Keiko appeared in a series of three videos on Youtube, on how to speak Andaluz. A "class" with a "teacher", and interviews of the "students" were recorded. Of course the whole thing was a joke, but I wasn't sure at first, because it would indeed be quite helpful to be able to understand better, when you first have to deal with it.
They had a list of exotic words like underarms with entirely different words, but here are some regular words that are part of Castellano (Spanish) but pronounced differently here:
Mujer (moo hair) becomes "Mu- HEH" but with the "HEH" quite cut off at the end.
(this is "wife" or "woman", and a woman can be called this in a casual, emphatic way by anyone, as in "come-ON, woman!")
Tio (used as "dude") becomes "ee-YYOh", or actually almost "YYOh", especially when being shouted at someone from a distance, or when they're passing by.
Hasta luego (asta luego - till later) becomes "(d)-LUEgo" or "lue-GO"
esta (is) becomes "e- tah" with something ever so slight in there that cannot be described. Or "et-sah" (backwards, but blending the t and s so they are almost one sound.)
pescado (fish) - "pe- cao"
You just use the same formula for all the rest of the words in the language - for "st" and "ado" and whenever an "s" appears in the middle of a word. (there is more of course.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
I am "La Ana". (The Ana).
There is also El Curro, La Mai, La Concha, La Chiqui, and so on. I suspect this is a flamenco or gitano thing, (maybe even just a Vargas family thing).
Rafael is "niño" and Concha "niña", to each other. (boy, girl - general word for "child" but with gender).
But pretty much in any normal place, Spanish people call each other "hija", "hijo" (literally daughter, son). You don't even have to know the person for them to call you that, nor do you have to be remotely young.
"Tio" and "tia" (uncle, aunt) have dual meanings as "guy" (and whatever the feminine of guy is - we don't have one). It is used in a bit more of a casual/slang way than "guy". Kind of like "chick" and "dude".
Common terms of endearment are "corazon mio" (my heart), "mi vida" (my life), "mi alma" (my soul). Older people will call younger people by these terms, or even just anybody might call each other these, though possibly not men and other men.
I still haven't sorted out whether I should be calling Concha and Rafael "tu" or "Usted", and am erring on the casual side, which might not be good. I don't know.
There is also El Curro, La Mai, La Concha, La Chiqui, and so on. I suspect this is a flamenco or gitano thing, (maybe even just a Vargas family thing).
Rafael is "niño" and Concha "niña", to each other. (boy, girl - general word for "child" but with gender).
But pretty much in any normal place, Spanish people call each other "hija", "hijo" (literally daughter, son). You don't even have to know the person for them to call you that, nor do you have to be remotely young.
"Tio" and "tia" (uncle, aunt) have dual meanings as "guy" (and whatever the feminine of guy is - we don't have one). It is used in a bit more of a casual/slang way than "guy". Kind of like "chick" and "dude".
Common terms of endearment are "corazon mio" (my heart), "mi vida" (my life), "mi alma" (my soul). Older people will call younger people by these terms, or even just anybody might call each other these, though possibly not men and other men.
I still haven't sorted out whether I should be calling Concha and Rafael "tu" or "Usted", and am erring on the casual side, which might not be good. I don't know.
I feel like I made a huge accomplishment today just deciding where to live in September. I got up at ten to 7 with few hours of sleep, and ended up not going because Mai hadn't woken up. We got there in the end, and it was a shockingly cool 22 degrees. I wanted to put my jeans on but it was 35 by the afternoon.
I took Mai straight to Alfonso Chavez, who was happy to see us, called us both guapa, and with great difficulty, sat on the floor to take measurements of Mai's feet. He had a distinguished looking gentleman helping him in the shop, whose work is in human rights, and told me Alfonso was thinking of starting a school there, because shoemaking is a dying art that needs to be preserved. He knew how to pronounce Japanese names; surprising considering most Spanish people don't distinguish between Chinese and Japanese, and I didn't even know the "sh" is a "s".
