Jerez Diary

Sunday, May 4th, 2003 12:12am

Greetings from Madrid. God knows why the Pope decided to arrive in Madrid at almost exactly the time I did, but it sure made for a smooth arrival, and security was very, very tight.

I spent the day on nondescript logistics, such as picking up my train ticket for the trip to Jerez de la Frontera tomorrow - four hours on the somewhat high-speed "Altaria."

Between work, a term paper, a final exam and family, I had not been able to pick up my guitar since my last class with Marija on Saturday, so I spent 3 or 4 hours this afternoon getting "reacquainted."

Now, I have heard about the tablaos in Madrid, how they´re horribly expensive (which it was), and that the quality can be iffy, but I had also heard good things about Café de Chinitas. Besides, unlike Jerez, where I already have some contacts, and an in on the local scene, I´m on my own this one night in Madrid, so I figured I´d give it a whirl one time. I saved up my cash, denied myself any substantial breakfast or dinner, and arrived at my table for one, right next to the stage, at about 10 pm. All the other foreigners were already working on their dessert, as a few locals filtered in about the same time I did. The show started shortly thereafter.

A litte "flamenco moment" occurred on the taxi ride to the tablao from the hotel. I was trying to chat up the taxi driver, with my abysmal and limited Spanish, and I asked him if he liked flamenco. He said yes, do you? I said yes, very much, I´m here to study flamenco guitar. A few moments of silence passed, and then he just pushed in the tape, which was already sitting in the cassette deck, and it began to play. 1st impression: that´s Paco de Lucía. Then Camarón de la Isla began to sing. It would appear the fact that I recognized those two guys, and could name them, immediately established a common bond, and I would not have been able to get him to shut up after that, even if I had wanted too. A brief, but memorable, moment. :-)

Now, we both know that Flamenco is all about the singing, number one, especially in Spain, but the show was geared for the extranjero crowd, so we got a lot of dancing, and as many 3 and 4 beat rhythms (Sevillanas, and Tangos especially) as anything else. Don´t get me wrong, the people up there were definitely the real deal, and we got plenty of 12-count stuff as well. I just enjoyed the show, and tried to identify the rhythms and rap my fist on the table (gently) when I thought I had it right.

I´ll drop a line from Jerez, tomorrow night, after I get settled. Hopefully, I will be able to report a more intimate flamenco experience by then.

Greetings from Jerez de la Frontera. I took the train from Madrid today; you know, I don´t think I saw an acre of arable land that wasn´t cultivated the entire trip. Spain has got to be one of the world´s largest producers of olive oil. I also saw sheep, bulls and (are you sitting down?) ...Ostriches. Yep, Ostrich farms, in the countryside just outside of Madrid. Go figure.

So, after months of anxious anticipation, I finally arrived in Jerez, the alleged ´mother ship´ of flamenco world-wide, and it was...dead! Apparently, everyone was engaged in one of three activities:

1. The Feria de Sevilla, currently in progress
2. The Feria de Puerto Santa María, also in progress
3. Watching the local football team (that´s soccer to us) on the TV.

The only people I saw on the streets my first few hours here were fellow tourists. But as the day wore on, things picked up. Actually Edward Meadows, owner/operator of Flamenco Internet Radio from Jerez came by to pick me up and show me around. We visited a few local watering holes, and Edward filled me in on the local scene as I plied him with his beverage of choice. Then we walked around the barrios of Santiago and San Miguel, where Edward pointed out many sites of historical significance, including the corner where the Bulerías was allegedly invented.

I gotta tell you, though, flamenco is omnipresent: it blares from passing cars, you hear snatches, here and there, sneaking out through closed doors, and it wafts through my open window from the cafe on the street beneath. There's lots of cante, and plenty of palmas, but I haven´t heard a guitar yet.

I´m going to cut it short tonight, as I´m tired, and I want to be well-rested for my first day of classes; I´ll have time to write more tomorrow.

¡Chao!

One thing you need to know if you´re coming to Spain, and you plan to keep in touch with your loved ones and others back home via the Internet, is that there are cyber cafes everywhere, and they´re relatively cheap, but the keyboards are VERY different. So different that, if you´re not careful, get a little behind on food and sleep, and like an idiot choose to use the email editor at www.mail2web.com to compose your Jerez diaries for dcflamenco.com, you might just hit the wrong key and lose an hour´s worth of work. So, the reason there was no diary entry yesterday, and there are two today, is that the computer ate my homework. That´s my story, and I´m sticking to it. When that happened I decided to bag it, get some food and rest, then come back for a fresh start today. (By the way, I'm composing this in word, and I will copy and pasted into mail2web when I'm sure I've got it where I want it; if you're ever in my position, I would strongly suggest you do the same, and save yourself some grief.)

