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Volume 1, Issue 3. January 23, 2007. |
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I AM SPANISHBy FlamencoFlamenco is a young guitarist from Spain who stumbled upon the Visa Quest Krewe in Paris last December and who learned for the first time about Mardi Gras. He writes here with the help of Bob Bell and Debra Page who are travelling and drinking wine throughout Spain and France this winter.
Dear Queen Aileen, I am Spanish. Of this Mardi Gras, nothing I know but choose to want more. I know it celebrates in Louisiana state of Estados Unidos, and is called the New Orleans. In Spain we have similar, Semana Santa and is also happening with lent. En Sevilla, the virgins from each Cathedrals is brought into the street. There are many virgins in the churches, but not many in the streets until this festival. These church virgins are all beautiful with flowery headdress and gown sewn by nuns. All compete to be most beautiful and all people have opinion that their virgin is the best. We men dress in traditional robes, black with high pointing hoods. We compete for the honor to carry our virgins, and then we train all year for the strongness because the virgins are weighing very much. It is a challenge but for loving our virgins we grow strong to carry our virgins all night. Then we party. Fiesta, rioja, musica, bailar; for of course, we are Spanish.
A nice American girl is working at the library here in Paris where to you I am writing. The French keyboards are cagos de las virgenes with letres in different places. This girl comes to tell me, "No. No. You cannot drink that Rioja in here." She takes my vino and puts it in her desk and then comes back to ask what I write. She laughs when I tell her I write my friend in America but my English badly come. She is so nice and habla espanol, and offers me to type for. --Hi my name is Debra and I'll help Flamenco with his letter. He says his desire to visit America, Mardi Gras, and Alaska is very strong.- My parents fled Spain when Madrid fell to Franco. They took refuge in the Pyrenees where the French were sympathetic. My father told me stories of the fighting and one that stuck fast in my mind was when he fought with the American socialistas. They called themselves the Lincoln Brigade and they came to try to stop the fascistas. From these stories I have a high regard for America. In the 1930s they were the shining light of liberty.I was born in France and only returned to Spain in 1975 when Franco finally died. The whole country was in celebration. It must be like the Mardi Gras. I like to visit France as it was home for many years. The Metro in Paris blooms an underground life of its own. This one night in December when I am traveling with my guitar on the line to Mont Martre, the Metro is very full. We stop at Chatelet where many passengers unload and a horde of merry makers board. The doors close and a man starts hammering on a banjo, an African instrument about which I have heard, but this is the first time I have seen it. The notes from this instrument spank every space in the train. The joy of these people is contagious as they all join in singing with the banjo man, something about a Black Eyed Susie. The usual dour Paris passengers begin to smile. A couple of course make objection and press their cell phones closer to their ears, but most are very happy. Then a young French tough lifts his arms and begins dancing amidst the throng. This is different. When this wild bunch gets off I grab my guit bag and hop off with them, for I am Spanish.
Conversations zig-zag across the table in Francais, English, and to my surprise in Espanol. There are more than twenty of these revelers sharing good food, hearty laughter, and a genuine love of these moments. I discover they are most from Alaska. My mind shivers with image of this fabulous place. They are here on a quest with their Visa cards. Their quest revolves around music, adventure, and just plain fun. We in Spain know of this quest because we love our Don Quixote. I discover much in listening. What I can't understand Eric sitting next to me explains as his Spanish is muy bueno. He has trouble eating because he laughs so much. Saluds, santes, and cheers abound as we all toast. A glass is lifted to all those who would and should be here, but could not make the journey. A loud "Ahhhyyeeee...." erupts from Steve as everyone thanks Alex and Jewelly for hosting such an outrageous affair. Alex is a tall Frenchman who seems non-plussed by the details of sponsoring such a gaggle of goofballs. The Chef gets a big round of applause as he invited these folks here after hearing them play music the previous night at Alex and Jewelly's studio. All were impressed that his boss went for it. After the meal a young couple entered from the street. They were Swiss and the young man said he had heard Cajun music had found its way to Paris and wondered if this was the right place. The man Ray (I make a funny because this man is much like Man Ray the famous artist) looks about the room and says, "Now that's what I'm talkin' about!!" He pulls out an accordion