A whole new meaning to searching for the afikomen

No one will ever confuse me for the most observant Jew. I hold certain beliefs and follow certain religious customs, but owing to upbringing and inclination, I’m not the most practicing tribe member, you might say. I didn’t learn what kosher was until 6^th grade, for example, and even then the concept confused me greatly, and does so to this day.

I have taken my practice of religion though, limited as it is, with me during my travels. Back on the trip that inspired this blog, in 2006, I upheld the fast on Yom Kippur while living in Moscow. This involved eating dinner with my host family as they celebrated Vera Nikolavena’s (the mother) name day, and then refusing the dessert that came with it, as it occurred after sunset (or at least the time I had designated as sunset, roughly 7:00 p.m.). I didn’t explain myself, which further confused them, since they thought I was a junk food junkie. The next morning I purposely woke up late to skip breakfast, then managed to get through wrestling practice without eating or drinking (fairly normal, actually), and then keep myself occupied the rest of the day. At sunset I sat in the upper balcony of a theater with the host family, as we attended the staging of a British play whose name I can’t remember. The play was a slapstick affair, but more importantly, I had snuck in a chocolate covered marshmallow, and during intermission I broke the fast in gourmet fashion.

Last year, I kicked off Passover in a location naturally hostile to my people, and wholly ill fitting our storied ways: South Carolina. My friend Tara took me to her family/community Seder in Greenville. Of course, everything was quite fine, and it was probably the most proper and pleasant Passover I’ve spent. But, in all fairness, we were more or less in the shadow of Bob Jones University. That has to count for something, right?

Anyway, this time I’m in Spain for the holiday. Passover features the other tradition I try to uphold each year – no eating of leavened products for eight days (it would appear that most of the rituals I follow have to do with self-denial through eating methods. I wonder where I got that from). Again, my knowledge of the situation is flawed; I didn’t realize, for example, that rice is a no go until I went on a date with a Jewish girl during Passover. So sushi is an unlawful escape. But my diet in Spain is pretty basic as it is, so I thought I could manage pretty well. There was only one thing missing: Matzah.

***

“Well, I don’t think prison will ever be a problem for you,” Ben told me as we sat on a bench near the Sevilla Cathedral and ate lunch.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“All they give you is bread and water, and you seem ok with that.”

It’s true. I was displaying my patented survival guide for how to travel and sustain yourself on the cheap: a 1-L carton of apple juice, a loaf of bread, and some form of chocolate is all you need. I followed this in Russia, perfected it when I swung through Helsinki, and have continued to preach its viability here on the Iberian Peninsula.

You would be right to presume, then, that not being able to eat bread for eight days would be difficult for me. My daily consumption before Passover has roughly been as follows: cereal (usually involving chocolate, as they’re big on chocolate cereal here) and maybe tea for breakfast; fried chicken or hamburgers with sautéed onions, a cup of apple juice, and a piece or two of bread for lunch; and whichever of chicken and hamburgers I didn’t have for lunch along with the same additions, or alternatively two pieces of bread with Nutella. So bread and leavened products (hello, cereal!) is a big part of my day-to-day Spain.

On all past Passovers, I’ve managed to cover up for the problem with bread’s thin, low-taste substitute specially designed for the holiday, namely matzah. You see, my penchant for eating a lot of bread is probably a legacy of my love for peanut butter. The gooey ochre cream is my favorite food, if that’s possible, and when I have it around, I eat a peanut butter sandwich once a day, on average.

Two things prevent me from falling back on that strategy in Spain, though one is easily ameliorated. That would be the first reason, which is that there is no peanut butter in Spain, excepting an exceptionally high exported from the U.S. import of Jif, which comes in a tiny container for nearly 4 turkeys (they call euros “turkeys” in Spanish, sort of like how we say “bucks”, except cooler and much more valuable). Not worth it. And not that big a deal, because the aforementioned hazelnut/chocolate cream known as Nutella steps in as a solid replacement off the bench. Which would be all well and good, except I have nothing to spread that Nutella onto this week. No bread, right? So I need matzah. And where does one go to find matzah in Madrid?

The answer, of course, is the same place one goes to find anything else in Madrid or anywhere in the world: the internets. It wasn’t a straightforward effort, but after beginning with “Madrid Matzah” and then turning to “Sephardic cardboard bread”, I hit upon “Synagogues Madrid” as my appropriate search term. A few hoops after that I was at www.comjuderia.org, a website for the Jewish community in Madrid.

The community is based around one synagogue, Synagogue Beth Yaacov, an orthodox community about 20 minutes away from me by foot (interestingly enough, it is closest to the Iglesia metro stop, Spanish for church). While I spent a good Shabbat at an orthodox synagogue in Vilnius back in ’06 (see “Lithuania Always Comes Near the End” in the archives), I don’t think my loose form of Judaism is the best match for their, umm, orthodoxy. Not that they wouldn’t welcome me, but it would be awkward. Also, they probably speak Spanish, which, well, you know…

So I decided against attempting to find a Seder to attend here and settled on just finding matzah. The website above listed four potential sources for the big, flat crackers. Three were close to the synagogue, and one was a little bit farther to the Northeast, up the paseos a bit. That last one was El Corte Ingles, the Costco cum uber department store that is endemic in Spain. I thought I’d try there first.

