EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALMay
1, 1999
Calle Conde de Barajas, Seville
Picking Up Rock Stars
"Sa sa!"
Here come the Rock Stars looking pale and baggy in the pouring rain. It always rains
the week after Feria.
My brother David stands with the singer, Matthew, and they wonder what’s up with
the weather. "Yeah, welcome to Vancouver."
Oh well, Alfi’s running smoothly. Yesterday Rich and I took her to the little
mechanic recommended by the local old Alfa collectors. They’re Alfa Angels -- chipper
fellows who once worked for the Alfa dealership, and they raise their eyebrows at
Alfi’s unique silver bumpers. They take apart the fuse box, switch some dead relays
and rewire the fuses to some extra ones, installed for just such a purpose. The fan starts
up, so now no more hot wiring. All of this for $20.
Now we four are crowded into wet little Alfi and zooming back to the Conservatory.
David and Matt are looking forward to a week of sunshine and rest before they head to
London for a month of record mixing. I hope the sky opens and turns back into Andalusia
before too long.
Now we are in a crossover of visitors. Rich’s parents greet us in our tiny
apartment. We six shuffle between each other, bags are reorganized, water is boiled and
tea is made and no one discusses our fifty-litre hot water tank. Someone’s doing
paperwork at the table. David inspects the folding loveseat. Suddenly, a very loud noise,
something like feedback and experimental wa-wa comes out of our broken ten-watt stereo
speakers. On the coffee table: new CDs, peanut butter cookies, English language magazines,
The Globe and Mail, Twizzlers and a very small container of maple syrup.
Rich’s parents are roughing it in the posada down the road. The alley’s loud,
the bed is soft, the shower’s fickle and the walls are thin enough to disclose the
neighbour’s bathroom activities. We’re trying to explain that these things are
inherent in the centre of the city.
Now we’re across the street in the pizza joint. Gail will hold her breath until
she leaves Spain. The smoking is like nothing she’s ever experienced. David and Matt
light up, suck in and exhale after 12 weeks of solid recording. David wants to get his
heart rate down and chill out for a few days.
Rich and I have this great idea that we will drag the entourage down La Carboneria for
a little impromptu flamenco, only we have forgotten the street map and Santa Cruz’s
alleyways are a medieval maze of broken links and blind corners. Rich is using the force.
I’m asking directions. There’s a dead end with a burned-out car and a black
streak of soot rising up from it; up towards the closed-up sky on a few storeys of peeling
plaster, rotting paint and crumbling bricks. This is a bad omen to Gail. She’s
working herself into a panic because we don’t know where we’re going.
There’s nothing to distinguish the alleys and all this guesswork puts us deeper and
deeper into the centre of the old city. Dick is simply amazed that it’s past midnight
and he’s walking the streets. Surely everyone’s clocks must be wrong. He’s
supposed to be asleep. David and Matt are holding up well. Matt’s pleased with the
serendipity. David’s watching us, empathizing with the tour guide pressure. Finally,
after a cook, a bartender, a couple of drunks, a bum and a garbage man, the directions
make sense and we’re standing before the old slaughterhouse. From the street the
clapping, the strumming, the stomping and the wailing tell us we’re in the right
spot.
