Tuesday... well, tuesday.

Pugeu!! Pugeu!! Oi, noia, com ets dius? Mira, posa't aquí i vas aquí darrera per donar suport als braços de Javi. Has d'estar molt enganxada al Javi, per si de cas caigui la pinya!!

Go up, go up. Oi, girl, get here and go here to support your arms behind Javi. You have to be very attached to Javi, just in case falls pinya. (Translation thanks to Google Translate, but pretty close to how it would sound in English.)

The words of the colla (castell) leader,
(can't remember his name).

Well, Tuesday I was bored. Uninspired. Busy.

Then, I went out. It started with the Castells. I met Regina, 21 years old... with the eyes of a thirty year old. We traded stories, her history of medical insurance of Spain, private practices, physiotherapy, for stories of Newport Beach blonds with butt implants and bleached smiles. After the third phone call, and the 2nd cigarette we rambled over to the castell itself, found some faixas (fajas-kind of like a cloth girdle) and got into the pinya. It was pretty impressive, if I can say so myself, because the whole castell moved about 30 feet (a human tower of three people) and climbed a stair. All without falling. A person standing on another person's shoulders... yes standing, and then another person climbs on the first person's shoulder. So you have a person standing on a person's shoulders who is standing on a person's shoulders. And then moving, 53 feet, and then climbing a stair.

And then, I went to las Ramblas. And Cafe Royal, and met Antonio Agujetas Chico, "El Puchero", and first, let me say that this man is talented. Segundo, Guapa (ya sabes a quien me dirigo), que tienes un sobrino super majo, y buena gente. ¡Qué arte tiene!

I met Rafa again, found a producer un tal Claudio, and after the party... Club Siete. Ishmael, a very kind Pakistani, let the flamencos come in after their show. Geronimo Maya, who I met in the street in the Barcelona Ramblas. I can´t tell you who else. Iñakí Márquez, Gloria Belen, Edu Cortéz and his father, Gabriel. Joaquín Gómez, "El Duende", and I hope this coming week to interview Paca García, José de la Vega, Gabriel de la Tomasa...

I am exhausted.

Catalá

Well, yesterday was the first day of class. Good. Great! I have absolutely no complaints. Except, it starts and 9 am. It has never been harder to get up in the morning--between the heat, the mosquitoes and the well, the Spanish night--waking up is difficult.

I have not felt more uninspired today to write. A thick lethargy has overcome me. I am uninspired to leave the house. I am bored watching dubbed American television programs. Friends, Psyche, and I have just found the Ghost Whisperer. Wow, today is made.

I have to say, that perhaps the only event that was even relatively interesting was this unpleasant clerk (owner) in the flamenco store Flora Albaicín. Yesterday, I am looking for some castanets at a good price--not diamonds, or titaniam or even gold. Wood, perhaps plastic. But good quality. After waiting for 15 minutes while he discussed the arrival of a certain dress, a specific fabric, the delivery to a certain client, a specific time-table, the certain distributor...all the while ignoring a specific client who was waiting very patiently in the door way. The shop was so full that there was perhaps only 5 sq. feet of open space. Two racks of dresses, one low one high, with ruffles that created a fabric wall a yard from the wall.

Waiting...

Patiently waiting...

"Hola. Bon dia. Com et ajudo?"

"Hola, estoy buscando unas castañuelas. No tan caras, pero tampoco de guiri-guiri turistas."

Como las quieres?

"Pues pequeñas, no tan grandes. Me gustaría ver lo que teneis."

And now began the derision. "Pues tenemos muchos."

Okay, pues una muestra.

The only pair of castanets that he showed me were €55. Little too expensive for my budget--worth it or now. With a look of pure disgust, he grabbed it back and turned his back. I walked out, and that was it.

Well, I have a concert tonight (Flamenco) hopefully get to meet Agujetas Chico. Before which, I´m going to help with the Castells and practice Catalán.

Platja Nudista

For those dear friends and family members who are following this blog... I have a wonderful piece of information.