Passover started Saturday at sunset, so I went to El Corte Ingles on Friday afternoon. It was a rushed visit – I went right after a literature club gathering, and right before my final lesson for the week. The trip involved a few stops on the metro, and then a little orienting to make sure I was going the right way. Still, ECI is a pretty big establishment, so there’s no missing it

I entered on the ground floor, which held the supermarket. I didn’t have a clear idea of where matzah would be, but I thought checking near bread or bakeries might be a start. In ECI, there’s a supermarket and then a bunch of little “shops” – bakery, deli, etc. I went to the outer bakery and the outer foreign goods store, but nothing came of it. Time was running short, because I had to take those few metro stops back to get to class by 5. I raced through the supermarket itself, but from bread to fish, sodas to wine, I couldn’t find anything that would do the trick. I snagged a sandwich for a quick dinner bite, seeing as I could still eat bread for another 27 hours or so, and then rolled out.

So there was still Saturday to go looking around. I took a walk over to the Iglesia area. The weather was lousy, as it had been for most of the two weeks preceding Passover. La Boutique Del Pan was well lit and reasonably full of people and sundry sorts of bread, but in my tiptoe stance, I couldn’t spot any matzah on the shelves. Uninterested in asking in poor Spanish, I gave up and went to the butchers.

Of course, Saturday is Shabbat, so Carniceria Shalom would be closed. Carniceria Elias too, as it turned out. And since everything in Spain closes on Sunday, more or less, I didn’t have much hope for hooking up the matzah issues before the end of the weekend.

I survived just fine for the opening days of Passover, but the matzah was still missing. When it comes down to it, the matzah isn’t absolutely essential to Passover. Yes, it’s our only substitute for bread, but if you’re willing to Atkins it up, there’s not much to miss taste-wise. But for me it didn’t feel right to go without matzah. Instead of wandering the deserts, lost after crossing the Red Sea, I felt adrift in the now sunny streets of Madrid, without my raft of unleavened carbs to carry me to shore.

So on Tuesday when I had a two and a half hour break in my schedule, I resolved to resolve the problem as best as I could. Iglesia is also about 20 minutes from where I work, so I walked there after class. The timing was such that I arrived just before 5:00, so when I saw both butcheries closed, there was one saving grace: perhaps it was still siesta. Siesta in Madrid isn’t as big a deal as I thought last time: stores close from 2-5 and the pace might relax a bit, but for the most part life goes on. The biggest adjustment to Spanish scheduling is the “dinner past 10 pm” standard, and that’s not so bad either since everybody stays out later.

In this case, I hoped that the reason Carniceria Elias showed no signs of its existence beyond its name on the awning, with metal doors rolled down over the windows like on a garage, was the siesta. Carniceria Shalom was in a similar state, but the garage windows didn’t go all the way to the ground, which gave me hope that they were preparing to open at 5.

A few loops around the neighborhood and a purchase of a small bag of chips later, I returned to the places in question. Though it was indeed after 5, Elias showed no further hints of life, and Shalom’s garage windows did not creep up an inch. That doesn’t necessarily mean they didn’t open at 5:14, right after I left; Madrid is not considered to be the most punctual place.

But leave I did, because I didn’t want to wait around forever, and because I had a new hint for my search at ol’ El Corte Ingles. Apparently, right next to that very fish section I had passed with pinched nostrils and nary a glance three days before, there was the kosher section. Well, if anywhere in Madrid would have matzah, presumably it’d be the one El Corte Ingles that had a kosher section.

There was no walking from where I was to El Corte Ingles, but I did it anyway. A few minutes to the paseo, and then a 20-minute stroll along the paseo until I got to the familiar green pennant signs. I had a familiarity with the layout and with the supermarket, so I entered with a plan. Past the produce, ignore the sweets, and blammo! There was the fish counter, and indeed right next to it was an island of kosher goods.

On top of that island were packs of matzah. Big packs. In fact, double packs of matzah. They weren’t selling single boxes – you had to buy two, for about 8 turkeys, as they were imported too. Usually, slightly more than one box is enough for me for the week. Here we were almost halfway through the week, and I was in a final dilemma. Get the double box and surely have a surplus of matzah, or buy a small box of matzah crackers or bite-sized matzah pieces that would likely run out before the end of Passover but cost half as much? Well, at the risk of perpetuating ill-fitting stereotypes, I went with the small box. After all, I made it the first two days of Passover without matzah. I could probably make the last two, and then not have to worry about extras.

Back in high school, my friend Pete, a big Texan, and I had a tradition where every Passover he would ceremoniously take a piece of matzah from the cafeteria and break it over my face. Actually, he’d do that more than once during the week. It was all in great fun, and there was plenty of matzah to go around for such foolishness.

Now, I realize that the substance can at times be quite a luxury. I walked to the metro from El Corte Ingles with my bag of matzah and chocolate (I was running low), and a big smile on my face, knowing I wouldn’t have the chance to waste this matzah similarly, but that at least I found some. And I knew that thin salty unleavened bread would never taste so good as this time.

And so, all came to a happy end. Matzah and nutella is a great mix, I found a bridge to carry through Passover and uphold tradition, and things got messy in only the best of ways. For your viewing amusement:

Another Pictoral Interlude...

I've got a few posts I'm narrowing in on, but until I live them and then write them, I'm sticking to pictures. They're pretty. These are of Madrid:

A Mariachi band on the fringe of Puerta de Sol, in the center of Madrid.

Fountains on the paseos (sort of like boulevards) on the east side of the center of the city, near the Prado et al.

