El Alhambra

GRANADA, SPAIN
Visiting  El Alhambra was a highlight of our trip to Spain and of our whole European adventure so far.  Apparently, El Alhambra is the most visited site in Spain—receiving over 2 million visitors every year.  It’s an imposing and beautiful ancient city built in the 14^th century within the Andalucian city of Granada, which is also several hundred years old and contains an old Muslim quarter called the “Albaicin.” 

Purchasing tickets for our visit proved to be surprisingly difficult.  We were warned to buy them ahead of time to avoid long lines at the entrance, so I tried several times to order them on the internet site but my credit card wasn’t accepted.  I called and was put off by the operator who said there were no English speaking agents available until the next day.  I called again and was disconnected twice.  We tried to order tickets at the tourist information center in Seville and were again denied.  Finally, on the way to Granada we stopped at a town twenty kilometers away and Lily used her brilliant Spanish to find out that the Caixa Bank sold tickets through its ATM machine.  My first time at the ATM again denied my credit card, but it did accept a debit card the second time through.  Whew!  I’m glad our tour proved more than worth the trouble. 

We started early from our hotel to climb the hill toward the Alhambra in the frosty morning chill.  At the entrance gate, we were among a small knot of tourists renting audio guides.  As we strolled through the ruins of the old military fort—the alcazaba—and climbed the stone towers for panoramic views across the hills and back down on Granada. 

Then we walked over for our timed entrance to the Nasrid Palaces.  These are the residences of the last Muslim dynasty in Spain, which was finally pushed out by the Christians in the 15^th century--Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand. I’m glad we visited Granada after Seville, for as impressive as found the Real Alacazar, the Alhambra eclipses its grandeur and scope.  Our trip was planned to begin in Morocco in order to understand the roots of Moorish architecture in Spain, although we learned that there was actually a cross-fertilization of styles as waves of immigration moved back and forth between the two cultures.  The style of architecture at the Alhambra is called “Mudejar” named after the Arabs who stayed on in Granada after most of them in the rest of Andalucia had been driven back to Morocco.

At the palaces, we walked through room after room with archways, alcoves and niches carved with elaborate geometric designs, Arabic calligraphy and flowers—no animal or human figures are allowed in Muslim art.  We examined the colored motifs in the tiles on the walls and floors and wondered what the palace must have looked like when the walls were painted with bright colors centuries ago.  The whole scene was magnificent.

After touring the palace we visited a special exhibit about Owen Jones, the British architect and designer who researched and introduced Islamic art to the west during Victorian times.  It’s fascinating to think about the currents of Islamic art and architecture have influenced not only Spain, but in the 19^th century the Art Nouveau movement in France, Christopher Dresser and William Morris in Britain, and even perhaps indirectly the American Frank Lloyd Wright.

Beth

The Next Night - Flamenco in Seville

Guitar and singer

SEVILLE

To round out our Flamenco experience in Seville the next night we attend the 7:30 performance at the Flamenco Museum theater.  We’d visited the museum earlier in the day.  It was as dramatic as the art form with lots of complex overlaying video of dancers, fabulous costumes, music and “sets.”  The theater is small – maybe 150 seats, not sloped.  The seats wrap around three sides of the bare wooden stage, which rises a few feet off the floor.  The boards on the stage were once painted but now show exposed raw wood. We enter 20 minutes before the show and find all but a few seats occupied.  Our fellow audience members are Americans, Europeans and  Japanese (Flamenco, we learn is VERY popular we learn in Japan and Finland; in fact some of the best Flamenco dancers and schools are in these countries!)  The audience whispers.  They rearrange seats.  The bar is open and some have drinks.

