HOMENAJE; or, TO LOOKING GOOD IN PANTS

tuesday, 13 september, 2011, 10:28 p.m.

although all tacit communication so far has implied that we both can and have been, it still remains to be seen how good in pants it’s possible for a couple of americans to look in southern spain. do the pants make the man, or is it (figuratively) the other way around? and on what scale and to what extent and so on. four days just isn’t enough time to call the game won or lost, and the rules don’t as yet appear to be as straightforward as they were in the rose city -- where we’re sure it’s still true that none of the shit stinks, at least not to anyone still there. in any case, we’re too far away now to sniff for it ourselves, plus we’ve encountered an entirely new world of odors in which to delight or wallow, and, moreover, we just don’t have the time -- if only for the fact that none of the clocks in sevilla seem to work. and so, it also remains to be seen whether this blog has outlasted its raison d’etre, being both that its namesake is in question and it has very certainly distanced itself from the comedic setting that warranted its inception.

then again, it might be that the joke had gotten so long in the tooth as to have been completely played out anyway, in which case the change of direction should reflect an effort to save the mission instead of giving in to its (not -- yet -- necessarily justified) abortion. besides, insofar as the connections between the portland flamenco scene and the one here in andalucía played a part in the decision of our point of relocation, the storyline of looking good in pants hasn’t been cut short so much as reimagined. maybe even evolved. the heretofore could actually be seen as an extended introduction (we obviously love those), or even just as a practice…or even completely irrelevant, because who knows when whatever reader might be picking up the story, and it’s the story that’s important in both ways about it; and a story is certainly what i got from letting myself be convinced by portland to leave sevilla on my second and a half day in spain to go to jerez de la frontera for a show to benefit the recovery of the gitana flamenco singer la chiqui de jerez.

the young woman seated next to me on the train was listening to music from the time she boarded in sevilla until i got off at the station in jerez. she was wearing headphones, but her music was nonetheless audible, at least to me, and maybe i only noticed because i recognized two of the songs she listened to -- a song by otis redding and that one by eminem and rihanna that won a grammy this year -- but i didn’t say anything regardless; and i’d like to say that was because the views of the rolling hills and the whitewashed hilltop towns with their enchantingly decomposing cities were so relaxing, but the truth is that i would have been ashamed to call attention to myself after the girl had deferred to the obvious horror in my eyes as she was telling me in words that i couldn’t understand (although her meaning was no less obvious than my discomfiture certainly was) that i was in the wrong seat and gave up her window to me to sit along the aisle.

…i’d intended to segue from my seat there on that train next to that girl into something about the ironic juxtaposition of that so very imported music in the ears of that spanish girl riding that train through andalucía while the american (smug, but still making a good showing in his pants) was on his way to a concert that promised something so much more fleetingly indigenous and authentic. and then to something about the cab ride from the casino where the boyfriend of the friend who picked me up from the train station begged out a giant bag of one euro coins in exchange for the stack of bills that wouldn’t have been any use to the volunteers manning the bar at the event. and to something about passing the photo opportunity stack of tio pepe casks in the city center and how the name of that sherry by which jerez makes its living was funny to me because i actually have an uncle joe and then bitterly nostalgic because the people leaving the wedding at the church up the street reminded me of the ones at his daughter maria’s wedding. then from there to the benefit itself, which started accepting guests at eight, started at ten and lasted until three in the morning, during which time the ladies next to me, cousins of la chiqui (everyone at the benefit seemed to be saying that they were some kind of cousin of la chiqui), took my fifty euro bill in exchange for kisses and incomprehensible promises, returned me thirty and a plate of sandwiches in exchange for which i cursed my stupidity and entertained a pathetic cliché about gypsies (the word itself is ugly and passé), but was then given no less than six half bottles of tio pepe and an invitation (painstakingly understood) to join the group at the clubs after the show. i would have gone from there to something about how unbelievably inspiring the series of acts and the even more inspiring participation of the crowd: every member of the family (and there were at least a thousand, which is quite a benefit at twenty-five euros a head not counting the take from the bar) seemed to have lived the music. [an aside about being moved to tears by the four year old who danced in the fin de fiesta.] from there to the impromptu song and dance sessions in the streets around the cine astoria after the show, and then from there to the unbelievability of the fact of hipster bars and dance clubs in the middle of old town jerez. at that point it would have been after five in the morning, and you’d think me lucky to have been with locals who could get me into closed bars to keep me awake until nearer the departure of my return train at half past seven. but from there i would have taken us unexpectedly up a hill and away from the train station for a last glass of tinto at the home of my friend’s boyfriend, who would, in fact, have been offended if i walked back down the hill in time to make my train given the perfect timing (i’m glad i asked my friend to ask). and from there to my happiness at having stayed the, well, morning, to see the whitewashed houses dripping with bougainvillea branches in the sunlight. and to walk the city in a such a state that i couldn’t do anything but give myself over to dependence on friends. but a caution, because where the walls of the old city of sevilla are more creatively and cosmopolitanly tagged, the walls of the old city of jerez de la frontera scream that the workers just want opportunities to earn and that no one can eat on promises. and then the ride back home [and the anecdote about the man seated next to me whom i saw the next day at a café in the city with his yesterday stubbly legs freshly shaven].

i would have segued into all of that and the others except that up here on the rooftop terrace -- even now the apartment is too hot for setting to business undistracted -- the big family birthday dinner happening on the terrace next door distracts my business. they’re singing the birthday song now in english, and the whole thing smacks me in the face as a reminder of the silliness of pretended exceptionality. or maybe of its importance. la chiqui doesn’t know us from the rest of the family, but i’m sure she’d be glad to know that the benefit for her rehabilitation benefited our own. humility looks good in pants. maybe we’ll try on the whole suit one day, because if nothing else, the beauty of that paradox should signify that even if we’ve lost our place and our way, we haven’t lost our voice. and, bitches, you can’t, as they say, take that away from me.