I am sitting in the Spanish courtyard of a hotel, located in the heart of historical Seville's Santa Cruz district. Sitting is not the correct word. For a Canadian who has weathered a frigid winter of discontent, with temperatures consistently below zero, I am habitually lolling, lounging, sprawled, slumped and reclining beneath the magnificent, warm sun, soaking up the benign weather and wondering, since I am retired, why I do not return here each time our country experiences a blizzard of snow that
inevitably turns to slush then ice.
And, if I ever get tired of passively absorbing the sun's rays while sipping my sherry or fino in the relaxed courtyard, I can leisurely leave the refurbished 18th-century aristocratic mansion and in a few minutes, meander and explore the
nearby Cathedral, Alcazar Palace, Plaza de Espana, river and wonderful tapas bars that will provide me with yet more sherry.
Byron wrote that this city is famous for oranges and women. The Seville orange tree decorates the pavements of the Spanish city which, of course, takes its name, and in spring a heavy perfume from the flowers fills the air.
The Moors brought oranges with them to southern Spain
in the eighth or ninth century, and by the 13th century, orange groves extended from Seville to Granada as well as regions of Portugal.
The Brits have caught on to Spain as both a vacation spot and a permanent home. Living Spain Magazine conducted a recent survey for London's Daily Telegraph newspaper. The trend to move out of Great Britain in large numbers has continually increased over the past 50 years. Spain and France are the prime choices for obvious reasons of climate and accessibility, but other draws are the cost of living and a more relaxed lifestyle.
I am armed with Langenscheidt's Universal Spanish Phrasebook and the tattered remnants of my ancient high school Spanish. Spanish is the third most spoken language in the world after Chinese and English. It's the official language of 20 countries and according to the Instituto Cervantes, a local language school, spoken by six per cent of the world.
In Spain, there are 39 universities, 325 private schools and 15 official language schools. Linguistic tourism is taking off, Germans the most keen, with an average of 30,000 visits each year.
I was eager to give my Spanish a try. "Buenas dias," I said to the hotel manager. "Yo soy un hombre sincero. Feliz Navidad!"
She looked at me strangely.
"What are you doing?" asked my spouse
"I'm merely trying to converse in her native language," I said. "Those were the only song lyrics that I could remember."
"You wished her a merry Christmas." Consulting my phrasebook and looking like a "hombre sincero," I quickly apologized, "Lo siento; no hablo espanol muy bien." (I'm sorry; I do not speak Spanish very well.)
She smiled and said, "That's okay, I speak three languages."
A lot of retired friends think that travel anywhere is risky now. Some have become paranoid, imagining terrorists lurking behind every tree. My travel philosophy is thus: I didn't work all those years to sit idly at home, afraid to venture into the world. Travel is the best form of education ever invented. Besides, it's warm here; there's no snow to shovel; the sherry is sweet; the flamenco dancers are hot. And, did I mention, it's warm here?
Mike Keenan writes a weekly newspaper column for the St. Catharines Standard and has been published in the Globe and
Mail, Buffalo Spree, Stitches, West of the City and Pulse Magazine. He is editor of the zine, Synapse Magazine:
www.synapsemagazine.ca.
Mike is an award-winning poet and former President of the Canadian Authors Association, Niagara and Vice-President of
the national body. He belongs to the North American Travel Journalist Association and the Travel Media Association of
Canada. In his "spare" time, he is Executive Officer and founder of The Council on World Affairs of Canada:
www.cowac.org.
Synchronicity is a remarkable phenomenon. You make exhaustive, detailed travel plans, talk to others, visit the library, research and then book accommodations at just the right place, but inevitably, as if it were one of Murphy's immutable laws, something unexpected always adds zest and memory to a trip that formerly looked like a shopping list.
For us it involves music. Once, we toured San Francisco and visited the beautiful Opera House. With a flourish, the famed Boston Pops conductor, Arthur Fiedler, arrived, a camel coat draped over his shoulders,
followed by a large entourage. We stood in awe. He exuded energy. Into the theatre he strode and, like pieces of metal attracted to a powerful magnet, we fell behind him, caught up with his dash and vigour. We listened to him fastidiously rehearse the orchestra for an hour. It was unforgettable, catalogued under pure chance.
A similar event occurred in Seville, Spain. The prime attraction for tourists is the enormous cathedral, the Catedral de Sevilla, which we discovered in time for the 21st Lenten Organ
Recital, a series of free evening concerts by the best musicians in Europe. Unfortunately, we missed the opening night performance by Spaniard, Jose Jame.
Daniel Zaretsky, principal organist from the St. Petersburg Philharmonic Hall, began with Bach and moved to Prokofiev, finishing with Koehler's variations on the old Russian national anthem. He looked like he had consumed his last meal two weeks ago in a gulag. His suit fit poorly on his bony back and an unkempt black beard covered his face, yet he played with passion.