We had molletes con tomate y aceite and coffee, and then went to Bar Sol. Jose seemed to recognise me, though I've only been there a few times, and twice now, have looked at his rooms as a kind of last resort if I didn't find another apartment. This time though, it seemed perfect and after deciding I would live there in September, I spent a few hours in shock at how relieved I was to have decided something.
We came back to a party of relatives filling the house, and I have to wait till October to see Pati and Manu.
I took Mai straight to Alfonso Chavez, who was happy to see us, called us both guapa, and with great difficulty, sat on the floor to take measurements of Mai's feet. He had a distinguished looking gentleman helping him in the shop, whose work is in human rights, and told me Alfonso was thinking of starting a school there, because shoemaking is a dying art that needs to be preserved. He knew how to pronounce Japanese names; surprising considering most Spanish people don't distinguish between Chinese and Japanese, and I didn't even know the "sh" is a "s".
We had molletes con tomate y aceite and coffee, and then went to Bar Sol. Jose seemed to recognise me, though I've only been there a few times, and twice now, have looked at his rooms as a kind of last resort if I didn't find another apartment. This time though, it seemed perfect and after deciding I would live there in September, I spent a few hours in shock at how relieved I was to have decided something.
We came back to a party of relatives filling the house, and I have to wait till October to see Pati and Manu.
Last week Pati and Manuel joined us for two classes.
Concha started teaching me a bit of singing, which was painful. She kept asking me to sing over and over, meanwhile struggling with hurt pride due to finally understanding that my internalisation of compas is not very good (this is not understood back at home). It started at the lunch table, and while the three of us did the dishes, we continued singing: "Tiro piedras por la calle, y al que yo le de, me perdone. Tengo mi cabeza loca de tantos cabilaciones." (I throw stones in the street, and the person I hit, forgive me/pardon me. My head is crazy with so many doubts.)
We spent time singing at the beginning of our classes this week too, as a kick in the butt for our compas.
I spent a few days in a terrible state about whether to forego the El Torta concert in Jerez, along with staying over at Manu and Pati's, or to risk insulting Concha by not attending a sudden concert organised in Lebrija, at which she would be dancing, the same night. Concha understood because she knew I'd already bought a ticket, and also that I had very few days left in which to see Pati and Manu before they leave for Switzerland.
I believe I am at my limit with the instability and lack of direction in my life, and the inability to make decisions this is giving me. I wanted to see both; also I need time away from the intensity of being here at times, but on the other hand the last Viernes Flamenco concert in Jerez was too big and too loud, and I wanted to hear Torta in different atmosphere, as well as taking the opportunity to see a show in a small town which I never get to do, because of inability to return on the train the same night to wherever I have lived. I ended up trying to contact Manu and Pati the day of the concert, to try to change plans with them. At the train station in line to go to Jerez, 5 minutes before the train, I got ahold of Pati and, still unsure what I actually wanted to do, asked if I could see them the next day. I was still waffling until I left the station.
Something not quite right in my head...!
Yesterday was full of flamenco. Esperanza Fernandez's father (Concha's bro-in law) sang bulerias, and did a few compas of palmas in the middle of eating lunch, pretty much everybody seemed to be rapping their knuckles on tables in 12/8 time various times during the day, and then Curro played guitar in the house for the first time since the fiesta. He was fixing his thumbnail, which has broken, and played between gluings, so I kept coming back downstairs each time he started up.
The concert was in an outdoor movie theatre on top of a hill. I felt important carrying Concha's shoes and makeup bag in my purse, and giving her barrettes and bobby pins to fix her clothing. They called us in to the room below the stage, which felt very special until I realised the entire audience would drift in there during the course of the evening to get sliced baguettes, sausage, cheese and drinks. I was happy to be in a small town in a small-ish audience until it turned out that the sound was just as loud as it has been in all the other concerts recently. Unfortunately, the first set was terrible, which I did not expect, due to it being a chance for local aficionados to show their stuff. There was an announcer who saved things. This man with huge character and a deep, sonorous voice cut through with a terrible rasp probably due to a lifetime of smoking, filled the place with atmosphere with his stories, memories and poems he'd written about certain of the performers. I believe he was Concha's cousin, and introduced Concha with a poem read in the intonation of an ancient storyteller around a fire, about her father, a legendary character.