At 7:30 sharp the lights dim and two hostesses welcome us, one in Spanish and the other in English.  They leave and out walks a man with a guitar and chair.  He is in shirt sleeves -- all black -- and has curly brown hair, a round face and glasses.  He sits down in the wood, spindle-backed wooden chair and, without further ado, crosses his leg high and begins to play rhythmic, soft, strong guitar.  He exudes confidence.  After several minutes a woman appears next to him but in the shadows.  She taps her feet in rhythm to his guitar so we hear her before we really see her.  Then she moves out onto the stage.  She is tall with, red highlighted black hair held tight to her head with pins reminiscent of a 1920’s style.  Her skirt, layered with ruffles, falls straight to her ankles.  Her sash is pink and she wears a black blouse.  Her dancing interacts with the guitar.  It is not clear who is leading.  And her feet serve as a percussion section.  They slide and scrape, they tap and stomp.  They can sound like a machine gun and then are unexpectedly silent.  She moves around the full stage, turns.  Her shoulders are back.  Her arms move around and above her head like a dancing couple in themselves.  The guitarist watches her feet closely.

With the end of the piece we applaud and she disappears off stage.  

Our guitarist now pulls his chair out to the middle of the stage and performs a fabulous piece that crescendos to a climax which includes his rhythmic rapping on his guitar and stomping feet.  We are very enthusiastic.  This is a real, professional performance!

Our guitarist moves back to his original spot at the back of the stage and is joined by a woman and a young man who each bring out a black, straight-back chair.  They sit in a line.  Our guitarist starts up joined by the singer.  Her voice is sharp and penetrating.  The song has episodes, verses.  It builds, subsides, builds again.  She taps and stomps her feet, the young man adds precise clapping like I saw last night and foot taps.  Then again from the shadows appears our dancer.  She is in a new outfit, a splendid long, bright green dress with deep red frills trailing several feet behind her.  She adds to her previous repertoire the maneuvering of the train of the dress – this way and that – with twirls and kicks to the train.  She picks it up with her hand, flips it, spins, stomps and before she trips over it has kicked it free again.  (Later Abby tells us she has fallen in love with the dress.  Lily spent the piece worried about the dancer tripping over the train.)

Our guitarist and singer now perform a piece together.  While we can’t understand the word it feels like the Andalucian version of Billy Holiday.

Our dancer joins them now on a chair. A new piece starts and our young clapping and stomping man arrives on the floor next to the stage.  He is now in a black suit jacket and vest with a silk scarf.  His feet rap away, warming up to the guitar and clapping on stage.  Then wow!  He steps up on stage and stands tapping away, building the tension, acting out the story of the music.  Then he begins strutting about the stage, spinning, tugging at his jacket.  His stomps and moves become faster and more forceful. The jacket comes off.  His feet are aggressive on the floor.  He nearly backs into the singer as, like a bull, he paws at the floor and attacks the front of the stage again.  His exit is a rush off the stage.  We love it.  It’s been 90 minute of intense music and dance.  We applaud and they bow.  They come back for an encore. Now it is both dancers.  This couple dancing is different from last night's.  They are two stars dancing on the same stage.  Each fabulous but without the intimacy seen at Casa Anselma.

We leave the theater buzzing with the energy and exquisite performance.  I leave caught by surprise by the difference between last night’s intimate Flamenco party and tonight’s performance.  And its only 9:30, time for and early dinner.


Peter

Casa Anselma - Flamenco in Seville

SEVILLE
At 3:00am I arrive back at our hotel room in Seville.  I am turning in early.  Thousands of Saturday night revelers are still out clubbing, sitting and talking at bars, walking the streets on wobbly legs.  But I have had a wonderful evening and am ready for bed.

When we checked-in that afternoon I had asked the concierge at our small hotel where we could see the “real” flamenco.  He pulled out a brochure on one of the tourist “shows.”  I pressed, however, and eventually between my guide book, a 2005 blog and his phone calls to a friend, I settled on Casa Anselma.  The blog warned me not to expect anything before 11:30, so I left my warm bed and lovely family at 11:15pm to walk across downtown and over the Guadalquivir River to Triana – the notorious Gypsy, working-class part of town where the guide book tells us the fun is a little more unpredictable.

Casa Anselma (after the metal shutters are raised)

It is cold out.  The address is 49 Calle Pages del Corro.  I find 51.  I cross a street and find 47, so  49 must be the yellow building on the corner with the metal shutters down.  As I turn back to look at it I notice a few people out on the sidewalk in front.  I count; there are 15 people in two's and three's.  It is 11:25.  By 11:45 there are 50 people. Two young men arrive.  They are part of a large party.  They each hold a highball glass and are in an intense, nose to nose conversation – each trying to impress on the other in their slurred earnestness with their position.  The man with the cravat gesticulates for added emphasis and spills a dash on the sidewalk without noticing.