I have found, well... discovered... I was led to, err (*cough cough)... well, a wonderful beach. The sand is a beautiful mix of imported and uniform grains and whole seashells. The salty and warm Mediterranean sea is crystal clear. There are no jelly fish. The boardwalk of Barcelona is populated with little chiringitos, sea-side bars, situated with flawless precision to neither clutter nor leave its patrons with want. The vistas are... well, I would say that they have the potential to be other-worldly.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, I have found the nudist beach.

Hold on, I know. I would be happy to show you which metro stop (Poblenou). I would be happy to accompany you to the 7 blocks--transversing the crowded streets. It would be my pleasure to point out the interesting sights, the remains of an old Francoist factory, the gelatería... but please, señores y señoras, take care when entering the beach.

From Poblenou metro station, you head east about 10 blocks and you enter a small park. Palm trees and sandy spots in the grass advert to the presence of the beach. After climbing a small hill (that I climbed), you can get a beautiful view of the populated coast line--the skyscrapers and apartment buildings that line Barcelona's eastern boundary. I turned right. I wouldn't advise it. After carefully walking along the ridge of the small hill, I gingerly looked for a break in the fence and was more than a little surprised to find three older men washing off the beach sand "neked as jay birds."


I looked down and walked past them. (Ladies, there wasn't anything photo-worthy). The great quantity of nude men was astonishing. Nude men under umbrellas. Nude men sitting on their heels. Nude men walking to the water. Nude men; nude men and water. The Weather Girls, aside. I must have walked a half mile (burning sun, burning sand, eyes burning a little) before the medium vesture reached acceptable levels. I layed out my towel, and turn around to take off my shirt (I was wearing my swimsuit), and of the group of clothed men behind me--there is a young, but good looking African man changing from his pants into his swimshort-(just one).

Well, I spent about an hour of unsuccessfully trying to read a book about the legends and myths of Cataluña, ¡¡Dios sabe porqué!! Then dedicated myself to people watching. The man who suns himself on a public beach in the buff has to be a certain extent exhibitionist. Also the variation between reclining, face-down, face-up, standing, offer variations of the strip-tease. Only the movements are much more abrupt (my roomate would call this the Impulse Function) and I won´t mention the difference in pole.

The women on the other hand, seemed to offer more of a variation. I offer two different categories as extremes--the unblushing adamite (converts to helioatry) and the frustrated conservative. These two groups are largely recognized by the position of the torso with relation to the hips. If the torso of the upright female figure is convex--naturist. If convex, frustrated with something.

Well, I hope my experiences and digressions were amusing to you, whoever you are.

Let me know who is following this blog.

Després Sant Joan

Reflections on the night of Sant Joan.

According to the blog peliculasdelaguerracivil.blogspot.com/, there have been 28 films made about the Spanish Civil War since 1990. What I don´t understand is why it seems that every 24 of June, they sell so many noisemakers.

I have never, ever, heard any noise like the petardos of Barcelona. In all honesty. There is more of an explosion than just a noisemaker. It is like a small concussion bomb that sends old women and empty bottles flying with surprising animation. The use of this guerrilla tactic affects all levels of society in the greater area of Barcelona, small blackened circular stains litter buildings and sidewalks all over the city. During 3 days of the year, it sounds what I imaging Belgrade or Tel Aviv sound like when in war.

The city experiences a radical change: from very "straight-laced", correct and city-look-disinterested--to a loud, impulsive, and almost collegial. I refer to this last word, collegial, because as an American (read-Californian), with an artistically Andalusian accent, struggling with Catalán, there is a notable difficulty in finding a group of friends. Add, the oddity of my accent wearing off--and you have a very easy 30 seconds of conversation. I am learning to recognize the look of torpidity a good ten seconds before the habitual "Doncs bé..." and the heel turn to gyrate 90 degrees and find another source of information. Who thought that in Catalunya, there are people who don´t know castellano. "Vés a saber...!"

Cell Phone Number

Hey y'all.

I am giving my cell phone number in Spain. +34 600.655.476

Rose-colored glasses off... and to beat, a broken nose.