This was an exhiliarating, yet exhausting day; it was the first of a regular schedule that will be essentially unchanged, Monday through Friday, for the next two weeks. First order of business was an hour of private instruction in accompaniment of cante with Manuel Lozano of El Escuela "El Carbonero" de la Guitarra Flamenca, and Luís, a friendly gitano cantaor from Barrio Santiago. It took El Carbonero less than two minutes to assess my level, and we jumped into Tientos. Maestro focused on an intro, and the basic compás. Luis never really got past the "Ayayay" this first day. Once I could more or less get through the material, we recorded it for reference and practice back home. El Carbonero and Luis seemed perfectly comfortable with my level, the considerable angst I had been feeling melted away, and I unexpectedly realized I was grinning from ear to ear less than 15 minutes into the lesson. (Perhaps only a fellow flamenco/wannabe could understand how six or eight hours a day of arduous study and practice constitutes a vacation.) Luís left as the other students began to arrive, and we transitioned to the regular class.

The next two hours were consumed with the ordered chaos that is El Carbonero´s signature teaching method. Six or eight students of every level, young and old, Spanish and extranjero, sat on chairs lining the walls of the main hall, emitting a raucous cacaphony, while one by one we were called into the studio to add the next segment to whatever rhythm or falseta we were learning. Over the two-hour period, I probably sat on the hot seat five or six times and, once again, the last time in we recorded everything for reference and practice. One of the students was a fellow, by the name of Melchor, who I had "met" on the Internet before I arrived; we agreed to hook up later for lunch.

My next stop was El Estudio de Baile Juan Parra for a private lesson in compas, which is a beautiful on the inside as it is non-descript without; I sat in quiet fascination, admiring the natural light, and the many photographs of maestro performing with famous flamencos all over the continent, as he finished with his last class of the morning. Unlike El Carbonero, Juan Parra made the mistake of asking me what I wanted to learn; since he speaks only Spanish, and mine is quite poor, we sat in a rather long and uncomfortable non-silence as I bumbled my way through some words. Now, for the record, what I was thinking was something like; "Should I just say 'Everything,' or can I explain that I´m a beginning guitar student and I want to be able to accompany singers and dancers better?" What I tried to say was, "I´m a beginner, and I defer to your judgement;" or words to that effect. What maestro actually heard was, for all I know, "me Tarzan, you Jane..."

Pondering my communication in bewildered and/or amused disbelief, el maestro, in his infinite wisdom, exercised his teacher's discretion: "Let's start with Alegrías," he said. And we did. A brief lecture ensued on the basic 12-count rhythm, where the emphasis falls in Alegrías, some ground school on correct application of palmas, and we were off. Soon, he had me listening to solo compás on tape, and finding the count on my own. Next step contra-tiempo, which, true to its name, is more difficult. After our time was up we sat for a few minutes, swapping anecdotes about daily life in our respective countries, and I left on the promise to practice contra-tiempo on my own at home. In addition to being an accomplished teacher and performer, Juan Parra is a warm and friendly person, a gentleman and a scholar, and in my opinion it would be worth a trip to Jerez just to study with him, especially if you are a dancer.

Melchor was already there waiting when I got outside, but Edward Meadows was unexpectedly unavailable on short notice; Melchor and I decided to head on up to Bar Arco de Santiage by ourselves, sans the helpful introduction that Edward could have provided. There are two things you need to know about Bar Arcos. The proprietor, Augustin Vega, is essentially the godfather of flamenco in Barrio Santiago; there are people who actually call him Don Augustin, and mean it. And, most of the regulars who hang out there are very accomplished flamenco performers and recording artists. As Melchor and I were standing there, eating tapas, feeling only a little out of place, we watched in silent incredulity as Moraíto Chico, guitarist for José Mercé, hit the jackpot for over €120 euros at the slot machine.

Melchor and I parted company, and I headed for my last official obligation of the day: Spanish class at Duendelenguas. The first of the two hours was not very different from any other small, semi-private language class, of which I have personally experienced many; we worked on verbs and conjugation in the most common tense. The second hour, however, was unique. We analyzed several letras, typically sung por siguiriyas, indentifying common devices, contractions and Caló words often found in this music. Then we listened to those letras as performed. Very enlightening, and highly recommended; I am not aware of another language program that offers this type of instruction. The teacher actually assigned homework; doesn't she know I have to practice?

I sort of got carried away with the events of the day, trying to pull it all together back in my room; I missed my siesta, sort of forgot to eat, and suddenly realized what the problem was when I lost an hour´s worth of work on the computer. The moral of the story is, even if you do consider six to eight hours a day of arduous study and practice to be a vacation, you gotta' pace yourself.

I was afraid that I might run out of things to write about once I settled into a routine; I needn't have worried.

I'm living with a Spanish family: Carmen, her two daughters (Paula, age 15 and Carlotta, age 12) and their dog (Lola). Carmen is frantically busy, raising two daughters and making ends meet, while working a day job at the local elementary school (hence the boarder, I presume). Paula is a typical teenager. Carlotta is friendly, and appears to be the only one with both the time and the inclination to chat. Lola (the dog) is warming up to me, and exhibits no intolerance whatsoever for my poor Spanish.

I tried to travel light on this trip, so I need to wash clothes nearly every day. I was hanging them in the window of my room, which overlooks the street below; last night Carmen suggested they would dry more quickly if I hung them on the clothesline on the roof, where ther is more sun. (There are supposedly 360 sunny days a year in Jerez, so the chances of getting rain on your laundry are theoretically quite remote.) I immediatley complied with here suggestion. Overnight, a cold front moved in, and there has been a light misty drizzle in the air all day. So, tomorrow I have the choice of warm, dry dirty clothes or cold, wet clean ones. Jumping between the horns of such dilemmas makes better people of us all, I guess.