Curro was there to play for his mother, and for Miguel Funi. Miguel arrived at the venue in an off-white suit, with his characteristic scarf around his neck, and of course Akiko. By the time he got on stage, he was wearing a bright pink shirt with black pants and vest, and his white scarf. Watching him, I felt that the average person who has no idea what bulerias sounds like in general is missing out on one of the ultimately coolest things in the entire world, and pity for those people who love flamenco but have never experienced bulerias here in Andalucia by people who've lived flamenco their whole life.
A woman who came over the other night with her husband and sang in the patio, sang for Concha. Though this lady was a very proficient aficionado worth listening to, she kind of butchered Concha's dancing (the cante has to fit with what's going on and this is the responsibility of the singer, in some respects). I am sure Concha has danced far better, and does every other day in our lessons.
Miguel Funi is different than everyone else. First of all he's tall and thin, and very brown skinned but with fine features that don't look "typically" gitano. More importantly, he has tons of class, the most incredibly relaxed and self-possessed demeanour, but still being normal and humble at the same time. Then there is a very subtle humour that seems to emanate from him, possibly all the time even when he does nothing (oh, except when he was being interviewed by a reporter after the concert and was speaking out about political problems in the world of flamenco). Then, as I may have mentioned before, though he is gray haired and aged 72, his skin has no wrinkles and his fiance is 38. Mai, who is 21, thinks he is something pretty special and very guapo.
Bulerias Miguel style are only possible in this culture. There is a grand space... nothing is rushed. It is exactly the opposite - it's like there is no such thing as rushing - it does not exist. This is not to say there aren't fast parts. In this space which he creates with his presence and voice as well as his dancing between letras, he puts images, with his cante, that bring you in (if you can understand the words, or maybe even if you can't). He stops and poses in a way that would be typically flamenco, dripping with Andaluz, and yet totally his own. Of course, if you know what bulerias are, you will understand that all this is done to the most compelling, funky rhythm possible, and with shouts and hoots, to spur him on or emphasise his dancing or singing. Not many people dance and sing nearly in equal parts, like him. These people, who nearly always incorporate more humour than others, are called festeros. Miguel also did two serious numbers last night.
Curro's guitar accompanyment fits it perfectly and I think he is going to end up no less of a genius, in his own way, if he isn't one already.
Concha started teaching me a bit of singing, which was painful. She kept asking me to sing over and over, meanwhile struggling with hurt pride due to finally understanding that my internalisation of compas is not very good (this is not understood back at home). It started at the lunch table, and while the three of us did the dishes, we continued singing: "Tiro piedras por la calle, y al que yo le de, me perdone. Tengo mi cabeza loca de tantos cabilaciones." (I throw stones in the street, and the person I hit, forgive me/pardon me. My head is crazy with so many doubts.)
We spent time singing at the beginning of our classes this week too, as a kick in the butt for our compas.
I spent a few days in a terrible state about whether to forego the El Torta concert in Jerez, along with staying over at Manu and Pati's, or to risk insulting Concha by not attending a sudden concert organised in Lebrija, at which she would be dancing, the same night. Concha understood because she knew I'd already bought a ticket, and also that I had very few days left in which to see Pati and Manu before they leave for Switzerland.
I believe I am at my limit with the instability and lack of direction in my life, and the inability to make decisions this is giving me. I wanted to see both; also I need time away from the intensity of being here at times, but on the other hand the last Viernes Flamenco concert in Jerez was too big and too loud, and I wanted to hear Torta in different atmosphere, as well as taking the opportunity to see a show in a small town which I never get to do, because of inability to return on the train the same night to wherever I have lived. I ended up trying to contact Manu and Pati the day of the concert, to try to change plans with them. At the train station in line to go to Jerez, 5 minutes before the train, I got ahold of Pati and, still unsure what I actually wanted to do, asked if I could see them the next day. I was still waffling until I left the station.
Something not quite right in my head...!
