Flamenco Lessons

The magic of flamenco. I have to say: I'm pretty proud of this photo

On a cold, grey day last March, I arrived early to the nondescript door, and it was still locked. That meant I had the time to sit on the stoop and look around. The neighborhood was modern, bordering on industrial, marked by a vivid mural of a lighthouse. Finally, about fifteen minutes later, I was greeted by a grizzled man in a button down shirt with the top three buttons open, slicked back hair, and wrap-around sun glasses: my teacher. I had signed up to learn to sing flamenco, that intense Spanish musical tradition whose intricate rhythms and sinuous melodies are a world apart. Ever since my arrival in Spain, I'd sought out flamenco concerts any chance I could. Now, a flamenco school was opening in town, as the municipal government sought to keep alive a rich tradition fed by the terrible mining life many Linarenses led during the 18th and 19th centuries.

The man was Jose, or in public Joselete, a nationally renowned Gitano (gypsy) singer whose fame had earned him the right to one name. Over the next four months he would guide, coax, and laugh me through my love affair with flamenco. We'd spend many hours inside the Peña Plomo y Plata, a music-lovers' social club whose canary-colored walls were stenciled with green snaking vines and red guitars. But that was all in the future; for now, we were still strangers.

We sat, introduced ourselves -- I had one other classmate, and the school's director was also in attendance-- and began with a simple lesson. Jose sang the first line of a fandango, and I was expected to repeat it. As if in a nightmare, I opened my mouth but couldn't make a sound.The silence seemed to expand as they watched me and waited. The florescent lights flickered, almost in slow motion; the table was sticky with beer. After what seemed like hours, I managed a squeak, then a croak, then a rough melodic line; and finally something acceptably similar to the line Jose had sung.

My first fandango wasn't easy, of course, or particularly good. I didn't understand the lyrics until they were dictated to me, and not having grown up steeped in the culture and tradition put me at a distinct disadvantage in following the complex rhythms and unpredictable key changes. I spent that class, and the ones in the weeks that followed it, feeling overwhelmed and outmatched. I'd always loved flamenco, this I knew. But I worried perhaps I'd been overly ambitious in beginning my studies. Maybe this was a terrible mistake.

However, later that evening, at home reflecting on my first lesson, I realized something important: as adults, we rarely force ourselves out of our comfort zones. After the rigors of high school physics or geometry (well, in my case), we are no longer required to do things we aren't already good at. In fact, adult life encourages the creation of a niche; each individual doing what he or she does best, finding his or her 'calling'. That, as they say, is what makes the world go 'round-- and that is also what made singing in front of other people such a challenge for me. I'd always enjoyed singing in the shower, was in chorus for a year in middle school, and tried out for a handful of a capella groups in college. But this was entirely new territory: new language, new skill, new world. I had no training or applicable knowledge. I felt entirely out of my depth, and it made my vocal cords freeze.

A concert at the Peña Carmen Linares, fall 2012

When I managed to get over my fear and insecurity, however, the following months were rich, fascinating, and deeply fun. I have a good auditory memory, which helped me in developing my own learning system -- writing down lyrics overlaid with squiggles that attempted to approximate the loops and dips Jose's supple voice executed with such ease. Little by little, I stopped worrying about what would come out when I started singing, whether throaty, creaky, or off key. I barely even minded when Jose giggled at my accent, especially once I noticed that it usually happened because I had faltered, uncertain of the next run, giving him tacit permission with a nervous laugh of my own. Doing something I knew nothing about and wasn't yet good at was actually wonderful. It was freeing. And it was all the more rewarding when, little by little, I improved. I left my comfort zone and then reconstructed that comfort zone around me.

This blog was silent for some months over the summer, and here I'll explain why. For reasons that are boring and long, my application to renew for a third-year in the Spanish Ministry of Education Language Assistant program was denied on a technicality. With some scrambling, I was able to come up with a few stop-gap measures to keep myself in Spain the following --that is, this--year. One, in the north, would not provide me with health insurance. Another, in Linares, would require lengthy and complicated visa procedures and a pay cut. The last was in a completely different, unknown-to-me part of the country and in a much more serious program.