At about 12:30 today a young Japanese fellow wandered into El Carbonero's studio, hoping to study there for a month or so. The lad professed to speak no language but his own; as luck would have it, I was the only one present with even the slightest knowledge of Japanese. The scene that ensued closely resembled a now cliché vaudeville skit: the Japanese fellow would speak to me, I would translate into English, and then someone else in turn would convey the Spanish version to el maestro; the reverse path was traversed for the response. Unfortunately, I was the weak link in the chain, because although my English is generally well understood (except possibly in Liverpool), my Japanese is quite rusty, or to be more specific, has largely been overlayed by Spanish, of late. Not a pretty picture, but everyone involved seemed to appreciate the humor of it all. Our young Japanese friend was scheduled to return for a private lesson at 5 pm, and we parted company, with little thank-you gifts from the young man, in the form of tiny packs of miniature Japanese cigarettes.

The scene I just described would have made me only a few minutes late for my appointment with Juan Parra, but I committed a rookie error, and failed to have my map with me. Note to self (and others who travel here): always carry your map. Always. If you ignore this advice, you would be well advised to leave little trails of bread crumbs wherever you go. After several abortive attempts, and considerable difficulty finding my way home, I called Señor Parra to convey my sincere apologies and regrets. He handled this in the same gentle manner with which I have come to presume he approaches life in general. I vowed to be on time tomorrow.

Spanish class at Duendelenguas was essentially the same format as yesterday, but I was the only student, and we moved on to letras typically sung por Soleares. Today, I did remember to eat, and sleep, and I am now ready to return home and practice.

¡Hast Mañana!

Marty

It was just too cold to get up at 7am and go running again today, so I slept in an extra half hour. Aside from that wrinkle, I have pretty much stabilized on a manageable routine. Being a creature of habit, I like to have a standard set of establishments where I get to know them, and they get to know me, and frequent them for breakfast and lunch; I save the evening for grazing at unfamiliar places. There is actually a verb in Spanish for tapas bar hopping, "a tapear." Lunch being the main meal of the day, to go a tapear is frequently substituted for a sit-down meal in the evening. Even if one plans to have dinner, which typically doesn´t happen before 10 pm, it is a long haul between lunch and dinner without some tapas relief around 7 or 8.

Apparently my guitar, compás and language teachers have all spoken with each other and synchronized, such that the material is now mutually reinforcing; I´m glad they did that. We have pretty much wrapped up tientos/tangos for this trip, and moved on to Soleá. Apparently El Carbonero wants to give me a taste of each of the fundamental palos, without taxing my technical ability by trying to jam in a bunch of stuff I simply can´t play. I like the approach, and I have already learned most of the material that has been presented well enough to accompany Luís al cante, or apply in dance class. Very satisfying. There are a few falsetas that I can not yet execute in compás; more work will be required when I get home.

Anyone who may actually be reading this diary with interest is probably wondering when I am going to report on the local flamenco scene. There are two reasons why I have not reported any activity on that front. Nothing official is happening at any of the local peñas, or the theatre, as everyone is busy preparing for "la feria." All the action that does happen next week, will be at the feria. All reports suggest nothing noteworthy begins to happen before midnight. Since my classes, especially the guitar and language classes, are my priority, I will not have an opportunity to participate in these events until Friday and Saturday of next week, when my classes are over. I have it on good authority, though, that there will be no shortage of things to report on those evenings, when the fair is in full swing.

Things are finally warming up, and I went for my morning run today. We continue to work on Soleá. My wife arrived in Madrid this morning; I will be joining her there Friday night, for a two-day marathon to the north by car over the weekend. Other than that, there is nothing significant to report.

¡Chao!

This was a very long day. We finished up with Soleares, and started on Bulerías. Anyone who is likely to be reading this diary probably knows that it is common to end tientos with tangos, and wrap up soleares with bulerias, so we are following a natural progression. El Carbonero introduced the basic rhythm and one simple falseta; to be continued next week. Juan Parra is evidently satisfied that I can latch on to the compás for the basic palos; I´m not exactly sure where we will go from here.

I did not take my usual siesta this afternoon, as I had to pack to leave for Madrid after Spanish class; I hauled my bag to class with me, and left for the airport directly from there. The flight to Madrid went smoothly, and I was pleasantly surprised to find my wife Cathy waiting for me at the baggage claim, all dolled up for a night on the town. So, instead of fighting traffic while attempting to navigate from spanish language map and signs, I had my own on-board navigator/translator (she majored in French, minored in Spanish at Georgetown); highly recommended.

After parking the rental car and settling in to the hotel, we headed out for a copa and some raciones (like tapas, but larger portions). We didn’t stay out too late, as we wanted to get on the road first thing in the morning.

After several abortive attempts, we were finally on our way out of town, north-west bound, headed for the former royal palace, El Escorial. This broad complex houses, among other things, a very important art collection, several museums and the royal tombs. After a typical spanish lunch, we continued on to the medieval walled city of Ávila. This very old city sports an active social life, not only with tourists, but apparently with locals, who like to stage wedding receptions and other important functions at the many high-brow establishments within. The cathedral also contains a museum with significant art and other holdings. We then turned north-eastward for the second leg of our triangular route, to the ancient enclave of Segovia.

