I was surprised to hear from my sister June this morning that a large sized envelope of art post cards from the Museo de Revello de Toro, sent on Wednesday, had arrived already. As it happens, there's a smaller envelope of cards from yesterday's visit the Museo Jorge Rando, so I'll send it to her today. The barrio post office is only a couple of hundred metres across the road from the apartment. This is such a convenient place to live. It'll be interesting to see if the second letter takes that much longer over a weekend.
This afternoon, there was a choir rehearsal for an anthem to be sung at the Ascension Day service, at which Bishop David will confirm eight new members. Before and after, there were other jobs to be done, preparing for a 'Book and Marmalade Sale' with outside tables after church tomorrow. An essential income generator for ex-pat congregations, which I recall from Geneva days, is a regular second hand book bookstall, plus home made marmalade, cooked with bitter Seville oranges to UK recipe standards.
It may sound daft, but even the best, most expensive shop bought comestible doesn't come anywhere near the British home cooked product, beloved of ex-pats. In Spain, the value added element in Spain is the range of marmalades (not to mention chutneys and pickles) cooked from whatever citrous fruit, or blend is available to the cook, from their own finca or that of a neighbour or friend, who often cannot be bothered to benefit from this natural abundance. I'm working my way through my third jar of home made marmalade since my arrival.
To prepare for the set up of Book and Marmalade stalls outside the church, I needed to move the car. Eight days since I last used it, and a fortnight after the last battery crisis, once more it wouldn't start. Fortunately Rosella had a set of jump leads in her car. With some difficulty, considering how long it is since I last had to do this, (nobody else present had ever done more than call out the grua on their home start car insurance), we got the car to start, and I left it running, hopefully recharging, while we rehearsed, and on into the evening. Fall-back arrangements were made for me to get to Velez Malaga for the service there, just in case it fails tomorrow. This way I can sleep without anxiety about deadlines.
The port had no visiting cruise ships, when I made my evening paseo. The sun was setting when I went up the seventy odd steps and through the tunnel to the Old Town, wondering which streets to wander through. It's my exercise route, good for strengthening the knees, more interesting than any gym apparatus, as it has views, flowers, people being normal, not straining themselves for health. I love the views from above of town and port.
As I descended the slope to Calle Victoria the other side of the pedestrian tunnel, I heard open air party noises emanating from Calle Alcazabilla again. Different music. More lightweight Spanish pop disco stuff. In the vicinity of the casa cofradia de Estudiantes, opposite the entrance to the Alcazaba, there was a large crowd, of all ages, not just students.
It was a different set up from the previous couple of fiesta days in Calle Alcazabilla. Hundreds of people crammed together, talking, dancing, threading their ways through the crowd carrying drinks to a place at one of the round tables laid out on the patio before the opened doors of the casa cofradia. The tronas used for the procession of Christ's burial and of Our Lady of Sorrows were revealed, and the party flowed around them. Sacred and secular aren't quarantined here. It's quite natural. Something I love.
The atmosphere was relaxed and convivial. Passing through the crowd took time and patience, as so many were evidently comfortable and safe about being crammed into a limited space with close, but always respectful, physical contact. I had this experience first in Semana Santa spectator crowds. It's in stark contrast to being in any crowd back home, where I always feel nervous. It's part of what makes Spain special to me. No shortage of individuality, but also no shortage of togetherness.
In two more weeks, my face will be set for home, and an entirely different set of familiar urban and domestic experiences. How, I wonder, will I have changed when I encounter them?
This afternoon, there was a choir rehearsal for an anthem to be sung at the Ascension Day service, at which Bishop David will confirm eight new members. Before and after, there were other jobs to be done, preparing for a 'Book and Marmalade Sale' with outside tables after church tomorrow. An essential income generator for ex-pat congregations, which I recall from Geneva days, is a regular second hand book bookstall, plus home made marmalade, cooked with bitter Seville oranges to UK recipe standards.
It may sound daft, but even the best, most expensive shop bought comestible doesn't come anywhere near the British home cooked product, beloved of ex-pats. In Spain, the value added element in Spain is the range of marmalades (not to mention chutneys and pickles) cooked from whatever citrous fruit, or blend is available to the cook, from their own finca or that of a neighbour or friend, who often cannot be bothered to benefit from this natural abundance. I'm working my way through my third jar of home made marmalade since my arrival.
To prepare for the set up of Book and Marmalade stalls outside the church, I needed to move the car. Eight days since I last used it, and a fortnight after the last battery crisis, once more it wouldn't start. Fortunately Rosella had a set of jump leads in her car. With some difficulty, considering how long it is since I last had to do this, (nobody else present had ever done more than call out the grua on their home start car insurance), we got the car to start, and I left it running, hopefully recharging, while we rehearsed, and on into the evening. Fall-back arrangements were made for me to get to Velez Malaga for the service there, just in case it fails tomorrow. This way I can sleep without anxiety about deadlines.
The port had no visiting cruise ships, when I made my evening paseo. The sun was setting when I went up the seventy odd steps and through the tunnel to the Old Town, wondering which streets to wander through. It's my exercise route, good for strengthening the knees, more interesting than any gym apparatus, as it has views, flowers, people being normal, not straining themselves for health. I love the views from above of town and port.
As I descended the slope to Calle Victoria the other side of the pedestrian tunnel, I heard open air party noises emanating from Calle Alcazabilla again. Different music. More lightweight Spanish pop disco stuff. In the vicinity of the casa cofradia de Estudiantes, opposite the entrance to the Alcazaba, there was a large crowd, of all ages, not just students.
It was a different set up from the previous couple of fiesta days in Calle Alcazabilla. Hundreds of people crammed together, talking, dancing, threading their ways through the crowd carrying drinks to a place at one of the round tables laid out on the patio before the opened doors of the casa cofradia. The tronas used for the procession of Christ's burial and of Our Lady of Sorrows were revealed, and the party flowed around them. Sacred and secular aren't quarantined here. It's quite natural. Something I love.
The atmosphere was relaxed and convivial. Passing through the crowd took time and patience, as so many were evidently comfortable and safe about being crammed into a limited space with close, but always respectful, physical contact. I had this experience first in Semana Santa spectator crowds. It's in stark contrast to being in any crowd back home, where I always feel nervous. It's part of what makes Spain special to me. No shortage of individuality, but also no shortage of togetherness.
In two more weeks, my face will be set for home, and an entirely different set of familiar urban and domestic experiences. How, I wonder, will I have changed when I encounter them?
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