This statue cuts a dashing figure in Plaza Mayor, also in the center of Madrid. At night there's a good game of "drunk kick the soccer ball around" here.

A blown-up print of a Modigliani reclining nude painting. I took this mainly for my dad. Explains a lot, doesn't it?

A fountain at the traffic circle closest to me on my way to work. Fountains are always photogenic, even when boring.

See what I mean? But really, this is a pretty view looking East past the paseos. I think it's nice, at least.

This photo is taken from the same place, but looking west, towards Gran Via, the "Broadway" of Madrid.

Palacio Real behind a statue in Plaza Oriente. And apparently there's some light source from the sky that obscures the statue's face. Heavens, what might it be?

And this is what I see out my window. At least when the weather is decent, as it has not been for two weeks. Ahh, but now starts the 24° weather, so the wait is worth it.

The (Maybe not quite) Sweet Sounds of a Madrid Night

Yeah, that's me. On stage, with my "axe", "rocking out." And a harmonica too. I'm playing a D-chord, it looks like, and behind me is one of the many pictures at the club that form a series of full-bodied naked women (including one delectable one where we saw only the back of the woman...except that she was seated upon a man, whose most characteristic organ was visible in joining with hers...but enough of that).

Oh, you need context? I bet you do. So, I played a show at a club called Nänai in Madrid. The club is a decent-sized Middle Eastern themed bar/restaurant, with a laidback dining feel to the room. Besides the interesting artwork, which Ben tells me changes every 2-3 weeks, Nänai boasted a creaky stage and hummus that looked really good. I didn't try any, but I salivated over it a little.

I got the show (because that was your next question, I'm sure) through connections and chance. Sometime during my first week in Madrid, while still settling in to my new apartment, I got a gchat from Ben about how a friend of his roommate was over. Ben had told him about my guitar playing, and this friend was interested. So, I walked the two minutes over to the apartment, went up to Ben's room, and found Arthur there.

Arthur is a young-looking guy with big, white-rimmed glasses. He is tall and skinny, and always either smiling or inquisitive. He has an earnest demeanor that comes off as goofy at times, but while he can be unintentionally entertaining every now and then, he never means ill. From Portland, OR, he has had quite a bit of experience abroad and is just settling into Madrid now after 7 months here.

More pertinently, he plays guitar and had managed to get himself a show to put together at Nänai. And he was enthusiastic about putting together an entertaining bill, because nothing is more important at a show than making sure the audience is entertained, as Arthur asserted.

I was supposed to audition for Arthur that night, but something got lost in the gchatting. So instead I dug up a version of "Julian of Norwich" that Bombadil had played, to show him that I've at least written a song, and that it's ok and, if I'm lucky, entertaining. Apparently, I sold myself well enough, because by the end of the night, Coal Burning Lamp was on the bill.

There was a large interim period between the negotiations and the concert date. In the meantime I went to Andalusia, entrenched myself in the English Teacher ranks (not hard to do), and continued to struggle with the Spanish language. But then we rehearsed last Friday night. Few words are sweeter than the ones I read from Arthur via text after I emailed him to check on rehearsal Friday morning: "Let's play some tunes."

Arthur lives nearby in Arguelles. So after relaxing and preparing on a Friday afternoon that marked the end of my first full working week in Spain, I went over to his place, guitar in tow. We started to play a little, then another friend of his, Chris, joined us, and soon we were trading songs and playing together in trios, Chris on the mandolin, Arthur and I on our respective guitars. And before we knew it, we had been playing for nearly three hours. It had been a while for me, anyways - I can go only so long without yelling at the top of my voice...err...singing emotively.

At the rehearsal we showed off our respective tunes and worked out an order for our sets. An Argentinian would play first, then I would play, then Chris and I would play, then all three of us, then just Arthur. At the end of the night, a talented Australian singer who goes by Igloo would close the show down. The order is more confusing to think about than to follow, by the way.

Sunday night came, the night of the show. I scribbled down a few phrases in poor Spanish to introduce myself to the crowd, and to present my songs. I expressly didn't show the phrases to Ben, so that they would maintain their naive brilliance. (After the show, Ben told me I didn't need to translate the titles into Spanish, for example. "Ahh, but that's the point," I said. "It's not supposed to sound right.")

We stopped by a poetry reading arranged by Ben's roommate (henceforward known as Kristi, which happens to be her name), and attended by some of her friends. It was a suitable way to enter into a higher artistic mindset, one that would be shattered as soon as I opened my mouth on stage. You know, sort of like the donkey in lion's clothing.

After we enjoyed the poets' company and Ben downed a beer and seltzer water cocktail, we set off to Nänai, which was only ten minutes away. We arrived to a small crowd, 10-15 people in the back of the restaurant where all the performing would go on. I tuned up and talked with Arthur and Chris. It appeared increasingly likely that the Argentinian would not show up, which of course meant that I would have to step in and take the opener bullet.


Fortunately, I've been in less appealing performing situations. That and I wasn't exactly worried about reaching a Spanish audience anyway (though to be fair, most of the people sitting close to the stage either were Americans or spoke English well). So, when Arthur told me that we should probably get this thing going, I agreed and asked him only to introduce me a little bit, so I wouldn't have to explain everything.

Arthur is nothing if not game, so he got up and opened the night with a few words. He is no fluent Spanish speaker either, but he has no fear on the stage, and so did a nice job. Then I went up, said some silly bit about myself and "Boat to Barcelona," and began my arpeggios.


