarily yelled when I saw a large cockroach crawling on our counter. Luckily for me, Alicia had gotten home earlier, and told me, "tranquila". No pasa nada... Then all night I could hear a mosquito buzzing and my only thought was, "just don't bite my eye". Wouldn't you know it, this morning I've got a hideous puffy, red eye.
By the way, the nasturtiums near the Triana bridge have been blooming in huge mounds for quite a few weeks already. They may be just about past.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Cristina Hoyos and Antonio Gades
This is what I have to say today. If you happen to like this, anything these two do is amazing. They did a lot of theatrical productions or movies together. They are some of the most famous dancers of the last 50 years, in flamenco.
This is what I have to say today. If you happen to like this, anything these two do is amazing. They did a lot of theatrical productions or movies together. They are some of the most famous dancers of the last 50 years, in flamenco.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
chicos hombres chavales muchachos tios
I've been lucky so far. Haven't met any pesado men and only two really sweet guys. Trouble is they are so much younger than me. Big boost to the ego that at my age they are interested but that grows old after a while. It gets frustrating when you are no longer interested in some casual b.s. and when the cute guy who you thought was probably at least 32 and who thought you were only 30, turns out to be 28 and finds out you are 39. Isn't there a man here who is my age, and not looking for a sideline?
Well, I've just met him. Maybe the only one in Sevilla. He's nuts.
So due to not having the nerve to call my friends, I was walking past the usually proper and polite Abaceria on my way home. A guy was leaning down explaining to a child something about going onto the road, and looked up just as I was passing, using me as a random example of a passerby, to tell the kid something. Without skipping a beat, he segued directly into chatting me up and him and his friend asked me to have a drink. I appropriately refused a couple times, but was lonely and they were friendly and so I said yes. Unfortunately, I would have to call Andres pesao. There is a small sidewalk outside the Abaceria, and he kept pushing me down it, by talking to me inches from my face, and me continually moving away. At this point in my life, though I am not a lot less timid than at 16, I can handle it, and while I am in a situation like this, I am laughing at the hilarity of it, and treating it like a social experiment. I keep on hanging out, to see what he will do next, because I can't get my head around it.
Upon exclaiming that I could be his girlfriend and looking with super sparkling, genuinely excited eyes, he asked how it was that I didn't have a boyfriend. So I asked him, and since he was 42 and not married, how come? Ninety percent of the men here cheat on their wives, he said. I don't want to do that, so I never got married.
He is utterly unabashed and seems to just say or do whatever come to his mind first. This kind of man really and absolutely DOES NOT EXIST in Canada. It fascinates me because at home no one would ever do what he does, unless they were revoltingly slimy. I don't necessarily like his manner, but it is not slimy at all. It is like a child. He tells me to come to Portugal with him, he is going this week. Not that I need an excuse but I am going to Cadiz, and probably Jerez. He repeatedly says "dame la mano", because my hands are cold and he wants to warm them. He even sticks my hand in his back pocket at one point. He is pretty harmless, despite being over the top. But the worst problem for me is what this might appear like to the good and proper people of the neighborhood. In Anglo culture, a guy would let a girl suffer, or look after her own cold hands, unless he had a serious romantic purpose (which would have to come out very subtley and slowly, the hand warming being a fairly serious gesture, and agreement on both sides that something is going on - more like a pretext). Here, there wasn't any subtlety. So no real need to use handwarming for any purpose. In many ways he was being a lot more genuinely nice. His friend says that I've come along on this rainy day, from Vancouver, and look now, the universe has done something and the sun is coming through the dark clouds by the river. It's because you came along.
He says I will call you this week from Portugal, no I won't it's my company's phone. I'll call you when I get back. Can I call you? Will you go out with me? I say I don't know. He says do you want me never to call you? I say, I'm not sure. He gets upset, and says I've said I don't want him to call me. His friend comes along and he goes off for a minute. His friend says, Andres doesn't believe in God. He doesn't think he has a reason to live, and he was asking God to give him a sign and you came along. Now he has a reason.