The orange-blossom scented nights of Seville. The fierce driving wind of Cadiz. The small town passing by in seconds as you sit in your slightly stained seat on the AVE.

Rose colored glasses.

Well, I have officially been here over a week. And the rose colored glasses are off. I don´t think I like Barcelona.

To be honest it has had a weird kind of reception planned for me. From Mr. Mickey Blue Eyes in Sants, to the well... to two nights ago.

About five in the evening, already in the street, I decided that to hell with the vacation, I need to start working on my project. I didn´t feel lucid enough to write, but to surf the internet and find names and addresses of flamenco studios--kinda. So at 5 o'clock, I find myself at the Centre Cultural toying with my phone and reading a book in Catalán which only served to infuriate me more given that the important word in each paragraph was incomprehensible.

I found the studio of Lucero Cardenas, a very cool Mexican girl from Guadalajara who is going to (maybe) give me lessons. Walking around the city, getting lost countless times, sweating like a debutant, and in the end, getting lost in the Ramblas of Barcelona.

On my way to the Café Royal, where I was going to meet Antonio (El Puchero) Agujetas, the buildings became a labyrinth of dirty sidewalks and questionable doorways. A poor mulata, standing mid-block between two groups of leering men was negotiating a "completo" with a man who was greedily scratching his balls. "¿Me haces todo por treinta?" The affirmative, and the mismatched pair disappeared into the stained linoleum of the hallway.

Turning right on the corner, the familiar tourist sights of flamenco dresses for little girls and Barça scarfs didn't seem too reassuring.

After another hour of "Ey, nena! Disco tonight? Gew wanna party?", of expensive food (a pita with a coke cost me almost 9 euros), I arrived at the Café Royal to the familiar jaunt of "Aquí, toma. Primer copa gratis."

Really?

Well, interesting environment. A bar, style 90's with stark European lighting and dark stone tables. The back room (I know! I almost had a coronary!) is a bar with peachy lighting panels and stools on two sides of the room. I met Rafa there, a friend of Agujetas, who bought me an extra copa of Kas Limón.

So no... no broken nose. Just the painful experience of having rose colored glasses forcefully removed.

Here are some videos from the night! The light is bad, and I couldn't figure how to use the camera, but just listen to the music!!

Mariano de Sant Roque, Eduardo Cortés, y caja en Café Royal 6/23/2011

Video 2.
Video 3.

After Castells...

It is the second day that the skies look like they are going to sit down and cry, but the truth is I love it. Barcelona, when, like today, it is isn't raining, the windows are running with droplets. There is so much water in the air.

Yesterday, was a little schizophrenic. The weather.

Between five minutes of intense sunlight, the kind that blinds you to everything farther away than 3 feet. You squint your eyes, and even then, the reflection off the cement, and you´re still crying.

Well, about the Castells.

They have about 200 years in history. According to Beatriz, the daughter of my landlady, the Castells come from a Valencian folk dance--according to most accounts the Moixiganga (Mojiganga). In this dance, the dancers concluded by creating a small human pyramid. Beatriz says that due to the character of the Catalans and Valencianos, one group made a bigger tower, the next a bigger one... forever and forever amen.

The bottom is called the Pinya (piña in Spanish or pineapple? in English). People gather around the help support the weight of the tower, also, to create a softer landing if the tronc is going to fall.

The tronc is the visible part of the Castell--each Tronc seems to be made of any number of people in each story (Pis). The anxaneta is the person (usually a child) who is at the top of the Pom de dalt (the highest story of the tronco). When the anxaneta climbs to the top and raises their hand, the Castell is considered finished.

Afterward, we went to the bar next to Bar Tomas... known for the best patatas bravas (brave potatoes?) in Barcelona. Amazing! I went with all of the colla, the group that does the Castell.

New words:
taparabos (sp): loin cloth
bulla (cat): bronca (sp), argument

I still haven´t been able to find flamenco in Barcelona. I know it is here. I feel a little like the adult who is playing "Where's Waldo?" with a child who has all of the hiding places memorized. I know that I´m smarter than this, but I can´t seem to find the illusive red and white striped man.