Yesterday was full of flamenco. Esperanza Fernandez's father (Concha's bro-in law) sang bulerias, and did a few compas of palmas in the middle of eating lunch, pretty much everybody seemed to be rapping their knuckles on tables in 12/8 time various times during the day, and then Curro played guitar in the house for the first time since the fiesta. He was fixing his thumbnail, which has broken, and played between gluings, so I kept coming back downstairs each time he started up.
The concert was in an outdoor movie theatre on top of a hill. I felt important carrying Concha's shoes and makeup bag in my purse, and giving her barrettes and bobby pins to fix her clothing. They called us in to the room below the stage, which felt very special until I realised the entire audience would drift in there during the course of the evening to get sliced baguettes, sausage, cheese and drinks. I was happy to be in a small town in a small-ish audience until it turned out that the sound was just as loud as it has been in all the other concerts recently. Unfortunately, the first set was terrible, which I did not expect, due to it being a chance for local aficionados to show their stuff. There was an announcer who saved things. This man with huge character and a deep, sonorous voice cut through with a terrible rasp probably due to a lifetime of smoking, filled the place with atmosphere with his stories, memories and poems he'd written about certain of the performers. I believe he was Concha's cousin, and introduced Concha with a poem read in the intonation of an ancient storyteller around a fire, about her father, a legendary character.
Curro was there to play for his mother, and for Miguel Funi. Miguel arrived at the venue in an off-white suit, with his characteristic scarf around his neck, and of course Akiko. By the time he got on stage, he was wearing a bright pink shirt with black pants and vest, and his white scarf. Watching him, I felt that the average person who has no idea what bulerias sounds like in general is missing out on one of the ultimately coolest things in the entire world, and pity for those people who love flamenco but have never experienced bulerias here in Andalucia by people who've lived flamenco their whole life.
A woman who came over the other night with her husband and sang in the patio, sang for Concha. Though this lady was a very proficient aficionado worth listening to, she kind of butchered Concha's dancing (the cante has to fit with what's going on and this is the responsibility of the singer, in some respects). I am sure Concha has danced far better, and does every other day in our lessons.
Miguel Funi is different than everyone else. First of all he's tall and thin, and very brown skinned but with fine features that don't look "typically" gitano. More importantly, he has tons of class, the most incredibly relaxed and self-possessed demeanour, but still being normal and humble at the same time. Then there is a very subtle humour that seems to emanate from him, possibly all the time even when he does nothing (oh, except when he was being interviewed by a reporter after the concert and was speaking out about political problems in the world of flamenco). Then, as I may have mentioned before, though he is gray haired and aged 72, his skin has no wrinkles and his fiance is 38. Mai, who is 21, thinks he is something pretty special and very guapo.
Bulerias Miguel style are only possible in this culture. There is a grand space... nothing is rushed. It is exactly the opposite - it's like there is no such thing as rushing - it does not exist. This is not to say there aren't fast parts. In this space which he creates with his presence and voice as well as his dancing between letras, he puts images, with his cante, that bring you in (if you can understand the words, or maybe even if you can't). He stops and poses in a way that would be typically flamenco, dripping with Andaluz, and yet totally his own. Of course, if you know what bulerias are, you will understand that all this is done to the most compelling, funky rhythm possible, and with shouts and hoots, to spur him on or emphasise his dancing or singing. Not many people dance and sing nearly in equal parts, like him. These people, who nearly always incorporate more humour than others, are called festeros. Miguel also did two serious numbers last night.
Curro's guitar accompanyment fits it perfectly and I think he is going to end up no less of a genius, in his own way, if he isn't one already.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Juan del Gastor is the nephew of one of the greatest flamenco guitarists ever, Diego del Gastor, who died in 1971. Juan has a pony tail and lives in Sevilla. His wife's name is Lucy, who is American, but has lived with the gitanos for many years.
Today I went to see Juan and Lucy for some help with bulerias, which Juan suggested for me to do, back in July.
Juan is well respected by anyone truly serious on the inside of the flamenco world. Unfortunately, most foreigners probably don't know about him because of our lack of resources and connections. Not many people have the interest to delve into flamenco enough to find out about the ones that don't make big splashy shows and lots of money. If Concha and Rafael respect someone, that says something. Andres Marin, a well known dancer and choreographer who does very unusual modern flamenco (which he doesn't think is modern) goes to hang out with Juan.