It could be said that my performance was shocking. Largely self-educated in the Mangum school of laying it on the line, I like to make clear in my songs that I care about what I'm singing about. For that reason, I may flatten a few punchlines or startle a few members in the audience, but at the same time, it's probably at least entertaining to gawk at, if nothing else.

So I went through a three song set on my own, all fairly aggressive songs - "Boat to Barcelona", "Mystery Polka," and "Keep Me Clean." The latter especially involves yelling, banging my guitar, and moving around on stage in all fashions. For the show we had no microphone or sound system, which frees the performer to move around and act, as well as sing. My guitar playing might not be strong enough to sound beneath my voice, but it's close enough.

After the trio of openers, I invited Chris on stage, who played mandolin in support of "Julian of Norwich." I've played with many talented musicians on that song, and with many different instruments (bouzouki, accordion, drums, for example), and all of them supported the song nicely one way or another. The mandolin was similarly a very nice complement to a song about a medieval mystic from England. It just made sense, and Chris managed to pick up the not completely straightforward progressions quickly.

Chris took the lead next, and I plucked some simple guitar and bass lines to complement his 3-chord down home playing. I'm not going to confuse many people for a talented guitarist, but it was a fun sidelight, and the harmonica went nicely with the bit.

This is Chris with me.

Then we returned to my last song, one of my newer songs, "This Morning's Tea" (which leaves me about two tea songs away from my Tea EP). Arthur came on stage for the last one, and we went through four verses and a big harmonica laden finish. My leading job done, I switched spots with Arthur and supported him on "The Fool" (you can check out his tunes at myspace.com/smidarthur). Then, as the plan suggested, I got off stage and just Chris supported Arthur on his next one, and then Chris left as well, and Arthur entertained on his own. He was quite entertaining, with a strange incarnation of Elvis as a hippie at times, and as I mentioned, Arthur was never afraid to lay it out on the line.

On the other hand, this is Arthur behind me.

For the finale of our section of the show, Arthur invited Chris and I back on stage and we played "Good Night." On "The Fool" I played bass and sang harmonies on the "Oh Yeahs", but on "Good Night" I got to play a little arpeggiating riff along with the harmonies. So I added a little flexibility to the whole supporting thing, or in other words a little more flexibility than I have in my legs.

At last, the three of us vacated the stage, and Igloo took the stage. As evidenced by her myspace (myspace.com/iglooz), Igloo is quite polished and talented. She (her name is Josephine) is Australian and sounds a bit like Nedelle at times, with pretty folkie songs that were augmented nicely by a violist. She is also quite ambitious, as evidenced by the set list that she kept at her feet (she included the moments when she wanted to talk to the crowd, as well as a potential encore. She didn't take it.) As Arthur explained to me that first night we met, it takes a little bit of self-promotion to make it in this business, so more power to her. We enjoyed a free drink (mine for playing the show, Ben's for, umm, we're not sure why), and then once the show ended we went over to a legendary (in the Chang-Sobol family) tapas bar for some high-quality croquetas, and discoursed on divers and fascinating topics (including, for that matter, Quixote). We argued, we agreed, we disagreed, we shared our love for Madrid and croquetas, and then we went home, to shake off the glow of the evening. Or maybe just the stench of cigarettes on our clothes. Ahh, Madrid.


All photos courtesy of Mr. Benjamin Chang.

A Night of Flamenco

The bar is easily missed, a hole in the wall on one of the side streets in the Old Town of Sevilla, near Plaza Santa Cruz. But for a flier on the door, La Carbonerìa does not announce its existence, or that a show is on tonight. No more ostentatious is the outer room, where a doorman nods hello and old men play Othello, except on a board much larger than what you are used to seeing.

But the din of the crowd reaches that outer room, and when you enter the bar at five minutes to 11, it is full. A wide room with rows of tables, as well as an upper tier of nosebleed seats (though of course, the show is free for everyone), and bars on either end. The bar in the back serves food. The one in the front is reserved for drinks.

The bar is full with a clientele of three types. There are tourists, many of them middle-aged or older and from the U.S., or France, or other parts of Spain, for you hear all three tongues and others from their lips. Also among the tourists are the younger sorts, the backpackers and college students studying abroad, who have come in groups with their hostels or Let’s Go Europe! guidebooks. These tourists have affection for the second group: high school students, throngs of European high schoolers who go on field trips to all parts of Europe. They are supervised much of the time, but in this setting free to flirt and smoke and, for the older-looking ones among them, order alcohol.

Then there are the locals, who treat La Carbonerìa like any other dive. They tell stories by the bar for a laugh, and try to impress their lady friends, unconcerned with the anticipation that hangs over the room. Indeed, the level of excitement for the show decreases gradually from tourists to high school students to the locals.

By the bar there is a dressing room where the players wait backstage. The door is open at first, and the frills of the dancer’s traditional Sevillan dress can be seen. But as showtime nears, the door closes. Still, a steady clapping beat sounds inside the room, a final rehearsal of rhythms before the show.

As you wait outside with a sense of curiosity, or even anxiety, the time passes to 11:15, then 11:20. People continue filtering into the bar, finding seats with their friends who got their earlier, or else squeezing into open standing spaces from where they can see the stage. Along with the anticipation, the smog of everyone’s cigarettes thickens the air, so that each deep breath you take only quickens death’s onset. You breathe deeply and continue to wait.