Jean-Paul Imbert is principal organist at the Basilica of Notre Dame des Neiges del Alpe d'Huez. He stuck to a French program, mainly contemporary, which included
Clair de Lune. Dressed in a spiffy Nehru-style suit, he played with fancy flourish and verve.
Hans Leimer from the Cathedral de San Esteban de Passau, returned safely to Bach and concluded with one of his own compositions. Like the others, he was superb and the incredible sound filled the vaulted ceilings and bounced off the marble floors.
Listening to masters play Bach on the massive cathedral organ ornamented with carved wooden angels was a peak experience. Beethoven referred to Bach as the "immortal god of harmony." Roger Fry, Virginia Woolf's associate, admirably stated that "Bach almost persuades me to be a Christian."
We shared the same space that occupied kings and queens, conquistadors and famous navigators such as Christopher Columbus whose journeys to the Indies and the New World resulted in unparalleled amounts of gold and silver transported to Seville, fashioned into altar,
chalice, candle holder and other church accoutrements deposited for safekeeping and on display in the treasury The altarpiece, the huge retablo, the life work of Flemish carver Pieter Dancart, dripped in gold leaf and took my breath away.
The Moors lost Seville to the Christians in 1248 and in 1401 their mosque was replaced by a cathedral on a grand scale. Accordingly, it's the third largest in the world after St. Paul's in London and St. Peter's in Rome. The side chapels resemble small churches. Construction lasted for four centuries. The mosque's minaret, the Giralda, remained as a bell tower and is accessed by 32 ramps built for the muezzin to ride his horse to the top to summon the faithful to prayer. (We made it to the
top.) The other
Moorish remnant is the Patio de los Naranjos (oranges), a relaxing ablutions area used prior to entrance into the mosque.
The cathedral is a prime location for horse-driven buggies that ferry tourists around the streets and bravely compete with cars, buses and scooters. It's the hub for spokes of narrow streets featuring tapas bars, restaurants and ceramics shops, a vibrant area to sit and enjoy vino and cerveza after a free organ concert.
Mike Keenan writes a weekly newspaper column for the St. Catharines Standard and has been published in the Globe and
Mail, Buffalo Spree, Stitches, West of the City and Pulse Magazine. He is editor of the zine, Synapse Magazine:
www.synapsemagazine.ca.
Mike is an award-winning poet and former President of the Canadian Authors Association, Niagara and Vice-President of
the national body. He belongs to the North American Travel Journalist Association and the Travel Media Association of
Canada. In his "spare" time, he is Executive Officer and founder of The Council on World Affairs of Canada:
www.cowac.org.
As a tourist with no intention of attending a bullfight, I reasoned I should try to understand the phenomenon. There are 70 bull-rings in Andalucia where we traveled, the oldest in Ronda but the most important in Seville with a museum. Mounted on the wall there was the head of the mother of the bull that killed famed Manolete, Aug. 28, 1947 in Linares.
Sadly, if a bull kills a matador, his mother suffers the same fate. No need to maintain a genetic version of Bonnie (as in Bonnie and Clyde) to nurture future killers.
Besides Islera, the mother of the bull that killed Manolete, there were two other heads mounted on the museum walls, one missing an ear. These were the two "best bulls," presumably the strongest, some consolation to the bulls - akin to a taxidermist stuffing the Toronto Maple Leafs Mats Sundin after being knocked out of the Stanley Cup playoffs. Despite the typical Spanish disdain for time, bullfights are regimented like clockwork: six bulls dispatched, 25
minutes per bull, matadors performing in order of seniority, each allotted 15 minutes. The event lasts from 5 to 7 p.m. Three matadors each battle two bulls weighing 500 to 800 kilograms, bred to fight.
The number of trophies (the tail and ears) is decided by the president, sitting safely in the royal box. Imagine a tail or an ear presented to a beautiful senorita as opposed to a bouquet of flowers!
Matadors earn as much money as European soccer stars and they are as famous. In the museum were hung paintings of the famous 19th century matadors: Rafael Gomez or El Gallo (cock or rooster), Jose Ortega or El Gallito (small cock or rooster) and Juan Belmonte. Rafael and Jose were the Spanish equivalent of Montreal Canadiens Rocket (Maurice) and Pocket-Rocket (Henri) Richard, although one wonders how much Jose enjoyed being known as the smaller version of the two cocks.
Bullfighting originated in village squares but became formalized with the ring in Ronda in the late 18th century. The format followed a distinct sequence: the entrance of the bull, the picador,
the banderilleros, and finally the matador. Bullfight posters are collectors' items, and we saw them disslayed in every town that we visited.
In the Seville ring, there are five gates, one each for entry and departure of the bull and the matador and one for the horses. First, footmen work the bull with large magenta and gold capes while the matador conducts a scouting report, appraising agility, intelligence, sight, strength and characteristics such as whether the bull favours one horn or the other, like a golfer who hooks or slices. Next, picadores, mounted on padded, blindfolded horses, provoke the bull, plunging a lance into its neck, weakening the strong muscles, lowering the head for the final coup de grace. Carrying a banderilla in each hand, the banderillero runs towards the charging bull at an angle, thrusting the barbed darts with colourful ribbons into the neck.
