Nothing but the Start

I’ve been thinking about humility lately.  Humbleness.  I didn’t bring my 25lb dictionary with me to Spain, so must make do with the Internet: the Oxford English dictionary (which itself made the leap into a solely virtual existence) says humility is “the quality of having a modest or low view of one’s importance.”  According to my hardcover – not be carried around – Spanish English dictionary from Collins, the Spanish use “humildad” and the noun is appropriately feminine.  (Read that last bit as you’d like.)

This definition does not give humility enough credit.  Perhaps a proper volume would delve into the positive aspects of having a “low view of one’s importance.”  There’s something in that which doesn’t agree with me, but let’s leave that for now, because humility is a quality many of us strive towards.  And the funny thing about humility is that you don’t learn it just once.  Its lesson comes again and again in various forms.  It sneaks up on you just when you’ve forgotten there are things you still need to learn in life.

• I’ve actively sought it in yoga. You cannot push your body more than it will allow.  You must learn to work with it – this thing so incredibly connected to emotion and soul that sometimes it seems only a manifestation – and accept it as it is.  Yesterday, for example, I could do astavakrasana.  And today, for seemingly no reason, there is not a chance.

• I’ve learned humility from relationships. When I realized that I could not control everything, it took humbleness to accept defeat and recognize that I cannot fix everything, cannot make things better, cannot help someone else on the strength of my own sheer will. I will admit to anyone that that may be the hardest lesson I have learned so far in my otherwise charmed life.  I will also admit that I have deleted two sentences from this paragraph.

• And I learned it through horseback riding. Lessons that culminated when I crashed unexpectedly into a fence.  When everyone thought I was a ringer to win (or place well), my horse did not jump the fence I had pointed him toward.  We circled and then went over and the entire round was perfect but for this one small unexpected circle. (Okay, so it wasn’t a crash.)  I had learned enough to make even a refusal look purposeful.  But I will tell you something.  My horse did not refuse.  He simply did not see the fence until the last minute.  I had not prepared him.  Interestingly, these years later, I express the opposite of humility when I think of that round.  Because I could admit that it was my fault.  This thing that happened which was such a shame to everyone.  But when I exited the ring after that round and dismounted, when my legs were shaking and I wanted to cry so badly, I looked at the trainer who had the duty of dealing with this girl who did not perform as expected, I smiled at him and said, “Well, that didn’t go as planned.”

There are things more important than even our heartbreak.

Those are three very different examples of learning to be humble.  And I think I’m a better person for them.  Of course, I still long for the distinct pleasure of being 15, 16, 17 years old, when humility was not in my vocabulary.  And perhaps, being so pleased with living abroad has returned me to that state, because without warning, humility tapped me on the shoulder and disappeared before I had time to see her.  (Although, in truth, I did have a visit before.)

Most mornings I get my coffee to go from Paloma on the way to my office.  I don’t drink coffee before leaving the apartment which is not the smartest thing because Paloma has usually been working for hours by the time I run into her and she’s ready to talk.  Half the time I just say si, si, entiendo, gracias, even when I have no idea what’s being discussed.  Even when I’ve had a cup of coffee Spanish evades me.

Well, lately, I must have been responding in a more convincing manner because now she demands responses that imply I really do know what’s going on.  NAd here is the humility lesson because Paloma does not stop talking to me in Spanish when other customers enter her store and get in line behind me.  No.  No, no no.  She carries on with her Spanish conversation/lesson the same way she will carry on with the next person in line…as if we have all the time in the world.  And have I mentioned that the Spanish are not exactly quiet talkers?  So, essentially, everyone in line behind me waiting for their turn to buy a coffee and a croissant or whatever are also actively engaged in this conversation with the American – whether they like it or not.

Have I mentioned this is all happening without my having imbibed any coffee???

My first reaction was to get the hell out of there.  Fast.  Without coffee if necessary.  And never return.