Segovia has been an important commercial center for a very long time, and has seen rulers of every conceivable ilk, including romans, goths and visigoths, vandals, moors and catholic christian monarchs. El Escorial was immense, and Ávila was memorable, but Segovia is just plain charming. Between the medieval castle at one end, and the Roman aqueduct at the other, there are at least a dozen significant historic and/or architectural sites.

Our hosts, the Hotel Infanta Isabel, were kind enough to recommend a restaurant, Restaurante José María, and make reservations for us; we were escorted to our table promptly at 10 pm when we arrived. If you read or watch any travel guides to this area, they will recommend the Sopa Castellana and Cochinillos Asado (Roast Suckling Pig) for dinner, which we obediently ordered. Everything was quite to my taste, and I enjoyed extra portions, as Cathy yielded the lion´s share of hers to me, and ordered a salad. Cochinillos Asado isn´t for everybody.

We slept in and got off to a late start, but we wanted to see Segovia up close and personal before returning to Madrid. This presented something of a conflict, as my return flight to Jerez was scheduled to depart that evening. After visiting the castle, and a rather brisk stroll through the city from the Cathedral to the Aqueduct, we split up, so Cathy could enjoy a little more time “on the ground” while I went to fetch the car. We connected as planned, and got onto the highway, this time headed southbound, directly for Madrid.

We stopped for lunch at Cathy´s favorite establishment in Madrid, a certain cidreria, the name of which I can not remember, and then it was time to drop her off at the hotel, and head for the airport. An animated discussion ensued on the relative merits of this course, after which we agreed that I would stay the evening, and return to Jerez on the morning train. Thus ended the 9th day of this diary.

I had unexpectedly spent the night in Madrid, and there were no early-morning flights to Jerez with open seats, so I took the train; this was essentially a repeat of my first trip to Jerez on Sunday, May 4th. Since Cathy´s Spanish is much better than mine, we assigned her the task of calling Manuel Lozano and Juan Parra to explain my conspicuous absence from class. Everyone was very understanding, and we tried to arrange for some make-up time as best we could; this was somewhat frustrated by the fair, which began last night.

I did make it to Spanish class, and my original teacher, Juana, turned me over to a young man by the name of Sergio to finish out the second week. I have three hours of Spanish class a day these days, to make up for time that will be missed at the end of the week due to the fair; we took time for a coffee break half-way through, allegedly to practice our Spanish in real life.

As the week progesses ´la feria´ takes on a life of its own, until it essentially consumes the time and the energy of the entire city. Most eating and drinking establishments don´t open if they have a caseta at the fair. If you have hankering for a specific tapa at Bar Juanito, for example (which boast over 30 selections), your choices are 1) go to the fair, or 2) wait until the fair is over. I went to the fair. I walked - to the fair, through the fair (stopping for an occasional copa/tapa), and back. I ran into my host family while I was there. This alone took over two hours, and it was extremely hot, even at midnight when I got home. My clothes were drenched, as if I had been jogging. As I was leaving, I noticed there more people going to the fair than leaving; so things were just getting going at midnight.

Back in the saddle, on top of my routine. My technical abilities do not permit me to execute Bulerías de Jerez at tempo, so we took a short side-trip into Fandangos de Huelva to give Luís something to sing. It was fun.

Juan Parra gave me lecture on how people don´t dance Sevillanas properly at the fair, and insisted on teaching me the steps to the first Sevillana “as it´s taught in conservatory,” so I´d know the real thing when I saw it. Within the hour, we were doing the footwork to music. I got a better feel for the compás, and how it supports the dancers, than I had before; this should help with accompaniment.

Hunger and thirst drove me to the fair on foot again; essentially a repeat of the previous night.

Every accompaniment class is now essentially a review of Tientos/Tangos, Soleá/Bulería and Fandangos; El Carbonero is fading his support on the guitar, and letting me carry the ball, as best I can. The trick, aside from anticipating where Luís is going with the cante, and when, is sneaking the falsetas in at the right places, and executing them in compás. We are achieving mixed results at present.

Today was my last class with Juan Parra; he showed me the basics of how to operate the castañuelas for Sevillanas. My impression, from a guitarists perspective, is it is essentially marking time with the left hand, while executing intermittent tremolo with the right. Maestro jokingly suggested I quit the guitar and become a dancer; I politely declined. He said all guitar players from Jerez can dance a little bulerías, which they usually perform for the fin de fiesta; he suggested I should learn a little when I come to Jerez another time. We´ll see. I look forward to seeing him again, in any event, whether I take him up on his suggestion or not.

Today was also my last Spanish class. We engaged in several grammar and vocabulary-building activities, including a debate on flamenco puro versus fusion, writing a poem, and reading flamenco history and poetry/letras. I know that my Spanish has improved during the time that I have been here; not only have my grammar and pronunciation improved, but also comprehension and speed of delivery. I would be hard pressed to say, for certain, how much of this is attributable to the Duendelenguas experience, and how much to the realities of the immersion experience (you know, if you can´t ask for it, you can´t get it). I am certain, however, that my understanding of how the language is applied in the context of flamenco can be attributed to the language program.

