Dos: Petition face
Not too long ago, the Alameda neighborhood in Sevilla was trouble — the city’s go-to barrio for pimps, pushers and other ne’er-do-wells. Over the past decade it gentrified and it’s now the local Bohemian Ground Zero, but it still retains a charmingly run-down feel. The paint is peeling, graffiti tags ancient churches and apartments, and the wrought iron gates that adorn many homes are rusted green. The Alameda de Hercules — the long grassy mall from which the neighborhood draws its name — strangely reminds me of Adado Riverfront Park in Lansing, with its dated industrial sculptures.
This morning I made my way through the Alameda’s narrow streets to Taller Flamenco, for my first lesson of the trip. Two men and a woman stood outside, smoking and looking cold.
“Are you Scott?”
“Si.”
“Is your teacher Manuel?”
“Si.”
“I am Manuel!”
Manuel is tall, suave and infinitely patient. Because of this, he is a phenomenal teacher — despite the fact that he speaks about as much English as I do Spanish, which is to say not at all. Instead, he speaks in slow but conversational Espanol, as if I could understand every word. Somehow, for the most part, I did (I wish it was partly because I’m a quick language learner, but past experience has proven this not to be true).
The general consensus, of course, is that my basic technique is muy bad. This was no surprise, as I’m mostly self-taught. I already have a lengthy list of rasgueados and arpeggio techniques to tighten up before tomorrow.
After the lesson, I spent a few hours just wandering through the Alameda in the chilled late morning sunshine, an exercise in people-watching. I passed a thin-suited young gentleman in a fedora, bashing out an accented version of “Sweet Home Chicago” on a nylon-stringed guitar. A cabal of young people with blue backpacks were tracking down pedestrians, trying to get them to sign a petition of some sort. I was approached no less than five times, quite happy to throw my hands up and say “No hablo Espanol! Lo siento!”
I’d like to think I attracted so much attention because I looked like a local (I was wearing a snazzy scarf, after all). More likely, I just have the face of that unusual specimen — a person willing to sign petitions.
Sevillianos are a hearty bunch, much more so than I would have thought — many of them sat outside drinking beer, even though it was no more than 50 degrees outside. That’s some Yooper shit right there. In fact, that must be some industrial-strength Yooper shit, because I was happy to sip my Cruzcampo in the comfort of a corner cafe. Maybe I’m not quite the Northern soul I thought.