The steel shutter on the side door rises with a rattle.  From inside the building steps a small, elderly woman with reddish hair, a sharp nose, a straight mouth.  She holds herself erect and certainly must be Anselma.  The 75 people now gathered on the sidewalk all move up to crowd around Anselma in the doorway.  She looks us over and soon to whom she waves.  A group of six people move forward.  She exchanges kisses with each of them and they pass into the club.  We can now see inside.  There are rows of simple wooden chairs and on the far side of the large room is a bar.  It is low lit with memorabilia on the walls.  Soon several groups  have been welcomed into the club.  The rest of us wait outside.  There is a general banter back and forth between Anselma and the crowd.

Anselma, our host (6 year old photo)

10 minutes go by and 50 or so people have been let in.  Anselma has instructed the “not-chosen” to go around to the other side to wait at the “front” door.  I take my cue and get in the “other” line.  I’m sixth.  But another few minutes go by and I return to the main door wondering if maybe I’m missing my chance to get in.  There is Anselma still bantering with folks and a letting a few more in.  “Will I be left out?” I worry.  Another woman from the “loser” line comes back around and convinces Anselma she really is a long lost friend and slips in with her partner.  Now I pluck up my courage and say in my fluent sign language: “I’m only one, and I’ve been waiting here so patiently….etc., etc.”  Anselma looks me in the eye and tells the remaining crowd to go over to the other door and wait.  She then lowers the steel curtain back down.

Returning to the loser line I am now at the back.  There must be 20 people in front of me.  I brood.  Everyone else is relaxed and chatting with one another.  Finally at 12:00 the main door opens and there is Anselma.  She greets people as they file in.  She shows each of them exactly where to sit on the remaining chairs.  I reach the front of the line.  All the chairs have been taken.  All that remains is standing room around the bar.  Except that there are eight prominent seats vacant in the second row.  I helpfully point to those seats thinking maybe Anselma hadn’t noticed them.  She shakes her head and points me toward the bar.

Casa Anselma - this is the stage

At the bar I order a tap beer for2 Euro – a very reasonable price in a club.  There is no cover charge.  Anselma's only revenue it seems is the bar tab.  But as I look around the room it appears the tab will be significant.  There are two waitresses moving expertly around the room.  Everyone has a drink.  In front of some of the chairs are small coffee tables, but most people are holding their drinks.  The crowd ranges from early teens – a group of girl friends – to white haired men and women.  Most are between 30 and 50.  I have found a nice metal column supporting the roof near the bar.  I lean up against and have a good view of the room.  The standing room is quickly filling up and I see that outside the door there are a clump of people waiting to get in.

Now two men with guitars are moving to the “stage” area.  The stage itself is about 5’ x 6’.  Tiny.  Behind it are three empty chairs.  Behind them are a final row of audience chairs, so the stage is surrounded by people.  One man on stage reminds me of a mechanic at Cummins.  He is middle aged with short cropped white hair and tunes his guitar.  The other guitarist is younger, 30’s?, and handsome.  A third man now walks through the crowd to sit between them on a wooden box the size of a wine crate, which he is carrying.  A fourth man sits on a chair.  He turns out to be the lead clapper.  He claps all night and sings.  The room is loud with peoples’ conversations, laughter, calls for drinks.  Anselma is showing up all around the room.  Now she is on her cell phone.  Now she is talking to customers. 

Drummer's drum

At 12:15 the guitars start and the man sitting on the box turns out to be the drummer. By beating on his box he sounds like a full drum set.  The crowd calms some, the older guitar player sings a soulful song with four or five repeated verses with growing intensity.  He is a tenor straining with an emotion style of singing.  Many in the crowd are clapping in a three on, one off beat with the 4 bar song.  And they know right when to start up and when to stop.  Clearly this is not an amateur clapping crowd.  I observe and try to figure out how to join them.  When the song ends there is rousing applause.