and hands it to the Swiss. From the first pull it was obvious this was a serious player. Ray's face exploded in grin as wide as Jesus' when Mary Magdelene told him she was with child. He bowed his fiddle, his friend Jennifer thumped her bass and the restaurant erupted with the sounds of the Bayou. Eric played guitar, Danny and Sherry second fiddled, Sean blew harp, Franny tiptoed with a sax, a killer rubboard ( another contraption new to me) went rub rat-a tat, and pretty Sally beat out the beat on a wrought-iron triangle. Et toi! Those that weren't playing danced. Martha grabbed me and said "Listen up boy. It's a two-step" and let me say it is sexy. I know, for I am Spanish. My appetite expands to hear more of this Cajun, Zydeco music. They played and played. Ray fiddled a waltz tune which everyone sang along on the chorus as they waltzed. "On es putain des chanceaux........We are so fucking lucky...." Alex had never heard them sing it and it was sung in his honor and his language. He howled his approval. The owner of the Petite Canard sang louder than any. There were two small tables with diners who weren't part of this Vizaquest. It was the noche of their fuckin' luck.. More instruments emerged from their cases as the music shifted to musica traditional de Norte Americano.. Fiddles, guitar, banjo, mandolin, double bass. Wow, songs about history....unions, love, syphilis, cocaine, drink, debauch, railroadin', and gamblin'. They sang and played from the Hart. Everyone joined the acapella "We are Bands of Freemen." A man not with the group lit a lighter and held it aloft. People stopped by the window and gawked and smiled and danced down the street. "Drink corn likker let your cocaine be......" Music, music, music. Blues, rock n roll, ballads, gypsy.... Sean and his wife Maridon did some beautiful country duets, then they did some silly Sean songs. "Everything was fine until I bought her a gun." That's funny especial in Spanish! Eric and Ray surprised me when they let me play along on some Cuban numbers. I am Spanish. I know all the songs of the loving tongue. "....eternimente Yolanda." I lapped the music like a dog gone drunk. At some point music ceased as postres were served. No, it was not canard! Crème brulaise, some chocolat supreme thing, a something so beautiful in its construction it seemed criminal to spoon it into a drooling mouth. All passed each around for all to suckle. Ahhh, the French.....French café good, the wine better, and even the beer (although the best of it was from Belgium) flowed like the sangre of the lamb. I came to find that the latter had much to do with this gathering. Steve and Karen are brewers extraordinaire in Homer, Alaska. To most of the assembled this was a jaunt in the country, but to these two this was a business trip. And they are all business. Many gathered here consider themselves Steve and Karen's flock. "Life would be a dismal swamp without people like them in our bayou." Danny and John told me. It turns out there is a Mardi Gras held in Homer for the unfortunates who can't get to the Big Easy. There are parades and floats and music. People explain to me about the Krewe. Different like-minded groups work all year on their contributions to the grand finale. Many of these Krewes are world renown and have worked and played their magic together through generations. A toast is raised to this----the Vizaquest Krewe always making preparation for Mardi Gras. Dinner had begun at 10 o'clock. The music stopped at 6 am. Such a night, and this was only one of many when this busload of buskers were unleashed under Parisian lights. The beauty is it will happen again...like the comet, like the eclipse, like the Mardi Gras. These amigos and their friends will merge somewhere on the planet and when they do I hope to be there to partake in the adventure for I am Spanish.. Paz y Amor. Flamenco
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I have hear of Mardi Gras from American I meet. He say it is the one time in America where it feels like Spain. I think he means this is good because he like to drink the Rioja as much as me. It makes me first know that Mardi Gras is sometime I want. Now I tell tale of other Mardi Gras in Paris I stumbled to.
They wind through the streets of Mont Martre, past the Sex-O-Drome, past the windows of dancing girls, the crazy boys hopping the Delivery truck tails, riding drunk down through pleasure palace pathways. My new amigos keep focus, following like lemmings after a pretty French senorita named Jewelly. She stops in front of a small restaurant and opens the door for all to enter, La Petite Canard. I turned to the man I was walking with and asked if I could join. He called himself Smokey, and he said a funny thing, "Sure, we always need observers." We in Spain are proud of our buen comida, our vino rioja, y our amor; but the French...... The food, the wine, the love takes precedence over all. Politics are just a shadow. This restaurant, the Canard, serves duck; tapas, primer plato, entrée, maybe even dessert, all duck. Put down with the backing of French Bordeaux, this was a meal fit for La Reina Isabel herself.