A LITTLE TOO MUCH ENTHUSIASM?

A COUPLE OF WEEKENDS AGO, Mike and I went to Los Gallos, a famous flamenco tablao here in Seville. We made sure to arrive a half an hour early to get good seats. We ended up in the second row from the front, seated next to an Australian couple.

I like Australians. Like Canadians, they are (by and large) warm, enthusiastic, and straightforward folks - definitely 'what you see is what you get', kind of people. Judging from how they were talking, they were excited about the show. They were also new to flamenco.

The tablao's host entered the stage, and asked in Spanish, English, and French, to please refrain from taking photographs or videos during the show; there would be time for that at the end. It's a pretty standard request. As soon as he finished, the woman beside me yelled, 'VAH MOSE!' Then her partner shouted it, as if to make sure we all heard. "VAH MOSE!"

I cringed. Who had told them that was an appropriate thing to yell? I've had enough flamenco to know when it's reasonable to shout a jaleo or two. Hearing 'VAH MOSE' (or 'let's go!' for vamos) was too much for my sensibilities. Plus, I didn't want to keep hearing it shouted in my ear throughout the show.

I leaned over to the woman and whispered, "Excuse me. I know a little about flamenco. If you really want to show your appreciation, a better thing to say might be, 'Olé!' or 'Eso es!"

Her eyebrows lifted. Her partner considered me as if I had suggested a better Rioja. "Eso es?" she repeated.

"Yes. It means, 'that's it!' You can say it when a dancer performs a really amazing bit of footwork. Or you can shout, 'Toma!' It means to 'take it!'"

She beamed at me as if I had handed her the moon. He nodded. "Toma! Right! Thanks!"

"No problem." I smiled. I had done my good flamenco deed for the day. None of the performers would be insulted with hearing "VAH MOSE!" as if what they were doing on stage wasn't enough, and the two beside me were happy, armed with appropriate jaleos. As the guitarist and singer took the stage, we watched them tune up. After their first piece, one of the dancers performed an incredible Tarantos. As she finished with an awe-inspiring set of turns, it came:

"HAY SOW! HAY SOW!"

My seat-mate was so enthusiastic, and shouting it so loud, she almost lurched from her seat. I didn't have the heart to stop her. Every time she shouted 'HAY SOW', I kept finishing it with an 'es' in my head. Was 'HAY SOW!' any better than 'VAH MOSE!'? Probably worse. I hoped the flamencos on stage would see her appreciation for what it was.

But when she started in at the start of a Seguirillas, I set a hand upon her arm. "It's probably better to say that a little less during this piece," I whispered.

"Oh, right," she said, noting the terse expression on the dancer's face. "She looks a bit upset."

"Yes. It's that kind of dance."

"Got you," my seat mate replied, nodding. We were flamenco sisters now, afficionadas.

In didn't stop the 'hay sows', but the end, she won me over. She was so happy and thrilled with what she was seeing, she kept grabbing me by the arm when something exciting occurred. Being a touchy-feelie person myself (although not as touchy as she was), the four of us agreed the show had been astounding. Afterwards, we introduced ourselves. They were Natalie and Wade from Adelaide, and off to Madrid the next day. It seems Australians like Canadians, as much as Canadians like Australians. I told them they should visit Casa Patas, a famous tablao there. Natalie assured me they would.

I suspect Casa Patas rang with her "HAY SOWS!" I don't doubt they'll be remembered in Madrid. :-)

Hasta luego, mis amigos, olé!

- Susan.

WHO NEEDS A DRYER WHEN YOU HAVE CLOTHES PINS?

LIKE THE TITLE SAYS, WHO NEEDS A DRYER, WHEN YOU HAVE A BALCONY AND CLOTHES PINS? For some reason. I find hanging my laundry from a cord that I've tied to each end of my tiny balcony, very satisfying. And I have neon clothes pins, which are cool, because they appeal to the little kid in me. Colours! Sky blue, neon green, hot pink and yellow. I had the same thrill from coloured pencils in a new pencil box when I was eight. (Which is probably why I like soft pastels to do some art when I find the time.)  I suspect hanging my laundry reminds me of my childhood, when my mother used to hang our laundry on our clothesline in the back yard, and everything froze into place in January. I still remember sheets hanging like plates of shaved ice and towels at attention like rectangular flags. They had a solidity to them that meant Canada, and January, and playing outside making snowmen, and home.

Of course, there's no snow here. There hasn't been any rain either. If you've been watching the Spanish news, you'll know the rest of the country has suffered. It's 30 degrees and things are dry in an hour instead of taking all day. But I do love hanging my laundry. If truth be told, I was a bit worried about not having a dryer when we moved here. But no hay problema.

On the other hand, maybe we're just the dumb Canucks of the neighborhood, hanging our laundry across our balcony. Nobody else seems to do that, and we do have a clothesline on the roof of our building. (We went up there to do our sheets, and the sun nearly blinded me. It was so bright it gave me a headache.) But the balcony is so convenient. And we don't do a lot of laundry.