None of the options seemed ideal. At that point I had settled comfortably into Linares. The flamenco community had embraced me in a flurry of cramped, intimate concerts; sweaty, half-drunk dinners; and one 17-hour countryside music-and-food adventure that merits its own recounting. I was happily ensconced in my own apartment with a few good friends and a lot of favorite tapas bars. The idea of leaving was difficult, but the pay cut and visa complexities made it impossible to avoid. Finally, I made the more difficult, practical decision.

A flamenco concert in a cave in Almeria, southern Andalucia

... All of which is a complicated, long-winded way of saying that I find myself now in Talavera de la Reina, Castilla La Mancha, a Roman-founded city of 90,000 an hour and a half southwest of Madrid, in the same county as the more famous Toledo. I am in still a language assistant, but this year I am an employee of UCETAM, a group of American universities developing bilingual programs here in Spain. This means more hours and more money per month, but it also means being the only language assistant in the city: the Ministry's program was cut here two years ago due to continuing economic issues, and UCETAM is a Madrid-based program that is just beginning to expand outside the capital.  There is no established curriculum, dynamic, or social system, no pool of other foreigners for me to turn to for easy friendships. Luckily, I've stumbled upon a friendly, funny roommate to keep me company. Luckily, I've found a few couchsurfers with friendship potential. Luckily, my coworkers are by and large easygoing, helpful, and kind. Still, though, I know by now that the first months in a new city are not easy under any circumstances; and these in particular seem like breeding grounds for loneliness and discouragement.

This summer, I spent 10 weeks in Boston working at an English school and remembering everything I love about my city-- the diners, the live music, the intellectual atmosphere, the diners, the old friends and shared history, and the diners. I was fresh from my late-spring Linares tapas/flamenco adventure filled with warm nights and good people, and as I started packing and mentally readying myself, I couldn't quite believe I'd chosen the hard choice AGAIN... another new city AGAIN, another new school AGAIN, another new life AGAIN. I was mad at myself, freaked out, scared, but I took a deep breath and left anyway.

In these first few weeks, the beats, lyrics, and melodies of some bulerias and tangillos I learned from Jose have occasionally come to me unbidden, in my apartment or the hallway of my new school, and I think I know why. If being brave is feeling afraid or uncomfortable and doing something anyway, then singing taught me an important lesson in bravery. Learning flamenco meant learning to push through and continue to do things I'm not good at yet, instead building that confidence little by little where I am. At the beginning of my time in Talavera, it's important to remember that I already learned this skill. Flamenco taught me how to do this: to step out of my comfort zones-- in this case literally, physically--and build something new.

Joselete in concert at Los Patios in Cordoba

Semana Santa 2013: Passion and light-heartedness in the Andaluz streets

 

 Hooded penitents march in a Semana Santa processions outside the cathedral in Jerez de la Frontera

After experiencing it last year in Palencia, I thought I knew from Semana Santa. Castilla y Leon (the Spanish state that contains Palencia) is known as an area with amazing Easter festivities. It's true: the processions, in which enormous pasos (statues of bible scenes, sometimes hundreds of years old) roll through town, followed by penitants in eerie hooded costumes and accompanied by complete silence, are affecting and impressive. People come from all over to see Easter in Salamanca, Burgos, and Leon, and I understand why. Something powerful and unique is at play there.When I moved south, people kept telling me: “Semana Santa in Andalucia is different.” They insisted it was both more passionate and less serious, which was a hard combination for me to imagine. In the end, though, that is exactly what I found.

The biggest difference is immediately obvious in any Andaluz Semana Santa parade: the costaleros. Andaluz pasos are similar to their northern brethren in that they are enormous platforms topped with statues, although these tend to be images of saints and Jesus’ last days and beautiful renderings of Mary (well, Maria) on top. Instead of being rolled by the penitents, they are carried by teams of “costaleros” (the ones who carry), between 15 and 40 people depending on the size and weight of their burden. For the weeks leading up to Easter, the costaleros practiced in my neighborhood, training like marathon runners--and it’s a good thing, too, the pasos can weigh more than 1000 kilos.