Finally, the matador removes his hat, salutes and asks the president permission to kill the bull.
He executes a series of passes with his red cape (there are 40), bringing the animal close to his body. The crowd shouts "Ole!"
If the matador performs well, he is applauded and showered with flowers and hats much like a hockey player who scores a hat-trick. In contrast, the bull's carcass is quickly removed, pulled out of the arena by harnessed horses and then distributed for sale in butchers' shops or reincarnated into various leather objects in the local market.
Newspapers feature photos and matador statistics are maintained on the number of bulls fought, ears and tails awarded. For me, educational, yes, but for Spanish culture, I will stick with flamenco dancing.
Mike Keenan writes a weekly newspaper column for the St. Catharines Standard and has been published in the Globe & Mail,
Buffalo Spree, Stitches, West of the City and Pulse
Magazine. Mike is an award-winning poet and former President of the Canadian Authors Association, Niagara and
Vice-President of the national body. He belongs to the North American Travel Journalist Association and the Travel Media
Association of Canada. He is editor of the zines, What Travel Writers Say:
www.whattravelwriterssay.com and Synapse Magazine: www.synapsemagazine.ca.
Would I return to Spain? In a minute, just to see authentic flamenco! Of course, like most people, I had seen flamenco performed on TV. Once I attended a live show in Toronto. In Spain, like watching a basket-ball game in Canada, I saw flamenco in Andalusia, its birthplace. Flamenco is not the pink bird-like ornament that you place in large numbers on your neighbour's lawn the day that he or she turns 50. Flamenco is folk art, often improvised and spontaneous like my own sonorous songs sung heartily in our shower. However, in Andalusia, the song, dance and guitar blend together in the passionate rhythms of southern Spain.
Spain's famous poet, Fredrico Garcia Lorca, referred to flamenco as one of the most gigantic inventions of the Spanish people. Fortunately, adjacent to the Alcantara, our Seville hotel, there was a cultural centre that featured authentic flamenco dancing. Controversy exists concerning flamenco's origin, whether or
not it's a gypsy invention, but besides gypsies who immigrated from India and Pakistan ("gitanos"), there are also
obvious Jewish and Arab influences. Sixty per cent or 300,000 of Spain's gypsies do live in Andalusia. The tragic lyrics and tones of flamenco often reflect what seem to be the lamentations of a disposed people.
I was surprised to learn that the key lies in the singing tradition. The flamenco guitar was originally an instrument of accompaniment, and today has developed as a separate art. Then, there is the distinctive dance with its sophisticated footwork, the dancer wearing special shoes or boots with dozens of nails driven into the soles and heels. The ladies wear long costumes often with many frills. The upper body is a symbol of grace.
In our case, the male singer hand-clapped to help keep time, occasionally shouting words of encouragement to the female dancer. I was impressed with the economy of space. The dancing platform was a relatively small square. I could imagine the dancing at night in the desert in front of a blazing fire, sparks shooting into the sky.
The dancer, like the singer and guitarist, was terrific. I could understand how flamenco might become habit-forming. In fact, at one of our favourite tapas bars on another evening, we met a young couple from Minnesota. She was studying Spanish in Seville and highly recommended the flamenco at a bar named La Carbonaria.
Navigating downtown Santa Cruz, Seville's ancient Jewish quarter was easy yet psychologically demanding. First, the Spanish shut down in the afternoon and eat their supper quite late around 10 p.m. At 11 p.m., things are just warming up. The streets are narrow and
winding. You never know what to expect around the next corner. We had to jettison North American big city paranoia and get used to the fact that the dark streets were safe. We found La Carbonaria. It was like being transported back into the '60s to a small, packed coffee house.
That night there was a young, handsome Spanish male singer performing on the tiny, smoke-filled stage and an appreciative audience of attractive senorita groupies under 30 years old.
Looking back on Spain, my primary impressions are that it's safe, clean and inexpensive, far cheaper than Italy, France and Great Britain. The language did not
present a problem. The Spanish seemed to appreciate our earnest efforts with their language, particularly the unlucky yet patient waiter to whom we tried to describe the term, olives, not remembering the correct translation.
As for flamenco, I'm starting to wear leather shoes in the shower.
Mike Keenan writes a weekly newspaper column for the St. Catharines Standard and has been published in the Globe & Mail,
Buffalo Spree, Stitches, West of the City and Pulse
Magazine. Mike is an award-winning poet and former President of the Canadian Authors Association, Niagara and
Vice-President of the national body. He belongs to the North American Travel Journalist Association and the Travel Media
Association of Canada. He is editor of the zines, What Travel Writers Say:
www.whattravelwriterssay.com and Synapse Magazine: www.synapsemagazine.ca.
