The clip below isn’t my favorite of the pieces he played (“he” being world-renowned arranger, composer, performer, and producer specializing in flamenco, Pedro Javier González), but it gives you a sense: the man’s got fingers that could double-knot the shoelaces on a grasshopper. His quiet confidence and steady, un-showy calm, understated yet not at all mechanical, gave both sincerity and depth to the twelve songs in the set — which lasted over an hour but seemed to finish almost as soon as it began.
It was the kind of concert that feels more like one half of a first date. Through the music, he introduces himself, shares his interests, shows his sense of humor, tells a little about his past, allows pauses for reflection, and keeps returning to the warm question, shaped by empty space: So, how about you?
Enjoy, friends, and have a glorious weekend. See you next week!
Hey y’all! Hope your week’s going beautifully. Sorry for my absence lately, but I’ve been busy with some very special visitors to Barcelona…my Mama and Pops!
Ain’t they sweet?
We’ve really been on the go — today, for instance, we’re taking the train to visit the Vipassana center; checking out an exhibit at the Centre de Cultura Contemporània de Barcelona (“The Jazz Century,” it’s called — and it looks fabulous); rest; dinner; wandering El Born; and then a bit of classical Spanish guitar. With a pace like that, I may not have time to post much of anything these next few days, but I’ll make it up to you some way. ;) Meanwhile, enjoy the week, wherever in the world you are.
Happy weekend, y’all! Many surprises in store for next week: including a visit to BCN from an illustrious Californian couple…
cuidate,
katie
Yup In My BackYard
PS: Time for another official De-lurk invitation. If you’ve yet to leave a comment, don’t be shy! Drop in and say hello. Feedback always appreciated. :)
These days I’m back into yoga, 3 to 5 times a week. I found the studio, or it found me, quite by accident. Vipassana students are encouraged to organize weekly group sittings in their communities, just silently sitting together for one hour to support one another in the practice. So when I was kickin’ it in BCN for a couple of weeks back in June, I went with a friend to check out the Sunday evening gatherings, held in an unassuming apartment building right off of Plaza Catalunya.
Have you ever entered a space and just felt it was something special?
I couldn’t stop wandering around, looking in wonder at every little thing: the fabric mats; the incense; the photo of Bob Marley alongside the Dalai Lama, Mother Theresa, Jesus, Buddha, and other spiritual inspirations.
Smitten doesn’t begin to describe it.
So when I decided to settle in Barcelona for a month, and wanted to sign up for a yoga class instead of a gym membership, I happened to know just the right place.
Owned and operated entirely by women teachers (though students of all genders attend), the studio has clean, airy rooms; fresh lilies every week; chandeliers; rooibos tea; a small library of works on yoga, India, and Buddhist philosophy; and extremely hardcore asanas.
Every time I go, I arrive an hour early to read, and leave drenched in sweat, floating down the street. The two-and-a-half hours in between are filled with an almost palpable sense of caring — a bright, loving, permeating awakeness. And each time, thanks to the book or the practice or both, I come away having learned something valuable about how to live. Really.
Not all yoga joints are like this, believe you me.
I hope you’ve found your own places like Mandiram. Sanctuaries. Places where the most mundane objects, gestures, and even open spaces seem luminous. Leave you feeling spacious, yourself, even (especially) when you return home and – bam! – your roommate convenes a Dirty Dishes Conversation.
Deep thanks to Gloria, Alex, and all the people who have given me, and others, this haven and springboard.
Since a friend of a friend turned me on to it way back in February, I’ve had many memorable and lucid moments in this place, my favorite little tea joint in Barcelona.
The name, I think, basically means “Tea Tea”: “Čaj” in Croatian (?) and “Chai” in Hindi. Staffed by Spaniards, Argentinians, Americans, and others; furnished with lovely old mis-matched chairs and tiny lamps; and offering teas from China, Japan, Korea, India, Nepal, Morocco, South Africa, Argentina, etc., it’s the kind of eclectic den whose global-grab-bag spirit might give off a bad vibe (hello, appropriation)…if it weren’t for the genuine sense of goodwill infusing the space as a whole. Cozy, welcoming, unpretentious, filled with music (from Oumou to ‘Trane and folks I don’t recognize), and featuring stunning work by local artists on the walls. Sort of embarrassingly similar to the kind of spots I like to frequent back in the States. But hey, that’s where I’m at, for now.
The feeling of being here reminds me of the feeling I get speaking English with a new friend in Spain or France or, better yet, India. The legacy of imperialism, colonialism, and linguistic hegemony makes me sad. But I’m also grateful to be able to connect with people through a shared language. Especially when spoken with love.