No other news about Mickey Blue Eyes, yet... Aside from the dirty, old, nasty, viejo verde asqueroso of the Estació Sants.

Mr. Blue Eues

Poor Eiko! She asked me to remember this blue-eyed man... Eiko, querida, you never told me how old he was.

Eiko's vision: That this summer I would meet a tall, blue-eyed man (Spanish I guess??). Small mustache. Not thin, but not fat. Hands of someone who works, and very fine shoes.

This man, a certain Jon, John Axbuche (Azbuiches, Azubuchi???) something to that end, very gentlemanly, older, ... late eighties...

Well... I was still listening intently to grandpa when he began to describe to me that as a doctor, he was (of course) an expert in making love and in orgasms and of kisses climbing or descending the body... and then he kissed me on the mouth.

Grandpa Jon, was then kind enough to ask me if I wanted a ride to whatever part of Barcelona I wished to go. And he, as he didn´t have a car in Barcelona, would be right back--he would either buy one, or rent one.When that plan was interrupted by a much needed exit to the phone booth (to call my parents), he asked if he could take me out to coffee later in the week.

Now, let me explain something. Now that I am not drinking, the thing that makes me the most stupid is lack of sleep. When I´m tired, I get blond. Not just Valley Blond, but Newport, bleach, pink lipstick and blue eyeshadow, sunburned blond. The kind of blond that doesn´t know why a camera isn´t turning on--when all she had to do was change the batteries.

So, as Jon was talking to this (me) blond, he still wanted to get coffee. Tired or not, I´m not genetically stupid, and I just gave him my card (email, outdated telephone, etc.), and extracted myself as kindly as possible from the eighty year-old octopus of a man. Thirty minutes later, after three trips around the train station Sants (trying to loose Pulpo-Abuelo), getting a map of Barcelona, almost having my luggage stolen, and situated myself in a café and began to read (very intently) Giana Vattimo "Not Being God".

Tip, tic, tic, tic.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tac, Tac, Tac.

And then, a hand on my shoulder.

"Hola chica! A ver si te escribo por Navidad?" (As if I'm still going to be around for Christmas...much less him).

"Anda, dime de verdad. Esto va en serio o no?" ("Come one, is this serious or not?")

Is what serious?

After such a vague response, the kind gentleman walked outside the café and looked at me through the window. He took out my card, and gently, with the grace of a Viking lord, tore it up and threw it on the ground.

Mr. Blue Eyes (version 8.0) turned around, and vanished into the crowded

Well, I´m here and safe. The photos above are of my room! I´m living with the daughter of Teodora, a

lovely catalana who works as a nurse--in the old Hospital de Barcelona. Her daughter, Beatriz, is a doll.

And the other room is taken by Rupayán an Indian doctoral who is studying voice cognition theory

in UB. Beatriz is doing doctoral work in Biology--Metabolism and its effects on insulin! En total, a wonderful environment, wonderful people, and I´m in Barcelona!

My trip is starting...

Is randomness and travel always linked? Not only random acquaintances, random conversations, random smoking breaks... why are the two inseparably linked? After running on tension and caffeine to finish moving my entire house in one day, trying unsuccessfully to return books to professors, I have a conversation with one James at the gas station. Supposedly, at one point in his life he was homeless--the kid is 25 years old.

Anyway... I´m leaving tomorrow morning and arrive the 14th at 8:55 am to Barcelona.

Hasta pronto!

Anuncios

Hola a todos!

My address is going to be Carrer de Pavia, 24. Barcelona.

I´m attaching a link to Google maps.

The course in Frigiliana, should be interesting. If I go, it will be to observe and interview the dancers. I am also interested in teaching a course on Dance and Writing during one of the workshops.

Lets see what happens.

Still writing

Hola... I love and hate books. First, the excruciatingly delightful process of finding a good book, then the separation anxiety of returning it.

Getting ready!!

Hello all my friends and family!

I am getting ready to go to Spain! So much packing and grading!
Four days to go!