At last the dressing room door reopens, and the group emerges. Two men and the woman dancer walk to the stage. She kisses a man at the table in between the dressing room and the stage, a table reserved for friends of the band. A 3^rd man joins them on stage, getting up from that table and taking a seat on the far right of the stage. The dancer sits next to him, and then the singer and the guitarist.

The singer begins to speak as the crowd goes silent. It is clear he is the group’s leader, at least in spirit. He requests the crowd to be quiet during the show, to take all the pictures they want but no videos, and to not smoke during the songs, a request surely in vain. His introduction finished, he turns to the guitarist, who begins to pluck out a melody, while waiting for his three compatriots to clap the rhythm.

An intricate rhythm that contains a multitude of clapped beats begins, and over it the guitar floats and at the same time supports. The foundation is set. Now the tower of music can be built. The singer emits a wail, a long “A-hi” that rises and then falls, as he calls on the spirits, wordlessly. Then he sings words, in the same strong yet trembling voice, as if by the very words he sings he’s ripping himself asunder.

As the song develops over the initial strands, the three men fall into their different roles. The clapper, well dressed with his hair in a ponytail, solemnly keeps his time, showing neither pain nor joy, only smiling when he catches the eye of one of his colleagues, or of his friends at the table to his right. He is focused on the task at hand, and may as well be clapping in the middle of a desert, for all the attention he affords his surroundings.

In contrast, the guitarist is enjoying himself, a smile perpetually on his lips, his eyes always dancing. As he plays he cannot help but move, his head bobbing forwards and backs, his eyes bugging out as he looks at the singer next to him. He thrusts the guitar out at the crowd on key notes, teasing them with his music, as it seems he teases them when he hisses for silence, mocking the manner of the incessant worrywarts in the crowd. He is all tics and movement, his body as much in motion as his fingers as he goes from picking to strumming to both at the same time.

To his right the singer sits, and as he evokes the ghosts of past flamenco heroes, he serves as the emotional center for the men. His face is as pained as his voice, and as he sings the absurdly passionate romances that make up flamenco, he expresses that this is no pose, that this is art as life as art. He is the sign of devotion to flamenco as ART in the band, the adherent to the tradition.

All three are necessary, for flamenco’s essence is borne out by their collective roles. Flamenco descends from gypsy music. The Roma people brought it to Spain. But Spain added two key pieces to the formula. Flamenco is gypsy music plus humor and rhythm.

Well, there’s a third major piece as well, and that’s dance. And so when at last the dancer steps out of her chair and to the front of the stage, she embodies the essence of flamenco. She represents each of the men behind her, with a stern devotion to the act and a business-like attitude, but also a sense of the joy and passion behind the performance. She smiles at her friends, and she smiles at the feeling she gets from the performance, the memories it brings back.

The dancer is in at least her late 40s, and only looks that young because her long, curly hair remains boldly black. A cruel observer might say she looks a little like a female Mick Jagger, current edition, but that cruel observer would suffer from time just as much as she.

Once, she must have been a star, a high-profile dancer. Her grace and ability speak to this, if nothing else. Now, she performs at a small bar buried in the old town of Sevilla with three men, boys, who cannot be closer than 20 years to her age. She has to deal with a crowd of tourists and strangers who don’t understand when to clap and when to stay silent, the cadences deceiving them at every turn. She wears each disappointment on her face.

But, like the rest of the band, she performs with passion and rises above the inadequate aspects of their setting. To the unknowing eye her dancing is flawless, from the steps to the sashays of her skirt to the passion in her face. She dances and reminds us that before we dreamed of fame, of performing in front of the masses and earning their attention and applause, we danced in our room, alone, to the music in our head.

The dance goes about 10-15 minutes, and then she returns to her seat. Again, there is undesired clapping from the audience, and the singer calls for silence. There impatience in his voice, but eventually everyone, talkers and hissers alike, quiet down. They play a song that features the guitar, with hard chords and several near endings. The dancer sings quietly in harmony with the singer, so that you can see her lips moving but not make out the words.

Then it ends. The band goes to the front of the stage together, takes a bow, and exits stage right, back to their friends. No formal announcement came on whether the show would resume or not, but they have only played for 30 minutes, so it’s safe to expect more. Many in the crowd exit, and many others settle into the newly vacant seats. The night approaches midnight, still an infant in Spanish terms.

As the crowd waits and talks and smokes again, the band does the same. The guitarist sets up a “No Pasar” sign by the door leading to the courtyard, then goes out to smoke a cigarette and nurse a beer. The singer also imbibes, mingling a little bit with his friends but also soaking in the sweat and the alcohol. He lost a lot of weight on the stage, and needs to replenish. The dancer talks with a man by the bar, and the clapper again blends in with the crowd to join the hometown table.

Offstage, the respective images of the performers change. The guitarist looks small, slim, and perhaps petulant, rather than merry and brilliant. The singer smiles as he talks, the pain washed away. The clapper is just as much a part of the background as on stage, but he too is no longer solemn and committed to the beat. Only the dancer's on-stage mystique remains. She is tall, and as the only one dressed in Sevillan fashion, she looks just as she should, like she just stepped off the flamenco stage, and like she might step right back on.

The room stays full through the long wait, even if of a different populace. Their certainty that the show will go on is affirmed, as the band at last steps back on stage. Either the crowd is less aware of the issue or the novelty and respect has worn off, because it takes much longer for silence to be achieved. Once the singer is satisfied with the attention level, he turns to the guitarist, and they pick up right where they left off.

