Fringe benefits? Not likely. A story of survival at the hairdressers.

I have a fringe now, something which I haven’t possessed since I was six years old and thought capturing garden snails was a valuable past time.

It all came about in an entirely innocent way, going to the hairdressers one afternoon after work, trying to pull together and tick off the myriad of tasks left to do before leaving Sevilla to move to Madrid.  And so I went, off to the first-in-best-dressed type of salon where you walk in and they attend to you according to arrival time.  After waiting for 45 minutes or so (sitting beside a mother and watching the haidresser cut her two young boys’ hair in a manner so meticulous as to suggest she was surgically removing a tumor from each) I began to notice that the gnawing in my stomach I’d been trying to ignore was becoming a full-blown hunger fest.  And that I was developing a please-feed-me headache to match.

“Shit,” I thought, “This can’t be good.”

When one has low blood-sugar, it’s relatively normal to become vague, faint, even bitchy.  I  habitually become all three, except that I also loose the ability to think rationally, or to respond to potentially dangerous situations in an altogether reasonable manner.

Situations such as, looking up to see a hairdresser wielding scissors and asking “Te hago flequillito?”  before you chirp “Sí!” without a second’s thought, not remembering that when too short, a fringe cut out of your hair has a tendency to become poofier than Sandra Dee’s when she turned up all leather-clad at the end of Grease.  And that for this reason you usually do all you can to avoid hairdressers getting all scissor-happy and cutting you a one.

“Como el tuyo,” I wanted to add, “Pero más largo.”  She had, you see, a lovely, sweeping number which fell delicately almost completely across her left eye, leaving a bit of body and bouce (but not too much, mind) on the right side.  It was silky and straight (blowdried, I suspect, within an inch of its life) and gently framed her face as one would hope one’s fringe would.

I, in my near diabetic sugar-low state of unawareness, noticed all the characteristics of her non-fluffy fringe in the second it took me not to respond to her question as I’d planned I might.  I was left, henceforth, to gaze at her in an imbecilic manner, watching as she parted my hair on the wrong side, before whipper-snippering it into the Brazilian wax equivilent of fringes.  The kind that don’t sweep at all – gently or otherwise – but rather bunch together in a fringe/clump not unreminiscent of the much loved ’80’s curl/poof/fringe.  The kind that either look like that, or, when swept to the side look as Jaggered as Mick himself, having seemingly been hacked into from the bottom up.

“Te gusta?”  She asks me.

Low-blood-suger-and-now-quite-painful-headache-Erin doesn’t answer.

“Un poco más, no?” Edwina Scissorhands adds, mistaking my silence for a request for more, and apparently not yet happy with her gardening.

The suggestion plunges me further into a state of shock/silence/hunger.

And so, I left, ten minutes and ten centimetres fringe-less later, to wander the streets of  Sevilla’s quaint and idyllicly Andalúz Santa Cruz looking more like I belonged in hippy La Alameda land, playing a flute and swinging a gangly, cross-bred’s lead while watching it pee against a lampost.

Having moved to Sevilla…

Sevilla, unlike my initial and stereotype-fuelled fantasies, is not laden with dancing locals and instant friends on every corner.  I haven’t heard anyone say ‘Olé!’ except for a guitar playing gypsy in a bar (fine, that’s pretty Andalucian right there!) and not one local has actually been able to tell me where to find a flamenco show.

Fortunately, these things are not what brought me here in the first place…but rather looking  for a change of place for the city-ness that is Barcelona.  And a change it’s been…!

Barcelona is famous for being slightly left of centre, a little off, full of tourists, much more ‘cosmopolitan’ than the rest of Spain.  Sevilla, despite the lack of stereotypes in everyday life, is famous for being much more ‘Spanish’.  It’s hotter for one.  There’s a functioning bullring and a LOT  more jamón as well.  And the people do certainly love a holiday, though they’re quick to retaliate if you accuse them of not liking to work!

One such excuse for not working – the Semana Santa – finished week or so ago.  This was certainly a spectacle, if an incredibly inconvenient one.  Essentially, throughout the week, thousands of people flock to the streets to watch floats (tronos) bearing Jesus or one of the many Virgens pass by.  After feeling suitable pious, they drink their body weight (the sight of the rubbish, both normal and human in the streets afterwards is pretty filthy).

A paso in Triana - famous for being livelier, less solemn...

The process is simple, but takes months of preparation.  The tronos are carried by 40 – 60 men who are hidden underneath, each armed with a rolled up teatowel bunched behind their head to cushion the pressure of the 35 odd kilograms each much bear as they walk slowly down the streets for hours at a time.  Golden, covered in roses and candles, the tronos are a beautiful sight, though a slightly unnerving one, what with the vacant expression and glassy tears of the Virgen atop.  Leading and following the trono are hundreds of men (and lately, women) who walk with the trono for an average time of six hours.  Dressed not unlike the Ku Klux Klan and bearing metre-long candles, they sometimes walk barefoot and are not allowed to speak to the public.  Citing ‘penance’, these small irritations seem fair enough, but upon further chats with locals, it become difficult to gather if participation is in fact for relgious purposes, or out of habit or family tradition.  But regardless of their motives, the Nazarenos (or ‘cone heads’ for those less aware!) provide their fair share of nuisance when tries to cross the city.