Today Juan, with Lucy's help, tried desperately and finally succeeded to undo the other bulerias stuff I've learned before (except for Concha's). Juan is a generous person and cares very deeply about his heritage of genuine flamenco. He can be a bit tough, and is less laid back than Concha, but is truly kind. He told me to simplify what I've been doing. I've been wanting to do that for maybe two years, with bulerias. He wasn't quite as bad as the others, because he let me keep some of my current material but he made me simplify it. Then he taught me a different paso, and different marking, which he told me are the really old gitano stuff from times past, that no one will teach any more.
Juan and Lucy are warm, generous, and genuine people that give me a family-ish sense of security, kind of like Concha and Rafael.
Unfortunately I was dumb enough to think that I wouldn't sweat much... one of the most illogical thoughts I've had for a long time, and spent while letting the Sevillan heat dry out my hair and sundress.
I stayed till evening. It was an incredibly romantic one. I found myself sitting, rather tipsy, on the steps of the Archivas de Indias, with a sprawl of horses, carriages and drivers to the side, and the late day sun on the cathedral with a big palm tree right in front. I had had four glasses of wine in the afternoon, and then went to see an apartment. The couple were Romanian tailors, very nice people.
I bought myself an ice cream and caught the train back.
Today I went to see Juan and Lucy for some help with bulerias, which Juan suggested for me to do, back in July.
Juan is well respected by anyone truly serious on the inside of the flamenco world. Unfortunately, most foreigners probably don't know about him because of our lack of resources and connections. Not many people have the interest to delve into flamenco enough to find out about the ones that don't make big splashy shows and lots of money. If Concha and Rafael respect someone, that says something. Andres Marin, a well known dancer and choreographer who does very unusual modern flamenco (which he doesn't think is modern) goes to hang out with Juan.
Today Juan, with Lucy's help, tried desperately and finally succeeded to undo the other bulerias stuff I've learned before (except for Concha's). Juan is a generous person and cares very deeply about his heritage of genuine flamenco. He can be a bit tough, and is less laid back than Concha, but is truly kind. He told me to simplify what I've been doing. I've been wanting to do that for maybe two years, with bulerias. He wasn't quite as bad as the others, because he let me keep some of my current material but he made me simplify it. Then he taught me a different paso, and different marking, which he told me are the really old gitano stuff from times past, that no one will teach any more.
Juan and Lucy are warm, generous, and genuine people that give me a family-ish sense of security, kind of like Concha and Rafael.
Unfortunately I was dumb enough to think that I wouldn't sweat much... one of the most illogical thoughts I've had for a long time, and spent while letting the Sevillan heat dry out my hair and sundress.
I stayed till evening. It was an incredibly romantic one. I found myself sitting, rather tipsy, on the steps of the Archivas de Indias, with a sprawl of horses, carriages and drivers to the side, and the late day sun on the cathedral with a big palm tree right in front. I had had four glasses of wine in the afternoon, and then went to see an apartment. The couple were Romanian tailors, very nice people.
I bought myself an ice cream and caught the train back.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
I had everything I needed for the beach in Spain, in summertime. Jeans and jacket, an x-ray of my hand...
Well, I mailed the insurance stuff on the way, and we were going to go to Chipiona and meet Concha and Rafael and Frasci there at night for the second concurso de Fandangos. Tonight though, it was not going to be cool.
We (being Mai and I) took the bus to Sanlucar de la Barrameda. Horses racing on the beach, Manzanilla (the climate is just exactly such that a different kind of yeast thrives there, in what would otherwise be sherry), beautiful houses, an awesome pedestrian area, some of the best tapas around, drugs... what more could you want. (Yes, being a small town and on the coast, it is a major area for that).
I cannot stand much sun. It could be being burnt last week, or having heat stroke and other bad heat experiences before. Or my constitution or blue eyes aren't made for the intense light. I need sunglasses darker than the usual ones. I laid in the shade and had a towel over my head while Mai swam and sunbathed.