I did not go to the fair today. Edward Meadows was kind enough to give me call, so we hooked up for some copas/tapas at one of the few establishments in town that is actually open. It has been a delight getting to know Eduardo, as he is called here, and I wish him well. I would also suggest that, if you´re not already familiar with Flamenco Internet Radio from Jerez, broadcast via Live365, you check it out, and support this labor of love.

Now that we have cleared the deck of all the other stuff, we can focus entirely on the guitar, and accompaniment of cante. The morning review with Luís continues as described above. Maestro is starting to feed material a little faster now, for bulerías, and I am not going to be able to keep up in real time; my fear is that, even with tape, I will forget some stuff. Time will tell.

El Carbonero directed me and Luis to meet at the fair, in front of the Onda Jerez caseta at 6 pm today. (Onda Jerez is the local TV station; they broadcast/simulcast a flamenco show, “A Compás” via the Internet on Tuesdays at 10 pm, which is 4 pm eastern daylight savings time, 5 pm eastern standard time.) Although I am sure more information was available about the nature and purpose of meeting at the fair, Maestro and Luís have learned that it´s less painful all around to spare me the details, which I usually don´t understand, or, worse yet, misunderstand. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, and as long as I show up and do what I´m told, I´m guaranteed a good time. And a good time it was.

Being an American, and punctual by nature, I was in position at the caseta, a little before 6, as a juerga erupted from within. The singer, a very big guy by Spanish standards, was somebody famous, I´m certain, and if I ever figure who it was, I´ll let you know. Anyhow, it was a pretty big crew – two singers, a guitarist, two palmistas, and a cuadra of dancers. Mostly bulerías, as is the fashion in this town, one Tango thrown in for good measure. The caseta, which was on the large side, went from half-empty to packed in about 5 seconds flat, as soon at the music started. (Word travels fast at the fair.) I am taller, by a foot, than any Spanish person past or present, and so I always have a good view, even if I´m stationed to the rear or, as in this case, actually outside. Altogether a pleasant surprise, and we hadn´t even gotten to the main event.

Manolo, son of El Carbonera, came by to pick me up, guitar in hand, at about 6:30, just as things were breaking up at the caseta. Perfect timing, and punctual, by Spanish standards. Luís appeared moments later, along with a young fellow by the name of Miguel, friend of Manolo and fellow student of El Carbonero. (I don´t know why, but I kept wanting to call Miguel “Miguelito” for some reason.)

We proceeded to the caseta of El Parro Viejo, a restaurant on the corner of Calle San Pablo, between where I live and El Carbonero´s school, which has not be open since I arrived here. I was introduced to our host, el patron del restaurante, who also happens to be the landlord for the guitar school. We were instructed to help ourselves to food and drink, courtesy of el patron.

An hour or so of eating, drinking and general frivolity ensued, until El Carbonero began to set up shop in the center of the caseta, joined by Luís, a second cantaor, and two cantaora-bailaora. An the music began – again, mostly bulerías de Jerez, with an occasional tango thrown in here and there. “The band” delivered two raucous sets, to widespread appreciation and applause. I was accustomed to Luís singing, of course, as he had been my victim an hour a day for two weeks. I was not prepared for the power of his voice in performance, and I was totally startled when began dancing. By now it was about 10 pm, and as the serious eating and drinking began, a 10 or 12-member Mariachi band showed up (yes, you read that right, a Mexican Mariachi band) and the crowd was on its feet, dancing.

El Carbonero, Luís and I had work to do at 10 am, so we took our leave, sent Manolo and Miguel off with the guitar, and went for a paseo around the fair before heading homeward. This paseo took a lot longer than one might think because, we could never get more than 10 or 15 feet before someone, neighbor, relative, former or current student, whatever, would walk up and embrace maestro. One young fellow, 12 or 13 years old, and obviously autistic, ran up to embrace maestro, his family following shorly behind. After they had moved on, I shared that I have an autistic son, only a little older than that young man. Manuel grabbed my arm, and explained that there had been a program to teach music to kids like that, and you can see what a deep impression it had, but it ran out of funding. I know music has left a deep impression on my son, Luke, and it has enrichened his life beyond measure.

This will be the last entry in this diary which I will write from Jerez; Saturday will be a busy day, preparing for my departure early on Sunday morning, and the Internet cafe will not be open late in the day on Saturday due to la feria.

For reason´s that only he understands, Maestro decided we would do Alegrías, all of it, today. All Alegrías, nothing but Alegrías, all day today. So, I learned a lot about Alegrías. It remains to be seen how much of it I will retain, since I will have the opportunity for practice, correction and reinforcement that I have had with the earlier material.

Today´s dictum: meet me in Plaza Arenal at 7 pm, we´re going to Ulrique.

Marty: Where´s Ulrique?
Maestro: Past Arcos.
Marty: Where´s Arcos?
Maestro: It´s a “Pueblo Blanco.”
Marty: What´s a “Pueblo Blanco?”
Maestro: (Rolling eyes)
Marty: (Silent, finally realizing it´s time to shut up.)
Maestro: Meet me in Plaza Arenal at 7 pm.
Marty: Yes, sir.