I would come upon them suddenly, rounding a corner to find them moving slowly, almost silently, along the street. The clues to their presence were the soft thud-thud of their sneakers moving in under an enormous but as yet empty platform, a borrowed police light on top warning drivers to stay away, the ding of a triangle keeping rhythm. A week before Semana Santa, they added weight, building the metal skeletons of their saints on top to simulate the distribution of weight. Later, though, in the processions themselves, the costaleros were almost invisible behind a curtain of cloth, only their sneakers visible, always moving in unison. They'd move a hundred meters, then stop to rest and put the paso down. Then, with grunts and yells from hidden places, they'd jump up, suddenly, landing dramatically with knees bent and the paso on their backs again.

In the course of a few days, I saw processions in Jerez de la Frontera, Cadiz, and here in Linares, and it’s true that by and large the atmosphere was light, funny, social. People chatted with neighbors, penitants texted on their phones as they marched, mobile stands sold snacks and plastic trumpets for the young ones-- all behavior that would never be permitted up north. It felt like a big street party, crowds of people dressed up in their best dresses and slacks, bows in the kids’ hair, gossip and salty snacks on everyone’s lips. There was never a moment of silence, even as the costaleros shuffled by.... but it all stopped for the saetas. These long, intense, deeply-felt and often improvised flamenco songs are sung for the saints as they are paraded through the streets, and they are unique to southern Spain. I heard three saetas during Andaluz semana santa, and each time I was struck by their vocal acrobatics,  pure emotion, and the silence and stillness that would sweep over the scene for just a moment.

That’s where the passion comes in, I think—no, Easter may not be a silent, serious time here in the south, but people certainly feel very intensely about it. Some hate it ("A bunch of hypocrites, they don’t go to church the rest of the year," one friend commented to me); others look forward to it all year with mounting excitement. The costaleros go through enormous pain and suffering in the name of the holiday and their savior. The saeta singers pour their hearts out in front of crowds who turn out from all over town and at all hours (more on that next entry.) And when it rains and the pasos can’t go out (most are considered priceless works of art due to their age and provenance), the people hold each other and cry—real tears.

It was a rainy Semana Santa all over Spain, especially in Andalucia, and ESPECIALLY in Linares (I read in an article today that up to 4 times the normal amount of rain fell in March. In some places up to 6 times!) so there was a lot of crying this year. But one particular, particularly impressive procession took place at 4 am on Thursday night, and I was there to witness it. Stay tuned for my next blog entry to read all about it.

 A late-night procession, bringing a paso home to its church in Jerez de la Frontera

Worth a thousand words 1: Sevilla

A few entries ago, I mentioned that during this fall I visited the Andaluz cities of Sevilla and Cadiz; I also mentioned that in the course of those visits I managed to lose my camera. I'm sorry to report that that means the photos of my lovely Sevillana and Gaditano adventures are lost-- however it presents me with an opportunity, as well. It's a common theme in literary criticism that the best kind of writing is that which is so descriptive that you feel 'right there in the moment' with the author. I'm choosing to pair that with the old truism "A picture is worth a thousand words." My challenge to myself: use my photo-less state to bring you into the loveliest moments of these two trips with just my words. Let's see if I can do it. This entry: some images from Sevilla.


I.

We walk the crooked streets of old Sevilla, and small details leap out to meet us: a bar in a shady square, offering orange wine sticky-sweet under pastel umbrellas; a jewel-toned shrine to Maria tucked in a corner; a deserted fountain where ladies once gathered water, now carpeted with dead leaves and plastic wrappers. The weather is strange, prone to sudden downpours. We come upon a small plaza sprouted with three wrought-iron crosses of various size, barely an opening in the warren of alleyways. The rain comes swiftly, with barely a warning whisper, and we duck into the nearest bar, our breath steaming. Inside, happy hoards celebrate some birthday; the full-figured barmaid asks if we'd like to come in. We demur, wait out the deluge. As we exit, I notice a sign: 'Hoy, a las 11:00, flamenco en vivo' (today at 11:00'-- live flamenco.)