The second act largely mirrors the first in structure. The first song involves no dancing, with a focus on the singer. For a twist, the band asks a friend of theirs, Elena, to join the main dancer for a duet on the next song, the dance. The song is a romantic, finger-pointing song about what two characters have done right or wrong. For each verse, the dancers face off, then dance past each other, touching each other’s arms stretched above their heads as they pass by, before ending up on the opposite side. They then cycle back through in the same fashion to get back to where they started.

Elena is much younger, and also prettier than her counterpart. She is dressed in a modern outfit, jeans and a see-through white shirt over a tank top. But Elena is not just looks; she holds her own as a dancer. The dancer in the band is graceful though, and smiles more during this dance than she does the rest of the evening. She plays off her new partner’s energy, and they both come off looking better for it.

The duet ends and Elena returns to her seat, the dancer to hers. The band goes through a quick number, and then the singer announces that this will be the last song, and that someone will be playing flamenco in the outer room afterwards. You brace for another guitar-focused song like the first set, or maybe a romantic finish. It begins that way, and the end is near.

Then in a huff the dancer storms out of her seat. She moves to the front of the stage and starts a new dance to the song, a ferocious dance where she does not step as much as stomp through her paces, yet she maintains her technique and lightness of foot nevertheless. No more smiles are allowed on her face, and she is at her most passionate as she twirls from one side of the stage to another, all in time.

Her path takes her to the back part of the stage, near the seats. She storms back into her seat, the song ends, and the applause begins. The group gets up this time and in concert takes a bow to the audience before exiting. “Olès” and whistles are heard amongst the clapping. The band returns to their corner of the room, and the crowd ceases cheering and turns for the exits.

In the outer room, a man in the corner warms up on his guitar, ready to catch the masses as they leave. At the tables, the old men still sit, playing their Othello.

Sevilla in groups of a Thousand words

Being tired from our day and a half in Granada (and the getting lost bit especially), we didn't do as much in the Andalusian capital, Sevilla. So instead, here are a bunch of photos:


This one is actually from Granada, but I think it's funny. So there.

A narrow Sevillan Street

The old walls in the old part of Sevilla, near Santa Cruz

Sevilla's Cathedral, 3rd largest in the world. This is just a portion of it.

Alcazar, the palace where the Spanish royal family still stays when they visit Sevilla.

Looking through the bars onto a Sevillan Square at nighttime.

The Flamenco group gets ready on stage. Wait, the flamenco group? Sounds like something happened...

Lost in Granada

A boring fountain in the more modern part of Granada, before we got lost.

In one corner stood the challengers, Ben and I, who consider ourselves pretty intrepid travelers. We have our fair share of experience, open minds, and a decent bit of know-how. In the other corner stood the champion, Granada is known for its small cobblestone streets in the center of town, as well as many hills. And in this case, the city maintained its title, for the city won.

We did not get lost just once in Granada, nor twice. We got lost four times. Four different cases of utter befuddlement, where maps offered no help, and oftentimes the locals we asked had no idea how to help us. Each incidence had its own flavor, however, so let's look a little closer:

The First Time (Or, how we finally found our aptly named hostel): First is the worst, or so it was for us. We still had hope, we still had the idyllic vision of a perfect trip in our hearts, and more importantly, we still had our bags on.
The hostel wasn't on the map, and neither was the street it was on, Calle de Mirador Rolando. But Gmapping it suggested a general location, and we figured once we got close, we could ask somebody or stumble upon it ourselves.

Ben pulls out the map. This happens to be about 5 minutes away from our hostel as the stray cat walks, 2 hours as the travelers search.

So after a little map consulting and a checking of our gut instincts, we marched through an arch and up a hill. We climbed carefully, listening as other tourists in earshot talked about how this reminded them of "Old Europe." Then, in a touristy plaza near the top of a hill, in the middle of siesta, we started to ask for help.
I still speak minimal Spanish, and understand about as much. Still, from what Ben told me and from what I could piece together, the general exchange went like this:
Ben: "Excuse me, could you tell me where calle de Mirador Rolando is?"
Granada Citizen: "What? Never heard of it. What are you looking for?"
Ben: "A hostel, El Clandestino."
GC: "Hmm. Nope. Maybe they made it up. You should take a left here, go up a hill, and ask somebody at the next plaza."
And so on.

We ran into some interesting people while we hunted. One mother with two little girls had no idea where the street was, but was eager to talk with us and wish us luck. Another woman, a little older, gave us detailed directions which were confirmed by an even older gentleman on a rooftop. At one point we got tired and stopped on a plaza that had a little park and a small platform. Therein we got to witness a girl practicing a little flamenco. That was fun.

Ben filming the flamenco dancer. Meta.