El Carbonero tooled up in his car at 7 pm sharp. Such punctuality is uncharacteristic, to the point of being almost troubling, in a Spaniard. I did not exacerbate the situation by inquiring further. In retrospect, perhaps it was performance jitters, or something like that.

First stop, La Peña Flamenco de Los Pueblos Blancos, overlooking the almost indescribably beautiful town of Arcos de la Frontera, perhaps most famous of all the White Villages. The peña is very old and rich, both materially and culturally, compared to those I have visited with Eduardo in Jerez. We had a copa, poked around, took advantage of the facilities, and then we were off to pick up the Cantaor, El Piconero de Arcos. El Piconero invited into his basement, which, for all intents and purposes, was a peña in its own right. Another copa, and we departed for El Peña Flamenca de Ulrique, our hosts for the evening, with El Piconero´s son in tow.

Ulrique is another of the white villages, nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains on all sides. The peña is situated half-way up the side of a huge precipice that overlooks the town, with a lit cross perched at its peak. We were welcomed warmly by our host, the president of the peña, who owns a leather goods factory in town. Leather goods are central to the economy of Ulrique. As we were settling into the peña, the first act of the evening arrived, a medium-sized troupe from Seville, consisting of a singer, a guitarist, and two palmeros. Although there was a dance class going on when we arrived, it is important to note that no dancers performed for either show this evening; cante reigned supreme.

The first show was upbeat; the cantaora had a strong, melodic voice. She sang sequiriya, tientos and soleares, but she finished with Fandangos, Tangos and Bulerías. By the time she left the stage, to a standing ovation, it was well past midnight.

El Piconero de Arcos and El Carbonero de Jerez took the stage as we entered the wee hours of the morning. The Cantaor chose to present a program of cante jondo, and presented one piece, which I did not recognize, sin accompanimiento. A typical extranjero audience would no doubt have found this set considerably less accessible than the earlier program, but the audience at La Peña Flamenca de Ulrique loved it. After the show, and a few rounds of copas and tapas, we left, and essentially traced our earlier route in reverse. El Carbonero dropped me off at about 3:30 in the morning, and thus ended my first insider´s look into the life of a professional performing flamenco artist in Jerez.

I slept in today, and rolled out of bed around 10. Less than 8 hours sleep, but I had things to do, and I planned on taking a good long siesta in the afternoon, since it was unlikely that I would get to sleep again before flying out in the wee hours Sunday morning.

My usual haunt for breakfast was closed, you know, por la feria. "Por la Feria," it appears, is sufficient justification for anything short of a criminal act this time of year. So I fell back to my reserve breakfast joint, the cafe/bakery closest to the guitar school, where Luís and I would take our cafe con leche, and occasionally get one to go for El Carbonero, after our 10 am accompaniment class. The concept of paper cups has not been embraced in Jerez, in my personal experience, and when there are bars (we would call them sidewalk cafes) on every corner they do seem a bit redundant, not mention wasteful. Note to self: slow down, sit down, and take the time to drink from a ceramic cup, twice a day, morning and evening; who knows, you might even live longer. Luís dutifully returned the glasses to the cafe/bakery every morning that El Carbonero had taken one to go the day before.

I then actually went shopping for a short list of items that my wife had specifically requested, including a selection of sherry wines. One would think that in Jerez de la Frontera, appropriately famous worlwide for its sherry wines, a gift-boxed sampler pack would be a concept that was well established. One would be wrong. One might also think, given that sherry initially hit its stride in England, that proferrors of the product would make a point to speak at least enough of the language to sell to the occasional foreigner. One would be wrong again. Lastly, one might think that someone of at least average intelligence, who had been assiduously studying the language and culture while living in their midst for a fortnight, knowing full-well that this task lay before him all along, might have made the necessary preparations to express his intent in the native tongue. Alas, one would be wrong yet again. It was Saturday, so there were many shoppers, and also a fair day, so many establishments were closed. A small throng of on-lookers gathered, in silent incredulity, as the shop keeper and I gesticulated our way through a conversation, conducted primarily in pidgin spanglish, to a mutually acceptable compromise that profited me an assortment of 8 selected vintages for under 30 euros. It would delight me to indulge in some poetic license and report that the crowd applauded and cheered, but in the interest of historical accuracy I regret I must report that they did not.

After a rather lengthy stop at the cybercafe, to pump out five days worth of diary entries, I made the last call on my usual haunt for lunch. This little hole in the wall greasy-spoon specializes in home-style cooking, and offers a special plate every day. Today, it was paella, and I ordered a full ration. I toyed with the idea, for a moment, of telling them I was leaving, and thanking them for being such a great place for lunch. I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and simply over-tipped in the manner for which we Americans are infamous.

As is the custom here, after lunch I was off to home for a brisk nap, aka siesta. Somehow Lola the dog managed to get into the house, although no one else was home, and came tearing into my room to visit. She became uncharacteristically affectionate, hopped up onto the bed, gave my face a good licking, and curled up beside me. Why Lola waited until my last day here to express her affection, I don't know, but I enjoyed it. Ironically, I suddenly missed that animals at home, past and present.

