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.

Manuela Carrasco dancing Solea

Very classic style which I prefer over most current stuff.

The kids are very funny.

It is exhausting, due to having to spend just a lot of energy to deal with jumping, bouncing, yelling, ball throwing, face painting with chalk kids. But other than that, it's fine.

The first group is really sweet. Ana, Poli and Rafael. They must be 8-10. Terrible... I can't tell how old kids are at all, I am so unfamiliar with them. At one point I had three kids happily jumping up and down over and over. My fault completely as I asked them to demonstrate the word "jumping" in my vocabulary review. They took the initiative themselves though, to throw the green orange around, that I brought in off the street as an aid to a game.

The next group is about 13 - that is a little more obvious. + or - a year though. I thought they might be difficult, judging from the first day. Well, they are all difficult, because they all just want to yack and yell and bounce around. But there were two in this class that seemed like they might be at the beginning of being tough or mean boys, but today I don't see that. I just see one very sweet kid who is a bit shy but has a very secure sense of himself, and another who is cocky but still a child. The former strikes me as actually wanting to learn English. The latter as being one of those boys who I either might have had a fascination for or been afraid of at the same age. Pepe skids in the door cause he's got on those runners with wheels in the heels, that when you lean your feet back, it's like being on roller skates. I'd seen those for 3 year olds before but not for a 13 year old. He then tells me he wants to be an architect and likes design. At a later point in the class after pretending with Jaime to kick each other in the balls and doing various other noisy stuff, he starts painting his face as a cat, with the chalk, and keeps just saying "cat... cat... cat" over and over again and giggling. Jaime paints his face and then Pepe paints the other Pepe's face.

Jolly good time... ha ha ha. Except for the 3 other students who are quieter, and one of whom is much more serious. Well, I am very amused by all of this. I think it is genius and this is the stuff I should still be able to do except someone told me not to, too many times, and then I became an adult. Unfortunately, I am being paid by their parents to teach them something, though today I got the distinct feeling of being a kind of babysitter. Anyways, I am not and I am 100% certain that these parents are serious and want their kids to learn. Don't think I'm really the one to discipline them.... God help me.