We wander, crossing the river, stopping for tapas, then find ourselves again by the three iron crosses. The concert has already started, two men singing, their fingers a blur over guitar strings. There's a crowd along the bar, curving their hands in that hollow flamenco clap or standing in big-eyed tourist awe. The musicians raise their voices in a harmony so sweet it almost reaches the tastebuds; they sing melodies that loop in and out of one another playfully. Some songs are harsh and full of passion; others are joyful and exultant. The waitress hands me a beer. I taste hops and soaring notes.

The hours pass. The tourists leave, and the musicians retire to a backroom, motioning for those that remain to follow. Here, the mood is more casual. One woman in the audience gets up to sing, her voice and eyes steady. After, two of her friends get up to dance sevillanas, eye contact intense and steps careful, circling one another, spinning and whirling with practiced feet. One of the guitarists takes a break to dance, as well-- his spine incredibly erect, his arms arced above him. His eyes stay locked with those of his partner, the waves of her long, dark hair brushing his back as they turn and turn, the force between them almost visible. The clock strikes 2, then 3. The night transports my exhaustion somewhere outside the bounds of this bar, now quiet save for the sound of a single guitar.

II.

I'm here visiting Teresa, who lives in Plaza El Salvador, one of the oldest, busiest plazas in all of old Sevilla with her grandmother and sister. The stones of the plaza, dark gray and deeply grooved, tell stories of centuries' worth of footsteps. It's the first house I've ever visited with an elevator: like a New York townhouse, it stretches upward instead of outward. The rooms are lovely and well furnished, but the best part is also the highest: two balconies that face the Sevillana sky in all its tints of blue, yellow, and purple gray. From here, you see that the house is actually part of the massive church next door; from here you look down into the interior courtyard, lined with trees. There one night, perhaps, people might gather to hear a Semana Santa band practicing off season, the brassy tones intermingling with many voices chatting over cheap beer. The domes of the church rise on both sides like mountain tops, and when the bells chime the air vibrates; it sings.

Another side, another balcony. From here you look down directly into the plaza, where people are gathered almost any time of day or evening, any day of the week, crowding into the rickety wooden tables to drink glasses of port or tinto de verano (red wine and lemonade) and snack on bowls of corn nuts or kettle-boiled potato chips. From here one sees the larger patterns of never-ceasing movement, streams of people coming and going in a constant low boil of drinks finished, stories told, strollers maneuvered through the fray-- all accompanied by the quiet roar of many voices. To one side, a scattering of people sit on the church steps, finishing their drinks and whiling away the day (or the night); from here they look like kettle chip crumbs. Beyond them: the technicolor facades of 1920s Sevilla, then the elegant curves and angles of the city's rooftops, fading away in all directions.

III
Amid more Sunday downpours, we visit the Real Alcazar, Sevillas Moorish Palace answer to Granada's Alhambra. Short on time, we wander through a jungle garden, lush and green and steaming. We toe elaborate tiling; the walls are a curling, almost undulating vision of lacelike Arab  plasterwork. The sun bounces merrily off white walls, matching the graceful arches and the curving streams of fountains--one to each chamber-- that whisper a susurrus under so many green leaves. We turn left here, right there, delighting in the surprise each new room brings. Here, an array of ceramic tiles dating back 700 years; there a groom and bride, taking pictures nestled under the twisted boughs of ancient trees--her Ugg boots peeking out from layers of frothy gown as she struggles to keep her dress off the muddy ground. We walk down a ramp, then down again to the old baths, where cream-colored archways are made whole in the reflection of a perfectly still silver pool. To walk in this garden is to be engulfed in another time.

Another downpour, out of the clear sky, the falling water--strong as a shower--strafed with brilliant flares of sunlight. My legs ache, so I take advantage of the sudden cataract, sitting down cross-legged under the eaves of some kind of garden cottage (even such a simple structure is elaborately carved, tiled blue and green and yellow, iced with gold, fit for a king.) Just as suddenly: a cat appears, long-haired, dark, impossibly proud. He pads fluidly around the corner and sits in my lap without a pause, surveying the soaking sun. We sit together in the shaded shelter of the eaves. The cat squints, licks his paw, eyes me nonchalantly. It's as if he was expecting me; it's as if I never left.