Luís and I had arranged to meet at the fair at 10, but I had no plans before then. I was all packed and ready to go, with some time on my hands, so I gave Eduardo a call to see if he wanted to join me for dinner. As luck would have it, he was available. After some snacks in typical andalusian style, we headed out to the fairgrounds. There is a peña called Jucales, closely related with Bar Arcos de Santiago, that has a large caseta there. We established ourselves at a table in one corner, and as 10 was fast approaching, I left Eduardo to mind the store, and went off to find Luís. Luís never showed, and by the time I got back to the caseta, a rather large crowd of gitanos had gathered, including a bevy young lovelies in their finery. Interestingly, none of the bona fide gitana women, young or old, were wearing the so-called "gypsy dresses" that were all the rage among the payas and extranjeras at the fair.

Eduardo had commitments in the morning, and I had a plane to catch, so we left the fairgrounds at about midnight, just as things were getting going. Best intentions notwithstanding, it really is rather difficult for foreigners to adjust to life on spanish time.

I did not sleep, but sat up with Carmen and Carlotta watching "Spanish television." I put that in quotes, because many shows are imported from the US and other countries, and either dubbed or sub-titled. The ones that are sub-titled are best, if they are in English, because you can understand them perfectly, while trying to read and understand the Spanish sub-titles. Those that are dubbed are less helpful; the language is forced, the mouths don't match the sound, and there is nothing to read. Around 2 am, after a rather lengthy debate on the topic with her mom, Carlotta, who seemed genuinely intent on visiting with me before I left, was off to bed. Carmen followed soon thereafter, and as Lola the dog preferred Carlotta over yours truly, I was left to my own devices on the couch. This was the first, last and possibly only time I ever sat in the living room, or watched TV, during the two weeks that I lived here. As luck would have it, I found a flamenco program, and sort of passed in and out of a dreamlike wakeful state until it was time to leave for the airport.

I arrived at the airport at the specified time, and the only people there were the other passengers who had followed instructions and were now locked outside with me. Moments later a security guard appeared, and we were permitted to enter the only completely silent and empty airport I have ever personally witnessed. The Iberia airlines staff began to arrive, 30 minutes late by our standards, right on time by theirs. After check-in, we waited for the security gate personnel to arrive. Having cleared security, we waited for the coffee shop attendant to arrive. Having had our coffee, we waited in silent contemplation, gazing at the aircraft personnel locked out on the apron, as they gazed back, awaiting the long overdue arrival of the boarding officials. Despite all which the plane took off and arrived on time, in Madrid, at 8 am.

Thus began the long trip homeward. Sit and wait at Barajas for the USAirways check-in counter to open at 10. Sit and wait some more for Jeremy, owner/operator of OnSpanishTime, to arrive and accept return of the cell phone I had rented for the duration of my stay. Stand and wait for security. Sit and wait for boarding. Onboard, sit and wait for departure; then sit and wait, for seven hours, to arrive. Upon arrival in Philadelphia, I had only 30 minutes to clear immigration, collect my checked baggage, clear customs, recheck the bags, and rush to the gate. I made it to the plane on time, but my bags didn't. The two-hour wait for the next flight from Philly was cushioned somewhat by the dinner at TGI Fridays, courtesy of US Airways. Finally, my bags showed up, mostly intact. When I finally got home I was greeted by my loving cats, as the rest of the family was fast asleep. Except for Luke, my 14 year old autistic son, who stayed awake in bed just so he could come bounding down the stairs to give me a hug and a kiss when I got home.

I will write one last entry to this journal tomorrow, to sort of cap it off, and organize my thoughts on the experience in toto...

Retrospective

I first began planning this trip, or one like it, over a year ago. I had initially planned to go to Granada, partly because I had been there once, just for an overnight, liked the place, and wanted to go back and see more. Between El Alhambra and El Albycin, there is a lot that appeals there. The other reason was Escuela Carmen de las Cuevas, which comes highly recommended, and is well represented with a high-tech web site. I have made reservations to attend Carmen de las Cuevas, and subsequently cancelled them, on at least two occasions.

Granada is a good place to buy a guitar. I still have the allegedly hand-made classical guitar I bought in Granada, from Señor Antonio Morales, for the princely sum of 175,000 pesetas, which converted to about $1,150 USD at the time. It has a very light spruce top, solid indian rosewood back and sides. The basses are strong, the trebles ring nicely, and it has excellent volume, but the action is rather high, especially for flamenco, even with low tension strings, and it apparently can not be lowered. It does not respond clearly to strong attack, as in rasgueado. It also has a rather obvious ding on the top, which I inflicted with my tuner, as I recall. So, although it is an entirely acceptable student classical guitar, it is my backup guitar now. Sr. Morales was quite a character; I have a picture of him standing in the center of his shop, one foot up on a stool, serenading my wife to the tune of "Mr. Sandman." But, I digress.

Because I had the luxury of planning this trip not once, but three times, before it became a reality, I had the time and inclination to solicit input from a wide variety of sources. In addition to fellow students, and others I know personally, I found the advice available from members of the flamenco fenix forum at Yahoo! to be invaluable. I strongly recommend anyone with any specific flamenco-related question put it out on this forum. Now, you will have to sift the wheat from the chaff, and you would be well advised to sit on the forum and just watch for a few weeks, to get to know the people and the personalities a bit, but in my experience you will yield substantial return on that investment. You might also try the forum at flamenco-teacher.com, although you may experience a lower rate of return from that resource.