I tried a different kind of manzanilla today from the other three I've previously had. Very good. Very cheap. E1.3 on the beach for a glass of manzanilla. People in Canada don't really go to the beach. Maybe once a year, if that. Some people might make it 3 times. Here, they go all the time. On a Saturday evening, a bunch of 50s - 60s average looking people that in Canada would normally being at home, are hanging out in the bar on the beach, relaxing together.
This morning at the post office while the proper looking lady that could have gone to the Tabernacle (church of my childhood) she looked that kind of conservative, while she was processing my envelope, a guy also in his late 50s, early 60s or so came in and they were talking about whether the other employees were in or on holidays. When she mentioned one woman, the man said, "Oh, that big whore, ha ha ha!" in a very jolly and endearing way. "Puta" is most often used in a positive sense. Don't try to understand. Then the man said, "she's pregnant, isn't she," which had absolutely nothing to do with the use of the word puta/whore to describe her, and they continued to discuss this probably very upright, nice young lady that they both were obviously good friends with and fond of.
At Sanlucar beach, a major public beach, the occasional woman was topless, as is the norm at most beaches I've been to. I understand that some are topless and some aren't but it seems like at most, it is acceptable. Very weird for me.
Someone recently told me that in his travels around Europe, in Sweden (or somewhere north), they give you dirty looks if you answer your cell phone on the metro. In France, they have a spot in between the cars, for cell phone use, and in Spain and Italy, people talk all around you on their cell phones. Ideas about basic things are so different that it is impossible to say which ideas are "right" and which are not. I guess that pretty much summed up what I have felt/decided/pushed myself to understand, in my time in other countries.
Well, I mailed the insurance stuff on the way, and we were going to go to Chipiona and meet Concha and Rafael and Frasci there at night for the second concurso de Fandangos. Tonight though, it was not going to be cool.
We (being Mai and I) took the bus to Sanlucar de la Barrameda. Horses racing on the beach, Manzanilla (the climate is just exactly such that a different kind of yeast thrives there, in what would otherwise be sherry), beautiful houses, an awesome pedestrian area, some of the best tapas around, drugs... what more could you want. (Yes, being a small town and on the coast, it is a major area for that).
I cannot stand much sun. It could be being burnt last week, or having heat stroke and other bad heat experiences before. Or my constitution or blue eyes aren't made for the intense light. I need sunglasses darker than the usual ones. I laid in the shade and had a towel over my head while Mai swam and sunbathed.
I tried a different kind of manzanilla today from the other three I've previously had. Very good. Very cheap. E1.3 on the beach for a glass of manzanilla. People in Canada don't really go to the beach. Maybe once a year, if that. Some people might make it 3 times. Here, they go all the time. On a Saturday evening, a bunch of 50s - 60s average looking people that in Canada would normally being at home, are hanging out in the bar on the beach, relaxing together.
This morning at the post office while the proper looking lady that could have gone to the Tabernacle (church of my childhood) she looked that kind of conservative, while she was processing my envelope, a guy also in his late 50s, early 60s or so came in and they were talking about whether the other employees were in or on holidays. When she mentioned one woman, the man said, "Oh, that big whore, ha ha ha!" in a very jolly and endearing way. "Puta" is most often used in a positive sense. Don't try to understand. Then the man said, "she's pregnant, isn't she," which had absolutely nothing to do with the use of the word puta/whore to describe her, and they continued to discuss this probably very upright, nice young lady that they both were obviously good friends with and fond of.
At Sanlucar beach, a major public beach, the occasional woman was topless, as is the norm at most beaches I've been to. I understand that some are topless and some aren't but it seems like at most, it is acceptable. Very weird for me.
Someone recently told me that in his travels around Europe, in Sweden (or somewhere north), they give you dirty looks if you answer your cell phone on the metro. In France, they have a spot in between the cars, for cell phone use, and in Spain and Italy, people talk all around you on their cell phones. Ideas about basic things are so different that it is impossible to say which ideas are "right" and which are not. I guess that pretty much summed up what I have felt/decided/pushed myself to understand, in my time in other countries.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)