Meeting the Dislexyc Grapes

My last night in Cordoba I really didn't know what I was going to do. I had spent many of my evenings wandering the city, crossing and re-crossing the river using the old Roman bridge, passing through the park where locals walked their dogs and socialized. Beyond that, I had my ample share of paella and tapas, wine and cerveza and if I needed entertainment, there was a young violinist playing Bach and popular international pieces nightly by the triumphal arch. 

I had visited the famous Alcazar de los Reyes Cristianos for the elegant, if not touristy fountain display. And I spent the latter parts of my evenings down at the Plaza de Tendillas, my feet in the fountain, drinking beer, watching the kids skip and jump and splash, and the visiting university athletes drink from large Amstel bottles.  

Puta caliente!

The last night was also the hottest. At quarter to nine, it was 43 degrees C. I shook my head, snapped a picture and wandered down the old streets of the eastern quarter, slowly making my way back to the bridge for one last sultry, sunset glimpse of Cordoba. I wiped the sweat once more from my neck, airing out my shirt for the fifteenth time. Certainly the guidebook had advised against traveling in July and August. But I figured there would be less tourists and I was right. I suffered in the night, I sweated and drank umpteen bottles of water but the crowds were small in the streets. Manageable, really. And for me that  was a plus. Less people to deal with. At the Mezquita, the famous Mosque of the 8th century, now converted into a Catholic Church, there were spaces of relative peace. Tourists held up their digital cameras but you could take pictures of the pillars and the beauty without knocking elbows.

Overall, I never once felt like I was jostling with others as I had in Madrid's more bustling plazas. The squares of Cordoba were comparably quiet and at night, beyond the babbling of the fountains, one could hear the moderate hum of conversation and giggles of children. 

I stayed in the old part of the city above a local restaurant. My host and hostess owned the establishment where they served middle eastern fare and I spent four out of my six nights dining and drinking there. Following my last walk through the city, making sure to avoid the street of brothels, I found myself back at the tavern. 

My host, welcomed me, shaking my hand, a cigarette in his other. He was a slim, bearded Turkish man with long curly, black locks who spoke only his native tongue and Spanish. Besides the restaurant, he was a locally-famous flamenco musician who fused the world of Istanbul with Andalusian. I practiced my Spanish with him the first night I arrived and even sat with him and his friends and the server, Marie's friends. 

It was in the tavern three nights previous that I met Beatriz. I'm sure I might still be there if an obstructing angel hadn't gotten in the way. It was around ten o'clock. After a plate of couscous, I was drinking my third beer when she arrived on bike, visiting her friend. Marie and her chatted and then she sat with me. Beatriz knew a little bit of English and I enough Spanish. I learned a bit more with her help but mostly my impromptu lessons were forgotten. I enjoyed far too much gazing into her Andalusian, almond eyes. Her knee knocked against mine now and then and a  cursory, shoulder-length strand of black hair kept falling away from its place behind her ear. Her cheeks were high and her lips lovely. I loved watching her speak Spanish.

In our Spanglish we talked about music; I said I played and I recorded some songs while living in Vancouver. I was also writing two books, one about my childhood, the other a verse novel about an Austrian winemaker that falls in love with five women (cinco mujeres). She seemed impressed. As for me, I nervously flipped through the pages of my Spanish phrasebook to find the right words. I remembered what I could.

It seemed that anyone else who might join our conversation was only interrupting or annoying us. I wanted to learn more about her. She was a pharmacist and worked long weeks. That weekend, a three day holiday. She had tomorrow, the Monday off. I asked for her email address. "I don't do email," she said to me. "Then your phone number?" I responded.

I passed my pen and journal over to her and she took them with her light-olive hands. She jotted her number down and told me to call her.

"I'll do my best. I want you to be my personal tour guide."

And I did try. I tried to call her the next day. I went to several pay phones but they wouldn't work. One stole my euro, the other kept spitting my money back out, the metallic clink of rejection causing me several times to slam down the pink T-mobile receiver in disgust and frustration. 

What could I do? I didn't have a cell phone so I couldn't call her that way. And that night, both my host and hostess didn't return to their apartment so I had no to ask for their phone. I figured it wasn't meant to be and left it at that. My romantic side was effectively invaded by the practical one and all my fantasies of a mid-vacation tryst vanished into the banality of acceptance.

So it was interesting to meet Marie's boyfriend tonight, my last night in Cordoba. The Turkish man promptly introduced us, asked if I was hungry (I was fine) and went back to the kitchen, probably to prepare some more couscous. 

Marie's boyfriend and I sat outside in the heat, the sky darkening, the synthetic orange glow of lights glowing sadly, drably from their wall lanterns. We drank beer. He knew a little English but he was impressed with how much Spanish I had picked up in the last two weeks. 

He also asked about Beatriz. I told him: tell her I did my best but the phones in Spain don't like me. I wanted to say that the first night I met her I could have kissed her right then and there but it was getting late and we were both tired. I also wanted to say she had the kindest and most beautiful face I had seen since my arrival. But I wasn't proficient enough for such poetics. Ella no tiene correo electrónico y no tiene un teléfono celular (She didn't have email and I didn't have a cell phone.) It was fate, yes and my obstructing angel.

It was then that two guys, one of them on bike pulled up. They spoke the rapido Spanish of the south with Marie's boyfriend and when I tried to offer my basic conversation, they said it was okay if I wanted to speak English with them. My eyebrows jumped up. Wow, actually English-speakers. I had encountered one or two on my travels in Spain.

