The previous thank-you post was uneventful, I know. So, here's a little treat to carry you through the night. Today when I was walking home from Gomez around 4:30 (normally a pretty quiet time of day due to siesta) I heard a beautiful sound that instantly took me back 20+ years. We all have them - smells and sounds that give us that magical power to immediately travel back in time to a specific event, feeling as though we never left. One that stands out for me is the smell and memories I have of my first car. The smell was a mix between one of those nasty, vanilla, pine-tree air fresheners and the hot, plasticky smell of vinyl seats. It was a 1969, sky blue, 2-door, 6 cyl., Plymouth Duster with a rear lift.
Hombre, that car was fast. I would like to think that I had the 8 cyl., 340 HP engine but I can't remember for sure. All I know is that I could easily spin a doughnut throwing South Dakota country road gravel everywhere. When it wasn't having electrical problems, we rocked Def Leppard's "Pyromania" and The Cars' "Greatest Hits" on the Pioneer car stereo that was worth more than the car, dragging main on a Saturday night, sometimes in Kimball, Plankinton or Chamberlain. I could go on and on. I don't even need the smells to easily step back in time.
Ok, back to Spain. My heart fluttered and I went running down the streets in search of the sound and found this fellow.
Ok, back to Spain. My heart fluttered and I went running down the streets in search of the sound and found this fellow.
Now, I do have other smells and sounds that take me back to perhaps, more romantic and exciting times in my past, however, this flauta afiladora, translated as the "grinding flute", took me back to a time during my youth when I lived a couple blocks off the Plaza Mayor in Madrid. The year was 1989 ¡santa mierda!
In Madrid I lived in an apartment that was easily over 1000 years old. The little, one bedroom piso was just steps away from the main market square of Madrid. Winding cobblestone streets and lots of city action were right outside my window. My roommates were from Puerto Rico, New York and the Dominican Republic. We shared the cost of food, wine and cigarettes. Whoever received money from their US counterparts bought the goods for that week, or so. We dressed primarily in black (we weren't really goth, more The Cure types), branded a lot of leather, smoked, drank, frequented a bar with a python in the front window before and after classes and borrowed litros of leche from the guys at the bar below our apartment. Fun days. I just had a conversation with a friend here in Spain and we talked about how you can let it all hang out when you live internationally. Nobody really knows you, so, why not? (Mind you, this year in Spain is 180 degrees different...I'm a responsible, professional, mature, clean, kind, intelligent, rational, driven, goal-oriented parent.)
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| Cuchillero arch ~ entrance to the Plaza from our old apartment in Madrid. |
Every three days or so, usually one weekend day to make sure the señoras were in casa, the sound you just heard above would come wafting up the streets. It always happened at a time when the city was relatively quiet - sometimes early morning and other times after siesta. I loved hearing this sound. It reminded me of the canyon wrens from the Grand Canyon and the southwest. Perhaps even more than the sound of the pito was how much I loved watching the men soliciting the señoras to bring down their knives to be sharpened. It was an act of kindness, salesmenship and neighborhoodly goodness.
The flauta afiladora originated in the Northwest province of Spain called Galicia. Galicia consists of many fishing villages where many fisherman need sharp knives. I took a moment to look into the history of the flauta afiladora in Spain and am sad to say that it is a dying part of the culture. Perhaps in some of the more remote pueblos, especially in the north, the afiladoras still exist, but in today's modern society there is no demand for these humble men. Beyond that, the skill of sharpening knives is not an career option at the universities. Rather, it is passed on from generation to generation within a family. Children of today have no desire whatsoever to walk with their uncle or granddad down the streets, blowing a flute in hopes to make a few euros. BUT "la crisis fatal" in Spain has given a bit of an edge to this story!
Flauta afiladoras became a part of Spanish society when times were tough, after the Civil War and Spaniards were inventing all sorts of ways to make some pesetas to buy food. Enter the young businessman walking down our street sharpening knives for people in the Albaycin. He's just trying to supplement his income during a time of crisis! You probably have some sort of knife sharpener in your kitchen and you might think it ridiculous to pay someone 1 euro to do something you could do yourself. However, think of the big picture and think of the human connection you are making when you roll up your knives in a dishtowel, carry them down to the street and talk about the weather, the rising or falling costs of choice produce or fish in the market and politics (PP coming back into power perhaps?) with your local flauta afiladora instead of just sitting in front of your tele...
Lastly, after running after this afilador I arrive home to find this. I'm working on the profanity post and another that will knock your socks off, but thought I'd be spontaneous with this post to share a portion of one of our days with you. If this isn't the best example of a successful, total language immersion program for a 10-year old boy, I don't know what is.
I'm saving the quotes about all the virgins for the Semana Santa post coming up but here's one of the latest. I've added a translator on the right if you need.
"No tenemos castillos y los niños no pueden entrar en los bares!"
"Por eso no quiero volver a los EEUU".