Nazarenos from El Cachorro

I’d been warned before the first Monday that once in, you were in.  I was told that people arrive, sit on their inherited deck chair (really!) and plant for the next few hours, occasionally puntuated by a beer.  It seemed that if you’re unlucky – and unlucky you would be, as the compulsory route cuts the city in half – you’d be stuck in a throng at some point.  That you couldn’t simply barge nor talk your way out of such crowds once in.  I didn’t believe these warnings.  “I’ve got recent experience in clubs, I’m an expert crowd barger!” I thought.  Not so.  Old crotchety ladies – those not rich enough to have inherited a deck chair – have waited for hours to watch Jesus or their favourite Virgen pass, and they’re armed with umbrellas and evil expressions should you attempt to cross them.  The conversations I overheard (“I’ve been here for three hours and these tourists just come in and stand in front of everyone…”) were all about.  I, on the other hand, was NOT trying to steal view, but actually get out of the way.  Not possible, it seemed – and worse for the locals, as I’m often double their height!

Despite these fairly inconvenient elements, it’s definitely a beautiful sight, especially at night after a glass of wine and out of the reach of the hoooooooot sun.  Just bring an umbrella to poke the grumpy old ladies in the backs of the calves and you’ll be fine!

His procession won't start for another hour or so...

La feria por dentro…

I’ve just come back from my first experience of La Feria de Abril, (Sevilla’s version of the April Fairs held throughout Andalusia in spring) and feel simultaneously fulfilled and emptied by the experience…which is unusual as you’d think that something as colourful and filled with life and laughter as the Feria would only energise.

The Feria is a tradition going back to 1846 when a Catalán and Vasco pushed for three days of public holiday, annually at the end of April.  Now, the Feria has become one of the major cultural events in the local calendar (after Semana Santa) and something that locals look forward to throughout the entire year with their hearts, minds and wallets (the average family’s spendings at the Feria is around 500€, and many others take out a loan to pay for all the excess).

The Feria is about several things:  casetas, food, dresses, dancing and being seen.

The first of these is the most irritating too.  The casetas.  These are the tents in which the festivities take place, and if you don’t know anyone with one, you won’t get in, not even if you can usually sweet-talk a doorman.  The Feria, contrary to its super fun and free ‘look’, it’s not a public festival for the people.  That is, you’ll be able to get into the fairgrounds fine, but once in, you’ll be walking around and around looking at all the beautifully dressed social royalty having a lovely time; or spending your time in the public casetas – which just don’t hit the same notes in terms of super prettiness or swankiness.  The locals will advice you against going into a public caseta, but of course, they won’t always follow this advice with an invitation to theirs…leaving you a little bit stuck for better options!

Number two:  food.  Food’s usually a passionate affair in the typical Spanish family anyway – which is interesting considering that a lot of their dishes are incredibly simple and can also be found in part in the diets of other Mediterranean cultures.  But the simplicity is evidently the key to great Spanish cooking – eg, you must find not just tomatoes, but tomatoes that smell like the essence life itself.  This makes it very stressful to prepare anything for a Spanish friend, as your ingredients (if not your method or lack of skill) will give your ignorance away.

Feria food is sumptuous, larger, juicer and more carefully prepared than usual.  Tapas are not allowed – only large portions and larger prices to go with them.  Along with being connected in the world of the casetas, more good advice is to have caseta friends or spend the rest of the year making friends with chefs who won’t mind shouting you a plate.  Originally, people came together at Feria time to show off their horses, and this spirit in modern times has become (if you’re lucky) about showing off your caseta, and its food and drink to others.  Choose wisely.  Not everyone will show off anything except themselves.

My own status as a flamenco-dress-not-owner didn’t bother me in the slightest until I was walking around the fairgrounds on the first day of the festival, and I saw for the first time the sea of ruffled fabric making its way towards the party.  Flamenco dresses on their own, it’s true, are a little clown-like…but put 300 of them together in a small space and they’re automatically fabulous.  They have their own conveniently located pocket buried amongst all the ruffles, which often needs a helping hand to get into and a lot of fiddling around.  So much so, that before I knew what it was, I just thought people were being hugely innappropriate with the public displays of affection!

The basic problem with flamenco dresses is the expense.  True, you can find one for 100€, but it’ll look a bit like your blind aunt Ida made it.  The fabric’s just that little bit too gaudy, or shiny and it sags a little around the bum like you bent over, split it, and then had to rapidly sew it back together again.  If you want one which fits like it should and makes you feel like a princess, be ready to pay from 300€ to whatever’s your personal limit.  My personal limit didn’t exist this year, as I prefer to buy food.

Never was there a cultural divide as large as dancing.  Us ‘guiris’ aren’t known for our sexy hips and suave moves, leaving us a little out of cultural whack in places like Brazil and Argentina.  While (thankfully!), ‘Sevillanas’ don’t call for fast hips, but rather for ankles and wrists, finding time to learn how to execute the four pasos of the local dance is another question.  So without lessons, you’ll probably find yourself simply waving around your arms and attempting to follow your partner, lame though the result may be.

All of the above culminates in the great adventure of ‘being seen’.  It’s a bit of a show, the entire festival, and while I didn’t want to feel this way, I felt that it was a repetitious pat on the back from successful upstanding societal brat to another, a big congratulations on one’s beautiful life and lovely dress.  Classism was quite evident throughout – exacerbated more than anything by the private nature of the casetas – from the foreigners being more than anywhere outside, and the lolly stalls and Feria trinkets being run and sold by South American immigrants.

Of course, underneath all of this, a lovely caseta and perfectly fitting dress don’t necessarily equate with a happy life.  But at least during the week, it seems like it.