Anyway, I re-re-wind to the visit of el padre. More specifically my padre, not the generic Christian padre a.k.a God. Although he did drop by too, being, as it was, holy week.
I would like to say first off that my father, after his visit, asked me if I was going to blog about it.
“Yes”, I said, thinking he would be proud and adoring.
“You are not to make me sound like a plonker, you frightful child”. He added that if I did I would be disinherited, and put a skype emoticon of a stick man doing a kung-fu kick, so I knew he was not to be messed with.
There is a 1930’s three-bedroom pebbledash semi at stake here, so I will definitely not mention that he went to Luton… when his plane was actually from Gatwick… and so ended up buying a new flight from Stansted!!!! TONTO!!!! Lol rotfl :D :o) EMOTICONS BACK IN YO’ GRILL, PADDYWHACK!
For this reason, he arrives some 5 hours late, and with a beard because my mum is in Scotland and cannot control him. But he is handsome and wearing a milky panama hat and I am Jenny Agutter, on a steam-clogged platform, finding her father at the end of the Railway Children.
We drink Alhambra Reserva beer (big green glass bottle, v. pricey, vaguely less like sour death juice than other beers) on my sun terrace and… dayyyum son, he speaks way better Spanish than me! Shaddapa yo face! It is so annoying when guests come and shame your name. I shall be gobbing on his pillow.
We do a trail of tapas; triangles of tortilla here, mini maki rolls there. Dad thinks the beers are small. Some people are never happy! But we are all about to be very happy.
Just as we leave our last bar [“But this isn’t risotto! It is cold rice pudding. Horrible, cold, farty rice pudding!”] , we are stopped in our tracks by the first of the Semana Santa processions. Our luck is Irish, and we arrive just before Jesus.
He stands, leaning forward, the cross on his shoulders, his face long and melting with sadness, aboard an enormous float. The word “float” is ill-chosen. This is no Ikea jobby. This is heavy dark wood, with a thick gold armour: the base of a giant four-poster bed, whose weighty canopy shields Jesus from the street light. It shuffles along, swaying slightly, because it is a millipede. Underneath Jesus, and all this wood, and all this metal, are forty men, tightly squeezed in a sweaty velvet underground, carrying their own cross.
The “float” is 200 tonnes. They are each carrying 100 pounds on their shoulders. For 8 hours. Occasionally they stop. The lucky ones on the edge briefly emerge – white plastic clogs first… hot, Spanish, jamón faces second. And this is a privilege. These members of confradias wait all year for this, practicing with rafts of cement sacks for months beforehand.
In front of them are the Nazarenos, with massive silk-draped Cornettos on their heads. Even though bottle-bottom glasses peer out though the eyeholes, I do not like them.
Here are some Nazarenos. You may recognise them from the Klu Klutz Klan, or Dan Brown novels.
The best bit though is the band. The beat meets and greets my heart’s. There are low thuds, and rousing rolls, whipped up like cream. And over the top, the brass, loud and thick and clear and metal. It is at moments like this – during Christian camp days it was always at moment like this – that you can understand why people believe.
Dangerous thoughts, which must be extinguished with binge-drinking: “Anyone fancy another glass of wine?”
My father thinks I must be extinguished. Well, no, he doesn’t. But he is appalled at my lack of knowledge. I don’t know the names of churches, and I don’t know much about the Spanish civil war. I try and defend myself. I know lomo, not Lorca. I like mountains more than museums. But he has a point. And I am shamed. Because I do want to know things, I want to know as much as him. I want to be like him (less the beard) because he can be silly but he really knows his shit.
And so, I shall leave you with a poem. (written during a spontaneous poem-off, in a Mexican restaurant – great choice Natalie, thanks for that – in Paris.)
Bacon was great
I ate it with toast
And on Sunday evenings
Pork shoulder I’d roast
Tequila, a wonder
From el mejico
One, two, three, chunder
Latino free flow
But then came the swine flu
(Sausage flu to friends)
Sombreros and limejuice
These joys had to end
I think that I’ve got it
My throat's a bit sore
But Lemsip in max strength
Will keep me from death’s door
Perhaps.
On the subject of swine flu, my mother just sent me homeopathy and medical masks in the post. With this note:
“Next parcel will have better quality masks we are awaiting from the US. They were made by a company called 'Skam Makemoneyfromtheinternetswineflupanic.hahahayouwilllnevergetnothing.com'. They haven;t delivered yet. Why not? They only cost $1000 per mask, so I thought it was a bargain. All my love mum. Xoxox”