None of this helped us find our hostel, however, and after two or so hours of tramping around with our bags, most of that time unclear of where we were going (we did successfully buy train tickets to get to Sevilla). We took the last woman's advice and went out to a major road, then after marking our territory in case we got lost, we went down Cuesta San Antonio. Ben recognized the street from his Gmapping, so we had some hope. As we proceeded down the hill, we saw a tattoo parlor, and agreed that must be a good sign. Still, we found nothing, and were back at the arch where Ben first pulled out the map.
We were and still are intrepid travelers. Maybe life is easier for the traveler these days, with internet access abundant, a more globalized understanding prevalent everywhere, and the ability to plan out a trip better than ever. But at that point we were stumped, tired, and weary. Smiles still hung on our faces, though not out of joy. Rather, at some point we smiled at the absurdity of our dilemma, and then became too tired to wipe that smile off our faces.
There was no recourse but to continue our efforts, anyway. (I thought we might throw ourselves at the feet of the flamenco dancer and her friend, in hopes they might take pity on us and let us crash on their floor, but that was just a suggestion). Ben went into a motorcycle shop on the incline to that first plaza atop a hill. He stayed in there for a few minutes, so that I got concerned and went back to check on him. There he stood, looking at a map with three other guys. As it turns out, the owner was sure where the place was, and it was indeed not on the map. And we had walked right by it.
So we went back out towards that main road, the one where we had so conveniently marked our territory. We approached the same Cuesta San Antonio, this time with a desperate hope, not knowing what would happen if we failed this time. We espied the tattoo parlor at the bottom of the hill again, our omen of possibility, and as we spotted it, Ben looked to his right, where indeed a stairway off the street led up. We went up, and so it was, calle de Mirador Rolando! A stairway that led to a tiny circle of a street, where indeed El Clandestino lived up to its name. And we, exhausted after 3+ hours of tromping around with our bags, retired to a nice terrace to recover before our nighttime efforts.


View from ol' El Clandestino. It's nice, eh? Maybe not quite worth the effort, but still.

Number 2, or how we couldn't find the hostel again: So after resting up a little bit and generally setting into our hostel, which was very nice, we went out to see what the Granada night had in store for us. Spanish nightlife is largely based around the art of the tapas, where you hop from bar to bar eating small plates of various delicacies, many involving ham, while drinking beverages. But I doubt that anywhere can match Granada in one respect: there you don't pay for the tapas. Order a drink, get free tapas. And drinks are not especially expensive: we didn't pay more than 2 euros (these days, roughly $145) for a drink, and usually a little less.
So we went to one place, squeezed ourselves into a corner right before the rush began, and enjoyed a couple o' drinks. Ben had cañas (little beers) while I usually went to tinto de veranos (red wine with lemon seltzer water). We had a couple of nice tapas plates, one featuring ham, one pork, and some girls from Andalucia talked to us for a bit. Then we headed to another place where we watched Madrid suburbian football team Getafe steal a tie from Bayern Munich in the UEFA Cup Quarterfinals, as well as learning about Zenit St. Petersburg's dominant away win. We had Morcilla (blood sausage, though it was served like chili on a piece of bread) and tortilla (eggs and potatoes, also on bread). Somewhere along the way we had a tuna paste on bread as well. A lot of bread.
Anyway, somewhere near midnight, which is still quite early in the night for Spain, we decided to trek back to the hostel. We planned to wake up at 7 or so the next morning to get out to the Alhambra and buy tickets, so a decent rest was in order. Things were going fine as we walked back to the main drag. We took a turn and wandered into somewhat unfamiliar territory, but we weren't too concerned. While we had seen just about all of Granada when we got lost earlier, we figured that it must look different at night. So we went on. And on. And on.
15 minutes later we saw a sign saying "Centro" and pointing in the direction we came from. Another turn around, another extra adventure. At least we got back without special problems.

This was the next day at the Alhambra. No one is lost, we're just upside down.

The Third Time (Or how we struggled to find our 2nd hostel): So our main man Manuel at El Clandestino warned us that Hostelworld lied, and that he had no availability for Friday night. But also he told us not to worry, because he had rebooked us in another hostel with a private room which was cheaper and even closer to the center.
Friday morning we went to the Alhambra (without getting lost! though we did buy one ticket too many...), and afterwards returned to EC for our bags and directions to our next place, Maktub. Manuel told us where to go and said there would be "plenty of signs."
Maktub is an Arabic word, and the hostel was appropriately located in one of the most Arabic regions of Granada. Granada has strongest Arabic heritage in Spain, as evidenced by the Arabic region and the Alhambra. So as we looked for our hostel, we found plenty of market stalls where one could by handheld drums or incense or clothing.
We didn't find Maktub, of course. We walked right around where it should have been two or three times, again clueless. We asked a couple people, who gave us directions that were less than precise, which left us no better off than before.
The resolution to this episode was quicker and easier, however: A waitress in a nearby bar told Ben to look for the big wooden door, and after we knocked on a couple, we came to the right one. There an Austrian dude let us in, and we witnessed an Israeli and an Australian with huge blond dreads and a Velvet Underground and Nico t-shirt have an argument about whether or not all the food in the fridge was up for grabs. They came to some conclusion, and after an interlude of silence, the following exchange was heard:
Aussie: What are you making now?
Israeli: Pizza. (Pause) You want some?
Aussie: No, I'm good.

No further blood or angst shed, we retired to the terrace for a little break before setting off on our last adventure, which of course led to...

This is actually still at the Alhambra. I'm not lost, but it sure looks like it.