The other great thing here is the groceries. The major supermarkets in Sevilla put ours to shame. There's so much to choose from in terms of cheeses, meats (can you say 20 different kinds of jamon?) and produce, some of which I've never seen. The fish is fantastic. All fresh, and the flavours are amazing. AND THE WINE. We bought a respectable bottle of chardonnay for one and a half Euros (or about $2.25 Canadian). The stuff was on sale for 70% off. We plan to go back and stock up. :-)

I've also discovered the delights of salmoreo, which is like a gazpacho but much creamier and smoother. We ordered some the other night, thinking it was a salmon thingee. (I know, don't laugh. We're learning.) It turned out to be this fantastic cold tomato soup, served with bits of shaved ham and cheese. We loved it. So when we saw it in the store at Corte Inglais, we bought it. I never thought I'd be an afficionada of cold soup, but in hot weather, there's nothing better.

What else? We walked around today, trying to find Mike a pair of summer shorts, and nada. The stores are already displaying fall fashions. Also, 5:00 p.m. is about the perfect time for a sangria. :-)

More mañana. Olé! - Susan.

SEVILLA...

Las Setas

FLAMENCO IS A CONVOLUTED DANCE FORM. SEVILLA REFLECTS IT IN MANY WAYS. The photo to the left is of the Metropol Parasol,or as it's commonly known, Las Setas (in English - The Mushrooms). It's the largest wooden structure in the world and was finished construction in 2011. After managing to make our flight connections with only a hour to spare between London and Brussels, and then Brussels and Seville, we managed to get settled into our apartment. Afterwards, we went for a stroll and discovered Las Setas, a five-minute walk away. The photo here is borrowed and copyright-free. Unlike the day view, which is shown here, we saw Las Setas at night.

Complex and complicated. Las Setas is also a perfect metaphor for Seville.

I start my first flamenco workshop later today. The studio is located about a fifteen minute walk away from our apartment. Mike and I went to find it yesterday. On the map, the roads look fairly straight-forward, but not so in reality. It's going to take me a while to find my way without getting lost. The streets here are winding and narrow, with many a side lane intersected by buildings that offer two divergent ways that seem equally plausible (in fact, most of the streets here are what we'd consider a tight cobble stoned back alley.)

This, of course, is all part of Seville's charm. I do love it here. In fact, we are living across the way from what is now a boutique hotel, but was once the home of a famous flamenco guitarist who went by the name of Niño Ricardo. There's a plaque on the wall, commemorating him. When I saw it, I was moved to tears. I know - a little melodramatic, but Seville feels like home. I feel as if I've come back, but...from where? Maybe there is something to past lives. Maybe I was here. Not as the 'me' I am now, but a 'me' who may have lived and died in Spain. How else to explain these strange, complex connections I feel?

Unlike the lanes, the heat isn't subtle. The second you step from your apartment, it hits you like a furnace. The first day we were here, the temperature was 38 degrees. A little shocking for a poor cold-weathered Canadian. Today, it's only 29. We're getting used to the heat. Last night, the AC was set to 26, and it felt cool.

Speaking of last night, we visited the Museo del Baile Flamenco, or the Flamenco Museum of Dance (which is also only about five minutes away), and took in the museum and a show. We sat is the front row and were 'wowed'. My God. It will take me several lifetimes to learn to dance like that. But it was wonderful, a gift from the dancers, singers, and guitarist to the audience. Which, in its essence, is what the best flamenco is. A gift to those who are fortunate enough to witness it, from those who have learned to perform flawlessly and powerfully. An experience, shared by both artist and viewer. We are taken on a journey of both genius and passion.

More mañana. Olé! - Susan.

A SLIGHT CHANGE FROM WRITING to FLAMENCO

Carmen Linares

AS I WRITE THIS, I AM ON MY WAY TO SEVILLE, SPAIN, to study flamenco baile (dance) and cante (song). I say 'on my way', because there was a slight hitch in our travel plans. I've been in Calgary since yesterday morning. Mike and I were going to travel with Swiss Air (Calgary/Zurich/Seville), but after several delays, we were informed the flight was cancelled due to engine troubles. So here we are, in an airport hotel in Calgary waiting for our new flight, which (fingers crossed) should leave around 6:00 p.m. tonight. Swiss Air accommodated about 300 of us by covering our hotel and meal costs. Fortunately, our apartment owners in Seville are understanding and will hold our apartment until we arrive, which should be Saturday night. We've been rerouted through London, then Brussels, and then we'll be on our way to Seville.

I could complain about this, but I won't. Far better to be delayed, than to fall from the sky over the Atlantic.

Over the next while, I hope to blog about my experiences in Seville as I learn about the city and the people I meet, as well as flamenco dance and song. A good friend of mine wrote on my Facebook page that I should enter my classes with an open heart and no ego. It's good advice. Flamenco is very humbling. For my part, I've often felt like a beginner, no matter what level I reach. This is the way flamenco is. There's no end to getting better, stronger, faster, and exerting greater control, while at the same time appearing fluid, natural, potent, and expressive. Flamenco isn't for the weak of ego or faint of heart. It demands humility and passion in equal measures. I love it for all of this - it's a difficult form, mentally and physically, but it's worth it.

But any creative endeavour is like that, don't you think? Writing is exactly so. When we succeed in any degree, the sweetness of those accomplishments makes them worth whatever they demand of us.

The photo above is of the great Carmen Linares, a cantaora (flamenco singer), whom I greatly admire. She'll be performing in Seville during the Bienal, which is held every second year in Seville in September, and which is one of the reasons we are going to Seville now. I start my first workshop on September 3rd, a demanding mix of baile and cante. Hopefully, I'll be over my jet-lag by then. Wish me buena suerte (good luck). I have a feeling I'll need it.

Until next time, olé! - Susan.