Anselma + band - r-l: guitar, drums, clapper, guitar (can't see)

Anselma appears at the “stage” and rearranges a few chairs.  She motions for a man who is sitting on a white cardboard box near her to take an empty seat in the front row.  He does.  This leaves the white box open.  The crowd is watching.  Anselma motions toward the bar, or is it toward me?  I look behind me.  Then I see everyone looking at me!  Anselma is pointing at me.  She points at the box.  My moment has come.  Anselma herself has offered me a box to sit on at Casa Anselma.  So I step up into the front row right next to the Cummins guitarist and sit down.  I’m a little flushed with this brush with fame.  Then I see that Anselma is pointing at me again.  Her motioning leads me to understand that I am too tall on my box and am blocking the view of one of her preferred customers.  So now she motions for me to move my box over in a corner where I won’t block anyone.  Now, I don’t want to argue with Anselma, and I am clearly the center of quite commotion now, but I also want to have a good view of the stage.  I decide to negotiate.  I point to my bar pole and indicate I will take my box back there and sit where I had been standing.  Anselma seems to accept this arrangement.  I make myself comfortable on my box and take a sip of beer.

Couple dancing on "stage"

As the next song begins, a man and woman from the front row stand up.  They take center stage and hold a stylized pose with their arms raised.  They stand just inches apart. Their rehearsed moves tie to the music.  As a verse ends with a flourish they finish with a flourish turning with raised heads and flipped hands.  The crowd is very pleased and many are clapping the special clap.  The mood is ebullient.  People are talking.  iPhones are snapping photos.  Drinks are being ordered and served.  It is a wonderful scene.  With each song now a new couple stands.  Clearly Anselma has orchestrated it telling each when they are to perform.  These must be regulars.  The first two couples are older.  Then middle aged.  Then a pair of young women performs beautifully.

At 12:45 there's a flurry of activity at the door, and 12 young women arrive.  These were the women for whom Anselma had been saving the chairs.  They thread their way to their special seats and order drinks.

At some point Anselma sings a song.  The crowd is now 150 strong with a thick mob standing around the bar and around the corner out of sight of the stage.  The noise of talking is continuous but people don't mind.  During some songs couples around me and around the room are dancing.  Mid-song Anselma calls one of them forward to the stage to be featured.  Next the box drummer stands and sings a long, emotional ballad which is well received.  Many people sing along with his chorus. During a song Anselma calls up individual dancers for each verse.

It feels like a party of friends having fun, singing, dancing, sharing a love for their music and all hosted by Anselma.

At 2:00 the two guitarists, lead clapper and drummer all stand and face the wall behind where they had been sitting.  Upon it I now see a shrine to the Virgin Mary.  They sing a heartfelt, long, unison chorus to “Maria.”  People sing along and clap, and talk with each other, take photos, order drinks.

There is a final general applause and I see that the party is breaking up.  The musicians start to chat with the audience.  Everyone mingles to greet each other.  Anselma is moving through the crowd.  Jackets and scarves are put on and people slowly move toward the door.  I wander around to look more closely at the wall-to-wall memorabilia.  There are hundreds of photos of Anselma with various people – important looking people, dancers, and many men in bull fighters outfits. There are dozens of unfolded hand fans of various sizes and decoration, clearly from the days when she danced herself.  There are dozens of photos of bull fights and matador spears.  I get the feeling that, at least for Anselma, bull fighting and Flamenco are closely tied.

Fifteen minutes have gone by and still the room is crowded.  I notice that half the crowd has moved toward or out the door and the other has moved to the bar to order another drink.  I move outside into the cold, fresh air.  No one is in a hurry.  Many are standing and chatting on the sidewalk.  I begin to retrace my steps back to our hotel.  As I do I pass dozens of groups of people – five middle aged women walking home in a ricochet of laughter and conversation, a group of young men and women, two couples looking tipsy.  I pass a McDonald’s express and there is a line of 20 people waiting to place orders.  I pass a bar with ten tables occupied by people eating late night tapas and having drinks.  The garbage trucks are out as well.  A man in his green uniform is sweeping Victoria Plaza with a large broom.


Peter