Andres comes back. His phone rings and he drops his wine glass on the sidewalk in order to reach into his back pocket to get it. He doesn't bother about the wineglass. His friend comes back and says, in Vancouver, Grizzlies? It takes me a second to realise it is basketball he is talking about and not orsos. He mimes basketball (he is in the middle of the street - okay lane) and mentions his playstation. He says, is Andres giving you a problem? Andres says, if I give you a problem, he will hit me. And if he gives you a problem, I'll hit him. Then his friend (who is probably in his 50s) says he is an Angel (his name is Angél) Guardian. Angel is a lawyer, but has been a soldier, in Africa, Lebanon, Afghanistan, China. And everywhere he's been, he's taken this little figurine. He gives it to me and says if I ever have a problem to talk to it. It seems rather important - too large of a gift, having been through so much with him so I refuse. Andres, whispers that he has several of them, so I finally take it.
Well, I've just met him. Maybe the only one in Sevilla. He's nuts.
So due to not having the nerve to call my friends, I was walking past the usually proper and polite Abaceria on my way home. A guy was leaning down explaining to a child something about going onto the road, and looked up just as I was passing, using me as a random example of a passerby, to tell the kid something. Without skipping a beat, he segued directly into chatting me up and him and his friend asked me to have a drink. I appropriately refused a couple times, but was lonely and they were friendly and so I said yes. Unfortunately, I would have to call Andres pesao. There is a small sidewalk outside the Abaceria, and he kept pushing me down it, by talking to me inches from my face, and me continually moving away. At this point in my life, though I am not a lot less timid than at 16, I can handle it, and while I am in a situation like this, I am laughing at the hilarity of it, and treating it like a social experiment. I keep on hanging out, to see what he will do next, because I can't get my head around it.
Upon exclaiming that I could be his girlfriend and looking with super sparkling, genuinely excited eyes, he asked how it was that I didn't have a boyfriend. So I asked him, and since he was 42 and not married, how come? Ninety percent of the men here cheat on their wives, he said. I don't want to do that, so I never got married.
He is utterly unabashed and seems to just say or do whatever come to his mind first. This kind of man really and absolutely DOES NOT EXIST in Canada. It fascinates me because at home no one would ever do what he does, unless they were revoltingly slimy. I don't necessarily like his manner, but it is not slimy at all. It is like a child. He tells me to come to Portugal with him, he is going this week. Not that I need an excuse but I am going to Cadiz, and probably Jerez. He repeatedly says "dame la mano", because my hands are cold and he wants to warm them. He even sticks my hand in his back pocket at one point. He is pretty harmless, despite being over the top. But the worst problem for me is what this might appear like to the good and proper people of the neighborhood. In Anglo culture, a guy would let a girl suffer, or look after her own cold hands, unless he had a serious romantic purpose (which would have to come out very subtley and slowly, the hand warming being a fairly serious gesture, and agreement on both sides that something is going on - more like a pretext). Here, there wasn't any subtlety. So no real need to use handwarming for any purpose. In many ways he was being a lot more genuinely nice. His friend says that I've come along on this rainy day, from Vancouver, and look now, the universe has done something and the sun is coming through the dark clouds by the river. It's because you came along.
He says I will call you this week from Portugal, no I won't it's my company's phone. I'll call you when I get back. Can I call you? Will you go out with me? I say I don't know. He says do you want me never to call you? I say, I'm not sure. He gets upset, and says I've said I don't want him to call me. His friend comes along and he goes off for a minute. His friend says, Andres doesn't believe in God. He doesn't think he has a reason to live, and he was asking God to give him a sign and you came along. Now he has a reason.
Andres comes back. His phone rings and he drops his wine glass on the sidewalk in order to reach into his back pocket to get it. He doesn't bother about the wineglass. His friend comes back and says, in Vancouver, Grizzlies? It takes me a second to realise it is basketball he is talking about and not orsos. He mimes basketball (he is in the middle of the street - okay lane) and mentions his playstation. He says, is Andres giving you a problem? Andres says, if I give you a problem, he will hit me. And if he gives you a problem, I'll hit him. Then his friend (who is probably in his 50s) says he is an Angel (his name is Angél) Guardian. Angel is a lawyer, but has been a soldier, in Africa, Lebanon, Afghanistan, China. And everywhere he's been, he's taken this little figurine. He gives it to me and says if I ever have a problem to talk to it. It seems rather important - too large of a gift, having been through so much with him so I refuse. Andres, whispers that he has several of them, so I finally take it.