A walk through Linares

For a while now, I've been promising a description of my new home, Linares, a small city of 65,000 in northern Andalucia. In fact, I've had that very sentence written in a "draft" version of this blog for a few weeks, but if I'm following the 'open and honest blogging' policy I've begun this year, I have to explain that the "coffee conundrum" from the last true update here turned into a full-blown depression. I've had a few great recent adventures which kept me mostly sane (a wonderful weekend in Sevilla; an adventure in a nearby UNESCO Renaissance town), but for about a month I was seriously considering ending my European adventure, flying home, and seeing what the universe might offer elsewhere. I've had delays in blogging before, but none came from such a dark place. I'm happy to report that I seem to be getting past it, however, and I'm feeling ready to share Linares with you.

(Unfortunately, part of that Sevilla adventure involved the loss of my beloved camera, which means that for now this will have to be a tour solely in words. Photos to follow, however. I hope.)

When I first arrived in Linares, I was disappointed, I'll admit it. In an ironic twist, I spent last year having strangers tell me that Palencia was ugly when I thought it lovely; this time, I'd had people tell me Linares was pretty, and I found it initially the kind of boxy, utilitarian eyesore that represents the Franco- and post-Franco era building booms throughout this country. I had looked forward to the tangle of streets in the downtown area that google maps showed me (I've always loved getting lost in winding alleys) but found them actually TOO confusing-- for whatever reason, it's the standard here to only mark streets at the beginning and end, meaning that even the locals don't know the name of the streets (and confused apartment hunters from foreign lands are out of luck.) At first arrival, I was told that there was little in the way of live music--a perennial favorite activity for me--and was brought several days in a row by different people to the same "only cool bar in town" (Elviris, which does have a funky charm in its cheap drinks, old-school Americana decorations, and classic rock soundtrack.) For the first several weeks, I didn't see any posters advertising events, my tried-and-true method for finding out what's going on in a small town. Things were looking decidedly dark.

My outlook started to improve with a trip to Jaen, which I wrote about in the Spain Scoop post linked here last week. The city, which is the county seat of our province, has a reputation as ugly and isolated-- however, I found it lively, agreeable, and actually quite pretty. After that trip, I began to accept the possibility that things might not be exactly what they seemed. It's been a struggle, but in the past few weeks I've climbed out of that disappointment, and this is the good in what I found:

It's true that most of Linares is not an old place-- it launched from a tiny village to a successful mining town in the 1800s (and was thus one of the richest places in southern Spain for a time.) The settlement itself dates back to Roman times, in the form of Castulo, an ancient town whose ruins lie a few kilometers outside Linares. Still, there is a small "casco antiguo" or old town--a kilometer-square patch of grey-brick roads lined with orange trees and 200-year-old houses in various degrees of romantically crumbling disrepair--which still holds onto some charm. My own apartment lies on the edge of this area, next to an empty 19th century palace. A small statue of a rooster (which gives this 'Plaza del Gallo' its name) looks out onto the larger Plaza Nueva, a raised brick triangle lined with trees and set with benches, surrounded by ornate plasterwork buildings. I pass the plaza several times a day and catch glimpses of many an older couple chatting on the benches, furious mini-soccer game studiously avoiding the statue in the center, or teenage couple looking for somewhere to canoodle in peace.

In the opposite direction, a long, narrow street lined with old-style brick houses runs along the crest of a hill. It's customary to leave entryway doors slightly ajar, and the observant visitor can occasionally catch glimpses of beautifully-kept courtyards within. After a few hundred yards, the street runs through the postage-stamp size Plaza Siete Esquinas, with its arcing brickwork and elegant wrought iron fountain. Most mornings I take a right down a small hill here, toward the elementary school where I teach.

During the day, I can sometimes here the chiming bells of Iglesia Santa Maria between lessons on telling time or the castles of the United Kingdom. The church is one of the oldest in the city, and its tall, brown, octagonal steeple hints at its history as a mosque once upon a time. I always take a moment to appreciate the church's austere beauty before stopping at the small, family-run grocery across from the school to buy fresh pears, pomegranates, and whatever butchery product the owner can up-sell to me that particular day.