The Fourth Time (Or where we got lost in a good way): We wanted to go to the Sacramonte, a neighborhood with many caves on the other high ground of Granada, North of the Alhambra. We took a bus to the Alhambra, but this time we decided we could scale the hill one way or another.
First we scaled the streets, where we found Mirador San Nicolas. One of Ben's students told him people played flamenco and the cool kids hung out there, so we did as such also, watching various hippie riff-raff selling necklaces and the like while a guy played a pretty mean flamenco tune or two. Impromptu dancing ensued and all was quite merry around us and in our hearts as we set back on our journey to the top of the hill*.
At a juncture below the wall we intended to reach, we saw a sign that pointed to the Sacramonte neighborhood to our right. The wall was clearly in front of us. So we decided to eschew following the sign and proceeded forwards. Why at this point we would spurn help and guidance so clearly offered is a question best left unanswered.
We went up some stairs, came upon sleeping dogs, a rooster, and a goose underneath a car in a street's span, and then we decided to take it off road. Climbing more or less easily marked paths, we got all the way up to the wall we spotted from below. That wall was actually still below the caves, and one of our EC friends told us that the hippie riff-raff hang out there as well. We saw a few such people as we walked around the wall and came to the other side. In front of us were open fields, with barely traces of civilization upon them. To the right was the Alhambra on its hill, actually slightly below us. A grand opportunity stretched out before us, and we took it.
Avoiding a few skinny stray dogs, we took off in the direction of a building we saw from afar that we thought might be the cave museum. Going on and off the paths, up and down hills, we came to a bluff that overlooked the Sacramonte neighborhood, no doubting it. But there was a fence somewhere down there, which put the question of accessing the neighborhood on the table. Still, we carried on, picking our way down the cactus-girded path and past a few caves that looked quite inhabited. We came to within 50 feet of the museum height wise, and it seemed sure that we'd make it.
Alas, a man below spotted me. "Are you trying to make a visit to the museum?" he cried out in English, likely hearing Ben and I speak before.
"No, we'd just like to get down to the streets," I answered.
"You have to go around," he said, and he gestured to my right. "You can't get down that way."
"Can't I just hop the fence?" I asked.
"No!" He laughed. "Where are you from?"
"Moscow," I said.
"Moscow? Well, you have to go around!"

So the shortcut plans were foiled. Ben was still a little higher up on the trail, so I backtracked to him and we went around to a path that led us to the street. On the way we slid by two ravenous dogs (I was armed with a rock, just in case) and then calmed another angry dog, though a chihuahua. At last we came to the streets of Sacramonte, by which point we wanted to do nothing more than return to the main part of the city. As usual, it's the journey, not the destination that counts.

Leaving Granada at last. We earned it.


*I read about 240 pages of Don Quixote over the trip span, so if my prose is a little grandiloquent, that's probably the inspiration.

¡Estoy en España! (And I'm not sure what that means)

This is from Helsinki, not Madrid. But I figured I'd use it somewhere. It looks cool, don't it?

I'm back in Europe. I'm still short, and last I checked still a man. So I figured I'd dust off the 'ol blog, at least to jumpstart my writing, and make fun of myself where no one will read it.

I'm here to hang out with Ben, enjoy a new place, get away from responsibility, blah blah blah. What I'm really here for? To screw up while taking showers.

First I was at Ben's place, where he walked me through a challenging 4 step process to turn on the heat that would provide hot water. In 4 days, I showered twice, neither time with complete success. The results were good, but the process was not flawless - the first time I struggled to light the burner, requiring Ben's roommate's assistance. The second time I struggled with cold water for a few minutes before I remembered that once I lit the burner, I had to crank the knob to the left for full heat.

Of course, that pales in comparison to my foolishness today. Mind you, I'm terrible at figuring out showers anywhere - I once waited in the bathroom for 15 minutes or so while trying to turn on the shower in an on-campus apartment at Duke, only achieving hot water spoutage when my teammate who lived in the apartment returned later that day and demonstrated for me. "You're a funny dude, Shortman," he told me. So much for Massholes being smarter than Okies.

I expected trouble when I moved in to my new place yesterday. It's always awkward to shower and use the facilities when in a new place anyway. Throw in the certainty that I'd have trouble with the shower and my less than shaky grasp of Spanish, and the morning promised to be interesting.

When I awoke, I heard a shout of "Dani!" Fortunately, my landlady Patricia had warned me that when she yelled Dani or Daniel, it meant her son. "¡Es tardissimo!" she screamed. I understood that. Also, I decided that I wouldn't be getting in her way this morning, just in case.

The bathroom is large and convenient. I took care of all my morning issues, but when I got to the shower/bath, I was helpless. There was a round handle that I could turn left or right, but it offered no water. There were three pairs of buttons on the face of the shower, and I thought perhaps pushing or inverting them in appropriate fashion might solve the problem. After trying a few iterations I realized this couldn't be the way, because it would require a combination more detailed than the process needed to get into the basketball offices at Duke. So I decided to skip the shower.

Breakfast went fine, and I was reconciled to no showering for the immediate period. I put on some deodorant, dressed, and went to an "interview" for a teaching job. Afterwards, I was ready to go to the park and watch Ben play some tennis before returning in hopes of catching Patricia and getting the info out of her.

Then a turn in the story; she texted me to say her key to the house didn't work, and that she needed my keys so she could go copy them. (Though again, for all I know, she could have been telling me the weather was nice so she wouldn't be home till tomorrow). I changed course and returned home, where I didn't see her. I went back into my room, unshowered and away from the tennis match.

Patricia arrived moments later, though. She knocked on the door, I let her in, and then once I got a hold of her, I asked her how to use the shower. I had been practicing the line all day, so I said it with only about 3 errors, plus a bad accent. She smiled, went to the bathroom herself, and then let me in to show me that you had to not only turn the handle (which had hot and cold labeled backwards) but push up on it! Of course! I knew I'd regret my stupidity, but I smiled, said gracias, and then showered soon afterwards. A happy, fresh smelling ending.

And now, to my first "lesson", with mutton chops in tow. Hasta luego.