Friday, April 22, 2011
A discussion, a critique
I am trying to get my head around what it would be like to be passionate about things that come from one's own heritage, that have centuries of unbroken tradition. How would it be possible to be passionate about, and to spend a great deal of one's emotional and mental energy on traditions of one's own ancestors, and take great pride in them?
I feel nearly heritageless. I consider my heritage roughly Anglo-Saxon, but it really is a great percentage Celtic, and there is a big difference. The Anglo part has had more of a direct impact on my own life, I believe. All I know about the Celtic heritage is fiddling and ceilidhs and step dancing. That is all pretty cool, and I did love the culture in Ireland. It was the first place I ever went that didn't feel like a vacuum. But my connection to it is tenuous - it's more of a made up or forced connection. I discovered this stuff on my own, in my 20s. It held my interest for a short period of time.
I consider my heritage much more to be traditions of North America. I've heard the blues all my life. My mom even hummed or sang in a bluesy style. That's been around me since childhood. That and church hymns. Of course I knew nothing about the history of blues until I got older, but that's kind of similar to kids here with flamenco. It's in their blood though they may not know its history or much about the gitano community.
Bluegrass came to me later, but it feels like part of me. The only other thing would be Black Gospel, or hymns of the deep south like Sacred Harp. I don't want to live in North America again without regaining a connection with some of this. The connections are more tenuous in Canada, I feel.
I've always been an outsider with pop, "alternative" (cooler, more intellectual form of pop) music and culture. I couldn't care less about music coming out of my culture. My immediate culture (what's around me in Vancouver) feels like a vacuum to me: it is cynical, reactionary and has little in and of itself. It can only pass comment on other things, usually coolly criticizing them. I would rather be wrong, naive, simple minded: I need something with a soul.
It is a paradox. Some people don't realise how positive the gains are that North America has made in culture and breaking traditions. Faced with married men feeling bound to tradition and seeking affairs on the side, I have great pride and thanks for the freedom that happened in the 60s. Seeing some remaining macho attitudes here, I am extremely happy I have been spared dealing with men that could order me around. It is invaluable that I can choose to follow what is truly right for me, and to look inside myself or around me for other options, in order to find relief from negative behaviour patterns in my family. This is what my culture has made possible, and it seems people here are only starting to do that.
I feel nearly heritageless. I consider my heritage roughly Anglo-Saxon, but it really is a great percentage Celtic, and there is a big difference. The Anglo part has had more of a direct impact on my own life, I believe. All I know about the Celtic heritage is fiddling and ceilidhs and step dancing. That is all pretty cool, and I did love the culture in Ireland. It was the first place I ever went that didn't feel like a vacuum. But my connection to it is tenuous - it's more of a made up or forced connection. I discovered this stuff on my own, in my 20s. It held my interest for a short period of time.
I consider my heritage much more to be traditions of North America. I've heard the blues all my life. My mom even hummed or sang in a bluesy style. That's been around me since childhood. That and church hymns. Of course I knew nothing about the history of blues until I got older, but that's kind of similar to kids here with flamenco. It's in their blood though they may not know its history or much about the gitano community.
Bluegrass came to me later, but it feels like part of me. The only other thing would be Black Gospel, or hymns of the deep south like Sacred Harp. I don't want to live in North America again without regaining a connection with some of this. The connections are more tenuous in Canada, I feel.
I've always been an outsider with pop, "alternative" (cooler, more intellectual form of pop) music and culture. I couldn't care less about music coming out of my culture. My immediate culture (what's around me in Vancouver) feels like a vacuum to me: it is cynical, reactionary and has little in and of itself. It can only pass comment on other things, usually coolly criticizing them. I would rather be wrong, naive, simple minded: I need something with a soul.
It is a paradox. Some people don't realise how positive the gains are that North America has made in culture and breaking traditions. Faced with married men feeling bound to tradition and seeking affairs on the side, I have great pride and thanks for the freedom that happened in the 60s. Seeing some remaining macho attitudes here, I am extremely happy I have been spared dealing with men that could order me around. It is invaluable that I can choose to follow what is truly right for me, and to look inside myself or around me for other options, in order to find relief from negative behaviour patterns in my family. This is what my culture has made possible, and it seems people here are only starting to do that.
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