On the other hand, no matter how charming these nooks appear, or how much camaraderie they harbor (wealthy shade-seeking tourists mixing with local homeless dudes reading Shelley in Castellano), there’s still the question of their origin in other people’s labor. Who grows and picks the tea we enjoy here? Who cuts the cane to make the sugar? What are their lives like?
I don’t know how much of the stock at Caj Chai is fair-trade. Next time I go, I think I’ll ask. But even though the Fair-Trade label is somewhat reassuring, it’s no absolute guarantee. Besides, along with “Certified Organic,” here in BCN as in cosmopolitan USA, it’s become something like a fashion-designer label. And we all know fashions aren’t made to last.
There’s a lot to consider about our everyday places. Even when we’re not (as I happened to be, the day I took these photos) reading up on the life of Gandhi. :)
A sweet little informal library, with books in Spanish, English, and a few in German. Most of the books I brought from the States have found a new home here.I love this installation -- painted directly on the walls, and the mosaic pieces hung to complete the faces.Iced green tea with a mint sprig the size of a sapling. Little bowl of candied ginger. Gandhi's autobiography, "My Experiments With Truth."
Black beans with sautéed garlic and onions, fresh chili *and* cayenne, lime, a touch of cinnamon and brown sugar, good extra-virgin olive oil, and queso fresco
Bonus post! Today’s lunch — just perfect after intense, unbelievably sweaty morning yoga. Easy, delicious, dirt-cheap, and make-your-nose-run spicy. What a stroke of luck to discover a Latin-American import grocery store that stocks Goya right down the street. (Though I don’t know much about Goya’s company practices…just that it’s a huge Latin@-owned US producer of brown-and-black-folks-staple-food-in-a-can. In this case, the black beans — which are surprisingly hard to find here in BCN.)
It’d be nice to learn to cook more traditional Spanish dishes (or, to be precise, Catalunyan), but honestly there’s not a whole lot going on here that’s vegetarian. So the last three home-cooked meals in our little household have been Persian, Thai, and Central-American. And already Nuria and I are plotting an outing to an Indian restaurant…hehe.
On the other hand, it’s easy to eat local when no stove is involved. As Mark Bittman put it in his recent, awe-inspiring catalogue of simple salad recipes, “Summer may not be the best time to cook, but it’s certainly among the best times to eat.”
Word. Maybe next time I’ll share a no-cook dish with locally-grown ingredients. Til then, giving thanks for everyday blessings de la cocina.
Saturday evening at Plaça de la Universitat. Sometime I’ll learn how to take better photos at night…but in a fitting way, the fuzziness implies an aspect of the experience: vision blurred with tears.
Seeing all these people here in Catalunya, families and strangers and activists and musicians, I was amazed at the sheer strength of everyone. And struck at the thought that the pain and anguish among those resisting is reflected in equal measure among the men with machine guns carrying out the repression. Their lives, too, are hellish.
Overwhelmed by my own emotion, I kept lifting up my camera halfheartedly, and then putting it down again. It’s like Jay Smooth says: sometimes we have to live our grief directly, without making media out of it. Sorry I couldn’t translate the moment into better photos to share with you.
It’s ninety degrees Fahrenheit, people on the street are smiling, and I’m back at my favorite café, ordering the usual: best hummus salad this side of Switzerland.
It’s so good to be back.
Today I was gonna post about a letter I wrote to one of my favorite authors. Someone whose books actually altered the course of my life in a meaningful way. I was really jazzed about it, but now…now I’m still excited, but I want to take my time. Ease back into the city, enjoy the gorgeous day here. So we’ll save that particular goodness for Monday.
Enjoy the weekend, y’all! Especially your favorite haunts.
love,
Mixed greens, carrots, cherry tomatoes, sprouts (sprouts! in Spain! praise heaven). Creamy, delicious, fresh hummus. Sesame seeds. Lots of olive oil. Excitement.Chatted with this lovely woman a while back, outside the café. She's seen some hard times, drugs and homelessness, but has this real warmth about her. Meeting her was a pleasure.
No, not birthday — Bastille Day! In honor of which, here’s some bikes, breakfast, babies, beads, and boats. French ones. And that’s about as deep as I plan to get about that. :)
Phew! Okay folks, here’s the last of the Cap-Ferret photos. It is a wonderful place to be. Even better than it looks. My French could use some work, but at least I’ve still got the accent — and a good accent opens doors and hearts, let me tell you. Say “Hello, good morning” with the right cadence and people take you for a native.
But mostly, words have been unnecessary. The ocean and I are old friends. And you know what Khalil Gibran says about friends:
For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.
Enjoy the photos, enjoy the weekend, and take care, everyone!
Kloncke 