Following the alley around the Iglesia Santa Maria Plaza, one finds the Plaza del Ayuntamiento (city hall) spread out down wide, sweeping stairs. To one side, that bastion of Spanish urbanity Corte Ingles (the kind of department store that no longer exists in the US) takes up almost an entire block, and past this a long boulevard pauses at a plaza with fountains and statues of miners before dissolving into industrial blocks and, later, stands of olive trees. Across the street, the old city hall, another 19th century brownstone confection under constant renovation, sits waiting to be inhabited again. And in between, the brick plaza is lined with palm trees and discreetly arcing fountains. This weekend it was the site of a craft market, where I bought multiple pairs of 2-euro earrings and a beautiful, handmade stool made out of the stump of an old olive tree. In good weather, coffee and tapas bars put out tin tables to take advantage of the sunshine.

A smaller street out of the plaza leads to the heart of town, an area called "Ocho Puertas" (eight doors) that is the only approximation of "main street" in a town with no real center. It's a bustling shopping area with Madrid-style old buildings topped with icing flourishes and lined with balconies, and people come from all over the countryside to shop here. The diversity of stores calls to mind Palencia's Calle Mayor-- tasteful  cafes, bakeries, an art supply shop, a household appliance store, the requisite Zara (an extraordinarily popular European low-cost clothing store), and a seemingly unending supply of shoe-and-boot outlets. The streets here are lined with stylish streetlights, and for good reason-- at sunset, Linarenses turn out in droves for the "paseo" I grew to know and love in Palencia. It seems that it doesn't matter where you go in Spain, the people love their nightly strolls. Here one also finds the promised tangle of streets, replete with more shoe stores, a lovely coffee shop, and a produce market.

Another popular strolling spot lies just beyond Ocho Puertas: the Paseo de Linarejos is a wide boulevard lined with intricately tiled benches and the tallest, stateliest palms in the city. It starts from the beautiful (and, depending on your perspective, sadly or happily little-used) yellow-and-white art deco bullring and finishes at a confection of a church about a mile away. The paseo is popular with dog walkers, old couples, mothers with strollers, teenage skateboarders, and the occasional wayward underage drinker. Its sides are crowded with sweet shops, bars, and an old-style churro cafe. On Tuesdays and Saturdays a gypsy market sells all manner of clothing and fresh vegetables.

As for live music-- it's harder to find than I expected, but I've been happy with what I've found. Andre Segovia, who I recently heard described as 'one of the most important artists in the history of guitar', was from Linares, and the museum devoted to his life sits on Plaza Nueva, a two minute walk from my apartment. The museum hosts piano and classical guitar concerts fairly frequently, and they are almost always free and definitely always beautiful. Linares is also home to a variety of peñas, social clubs based around a topic, from sports to bullfighting to flamenco, and the flamenco peñas periodically host small free concerts with local artists and tapas at hand. The taranta, a particularly powerful and mournful genre of flamenco, has its origins in Linares and other mining towns in Jaen and the neighboring region of Almeria, and I'm growing to appreciate the pure emotion and vocal power singers of taranta display. On the other side stylistically, I've even attend a rock show, at a great theme bar on Paseo de Linarejos (Pub Fiction, with Pulp Fiction decorations, obviously.)

Lastly, but certanly not least, the great and mighty tapa deserves more than a mere mention in a passage on flamenco. Jaen (and the region directly south, Granada) is famous as Tapa Country: not only are the tapas here often generous, but by law they must come free with every drink. (Notice I say tapas and not pintxos-- see last summer's posts on Basque Country for discussion on that subject.) A night out in Linares is not complete without a stop for tapas, which can take the form of a big plate of jamon serrano, a homemade empanada, a small portion of meatballs in savory sauce, or a half kebab. On Thursday, Friday, or Saturday nights the bars overflow with Linarenses eating, drinking, and making merry until well past midnight, making slow circuits around the city to eat a bite here and a morsel there. Catholicism is one thing here, but tapas are a religion, too, and one I certainly can get behind as I settle into my new Andalucian life.