In the end, I chose to go to Jerez de la Frontera, not Granada. I do not doubt for one moment that there is plenty of flamenco going on in Granada, but Jerez really is dead center in the so-called "cradle of flamenco," which extends from Sevilla to Cadiz. Duendelenguas provides services in Jerez similar to those provided by Carmen de las Cuevas in Granada, but they are different. Both will arrange for lodging in an apartment or with a family, but, whereas Carmen de las Cuevas is something of a one-stop shop, and provides instructional programs entirely in-house, Duendelenguas is more of an agent or consolidator. They offer packages that may include guitar instruction at one studio or dance at another; the only program delivered at their own location is the language instruction. One pays a premium for such services, of course; for my first trip to Jerez, I felt the cost was justified to provide a soft entry and optimize the use of my limited time there. Not all of my expectations were entirely met in that regard, and I might be inclined to try a more direct approach on a subsequent trip, although I would not advise attempting that route unless one speaks at least some Spanish.

I tried to find low cost airfare using Expedia, Orbitz and CheapFlight.com; in the end, Orbitz proved to be the low cost, high service provider. If you are serious about going, and you see tickets for under $500 round trip, jump on them, because they never last more than a day or two. Iberia airlines and RENFE, the Spanish railway system, both provide English language web sites where you can research schedules and fares, make reservations and pay for them with your US credit card, from the comfort of your home or office. Round trip tickets between Jerez and Madrid for my weekend tryst with Cathy cost 69 Euros; one way on the train was a little less than that for tourist class, a little more for preferred. I highly recommend going first class on the train.

HotelClub.net was an excellent resource for accommodations in Madrid. Both of the hotels that they booked for us were clean, comfortable, convenient, with good service, and included a buffet breakfast for under $100 dollars/night, single or double occupancy. Hotel Carlton Madrid was very convenient for the Puerta Atocha train station, and Hotel Velasquez provided quick, easy access to Barajas airport from downtown Madrid.

Andalusians strike me as very friendly people. Addressing a person in their own idiom is a very friendly thing to do, and I highly recommend one make the effort to learn and use the language. Without exception, everyone with whom I made the effort to communicate in Spanish responded very positively, even though my command of the language is quite poor. Manuel Lozano "El Carbonero," after we got to know each other a bit, shared with me his utter incredulity that any extranjero would endeavor to learn flamenco and not Spanish. Sort of like trying to learn Shakespeare and not English, or something to that effect. He asked me, "Why would anyone spend a ton of money, and travel thousands of miles, to come to my home here in Spain, and then expect me to teach them in English/French/Italian/Japanese/insert appropriate language? I'm a guitar teacher, not a polyglot." This was a rhetorical question, I hope, because I had no ready answer.

If I had been able to make this trip when I had originally intended, over a year ago, I might not have been able to take full advantage of the experience. But, fortunately, I have an excellent teacher, Marija Temo, who helped me prepare. Attention in class, and the ability to reconstruct riffs visually or from a tape recorder, are the essential elements. Sheet music, or even cifra (tablature) are hardly used, although I did see El Carbonero write down some tab for the young Japanese fellow who spoke no Spanish.

I returned from this "vacation" refreshed, invigorated, and inspired to approach my study of the guitar and flamenco with increased gusto. I met a lot of people, made some new friends, ate and slept well, and had my guitar in my hands for six or eight hours a day. I accompanied a real live cantaor every day, and learned, relearned and improved basic rhythms and falsetas for Tientos, Tangos, Soleares, Bulerías de Jerez, Fandangos de Huelva and Alegrías. I snuck out to Madrid and points north for a weekend getaway with my wife. My total cost for this adventure was about $200/day, and it was worth it. It could be done for a lot less. Highly recommended.

Academia de Baile Juan Parra
Castellanos, 5
Jerez de la Frontera
+34 956 32 27 27

Antonio Morales Lopez
Fabrica de Guitarras
Cuesta de Gomerez, 9
18009 Granada
+34 958 22 13 87

Carmen de las Cuevas
Cuesta de las Chinos, 15
18010 Granada
+34 958 22 10 62
http://www.carmencuevas.com/2003web/vers_eng/principal/principal.php

CheapFlight
http://www.cheapflight.com/misc/booking.html

Duendelenguas
Calle Union, 2 ~ 2a planta
11402 Jerez de la Frontera
+34 654 92 63 94
http://duendelenguascom.siteprotect.net/ing/index.htm

Escuela de la Guitarra Flamenca "El Carbonero"
San Miguel, 11
11402 Jerez de la Frontera
+34 956 33 67 97
+34 956 18 48 22
+34 657 20 16 44 (mobile)
http://www.escuelaguitarracarbonero.com

Expedia
http://www.expedia.com/

Iberia Airlines http://www.iberia.com/OneToOne/gateway_es.jsp

Orbitz
http://www.orbitz.com/

RENFE
https://w1.renfe.es/vbi/htvbiu00.html