They were hungry and we went inside the tavern so they could order some couscous. Joining them, I had another beer as did they. They asked where I was from, what I was doing in Spain. Mostly traveling and wandering, I explained. Brandan had spent some time in Dublin which explained his distinct English-Irish accent and when he said 'fuck' he reminded me of Colin Ferrel in In Bruges. As for Andrés, he had a more American-sounding accent.

They ate pretty quickly when their food arrived. I commented on their appetite. 

"Well, we're high," Brandan said smiling, nodding his head, his mop of curls shaking. 

I chuckled. "Well, I'm drunk."

And the conversation continued on. They told me they were part of a band. What was the band called?

"Dyslexic Grapes" Andrés proudly announced.

I nearly shit myself laughing. It wasn't so much that it was funny but it was just the best name of a band I had ever heard. It was the kind of brilliance best associated with a Monty Python skit. And because it was so brilliant, I found it humorous. 

Then, when Brandan slid a sticker of their band logo across the table I started cracking up again: they reversed the 'i' and 'y' of their band name to enhance the beauty and irony of it all - Dislexyc Grapes. (I proudly wear this sticker on my notebook computer).

We had more beer and chatted for awhile, mentioning bands we liked, books we read. I told him Spain attracted me because of the literature - Lorca, Cernuda, Salinas, Aleixandre and so forth.

As for philosophies, we shared them. The idea of success, for instance, being famous. They claimed they just wanted to party and have a good time. I confessed my whole trip was a means of just having a good time, but also escape, getting away from the locked-in self I was back in Canada. I could have spent the summer working my job, doing the same thing but I decided to take a risk. And it paid off. I could meet people like Andrés and Brandan and that made my vacation more of an experience than just a distraction. 

Marie wanted to close up the bar. We were the last to leave so we paid our share and headed out. Branden grabbed his bike and we walked through the late night streets of Cordoba. They still wanted to drink and so did I. I had a train to catch in the morning (the infamous Renfe episode related in a late August blog) but it was only one a.m. and with the heat and the fan in my room that hardly kept me cool, the chances of falling asleep, no matter what, were relatively slim. Another beer or so and then bed or whatever.

We strolled along the Calle Claudio Marcelo, passing below the old Roman monument from a forgotten century. I had seen the Seneca statue and fountain in my wanderings and I knew this city's history stretched further back than the Moors of Abd al-Rahman I's time. But it was interesting, being in such a historically important place, entering the vast square of the Place de Corredera, a place reminiscent of Madrid Plaza de Mayor to have Andrés comment on how sick he was of his hometown. 

My eyebrows jumped up again. Why was that?

He wiped the brown hair falling low over his brow. "It's always the same people, the same crowds, the same things." He said. "The tourists and the flamenco. The government puts all the money into promoting flamenco. All the arts grants of the south go to flamenco. And I don't mind flamenco. I think it is good, but there is more to Spanish music than flamenco."

I nodded. I felt the same about Canadian literature. It was always old women writing about the prairies or another story by Alice Munro about the distance between a woman and a man in marriage. If not that, some story about immigrants in Toronto who happened to be from Pakistan or India.

And like Andrés, I didn't really mind some of it, but I understood. Money always goes towards enhancing the cultural stereotype so when the tourists arrive, they can find their preconceived notions easily and feel satisfied in their search. And I suppose every country is guilty of allowing their iconic image of themselves to take centre stage in tourism booking offices. Germans have Bavaria and bratwurst, the Dutch have Zeeland and the windmills and the French Paris, the Eiffel Tower and the idea of Parisian, Bohemian Romance. Complexity of culture is hard to sell.

I also mentioned that I self-published a book. Andrés said he wanted to read my book.

We stopped for beers in a small bar on the far south-west corner of the square. The crowds here too were spare, the conversations, like the candles on the tables, almost out. It was only a matter of time before this place would close up. We stood outside at a tall wooden table. I had my tenth beer of the night. After my failed attempt at smoking marijuana ("you're not inhaling right, man..." Brandan cautioned, "it's good shit, don't waste it..."), Andrés asked if I wanted to hear some of their music. Of course, I said coughing. 

I listened and was surprised at how amazing it was. While eating couscous earlier, Branden moaned he wasn't a good drummer. But with the over-sized earphones on my head, listening to the first track of their music on his small mp3 player I had to think otherwise. I wasn't prepared for how good they were.

I loved it. The square disappeared, the night was less intense in terms of heat. Of course, their music was nowhere (thankfully) near flamenco in style. I couldn't quite put my finger on it but I know it was incredible. They had their own distinct style though I could hear some blues and alternative music flowing through the guitar riffs and drum beats. It wasn't typical of anything but it was playful like their band name.

But sadly, the beer had to be consumed because the small bar (really almost a closet with alcohol, beer kegs and a bathroom) too was closing. I walked with Andrés and Brandan back to my host and hostess' apartment. The heat hadn't really let off and I was eternally thirsty. I shook their hands above the wet, hosed-down streets, regretting that I had not met them earlier in the week. I would have loved playing guitar with them, jamming with the Dislexyc Grapes.

For those of you read this, I highly recommend them. Check out the link above. And though I have no Spanish beer on hand, I raise a glass of Dutch jenever to them and their future success or however they want their recognition. To Andrés and Brandan.

And can't forget, Beatriz, wherever she might be, the Cordovan beauty that got away and didn't believe in email.

Brandan y Andrés