But for some reason I went back and kept going back.  The coffee isn’t even that good.  And I talk to Paloma in my ridiculous Spanish which does not have any subjunctive whatsoever.  And I do the sorry, smile, nod, shrug my shoulder thing at the people behind me because I know I sound ridiculous.

But I also know it doesn’t matter.

To get the show, we couldn’t just walk in a straight shot.  Rather, the route went either to the left or the right and then back in again to the Escenario Puerta del Ángel.  I’m not sure what I was really expecting.  (Maybe a music venue?)  But what I got seemed to be constructed just for the summer in the middle of a lot in the middle of a park on the side of Madrid City Center.  The walk to the park will be lovely…eventually, when they start construction again and perhaps plant some vegetation.

There were also people shooting heroin.  Which, you know, makes it exciting.  As I said, the park is a bit out of the way, and right at the entrance is what must be a halfway house of sorts.   A place to get clean needles or cleaned up, depending on your stage.  I must stress here, it wasn’t dangerous.  I wasn’t nervous in the least.  But, it was a strange entry into a Jeff Tweedy concert.  Or, maybe fitting.  Life isn’t always pretty.

That said, there are other reasons why going to shows in Spain is a funny experience.  I’m seeing bands that I would normally see in the States (red blood shoes, the leisure society, she & him) but the crowd is a bit different.  At Spanish shows, there is:

• More politeness
• Less crowding near the stage (ironic considering the personal space issue)
• More smoking
• Less excessive drinking
• More crowd banter

Not to mention the shows start ON TIME and there is rarely an opening band.  I missed a number of bands last winter because I just couldn’t believe they started at 9pm.  Trust me, international shows start within fifteen minutes of the time on your ticket.

But back to Jeff Tweedy.  The World Cup semifinals were happening that night, so the place was empty.  At the beer station (the largest cup option only seven euros, expensive for a Spaniard but cheap for an American), everyone had a radio in their ear and cheers would suddenly erupt.  Smart man that he is, Tweedy waited for the football game to be over before he came on stage and when he did, he obligingly listened to us sing the Spanish football chant to him. This occurred a few times that night.

Tweedy is among those at the top of my list.  I may never go see Wilco again because they had begun to bore me, but I will go to any Tweedy show.  That night, I had been hoping for a particular song.  For nothingsevergonnagetinmyway(again), delivered with a particular angst ridden ending.  But as soon as he started playing, I knew there was no chance, because the man is different.  He is older, he seems sober, he seems content.  But he can still play and sing and make me fall like very few can.  A true poet.  The lyrics rattle me.

The crowd knew most of the songs, but not all… For example, Passenger Side from AM was met with (polite) silence, except for, you know, that one guy.  But it seemed to make Tweedy love the crowd more. He asked us to marry him.  He asked us to marry his wife as well.  (Did I mention that the polite, non crowding crowd makes it easy to get as close as you’d like?) He responded to everything the crowd yelled at him.  He played a couple new songs.  He played a Bob Dylan song and made it seem both fresh and a homage.

I looked to my left and saw the back of the Royal Palace of Madrid lit up against the sky.  This is where I live.

And when it was over, the crowd sounded like the open-air stadium was full rather than two-thirds empty; and then we all dispersed quickly, picked up and swept into the wave of  Spain’s first win in a World Cup semifinals.

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Click here for other shows at Escenario Puerta del Ángel.

Last Saturday, Amadou & Mariam came to the Paradise and there wasn’t a skinny jean in sight.  I don’t know where all these French speaking, dancing, excitable folks came from but it was refreshing to be at the rock club and surrounded by a totally different crowd.  Other people do exist.  I drank my PBR to them.

The show opened with a pretty good band called Club d’Elf, which is not totally my thing but fun nonetheless.  Apparently they have been around for years and are, in fact, from Jamaica Plain – so that means that all guys in the Boston area have a chance of meeting that AMAZING belly dancer if they so choose to make the effort.  She was incredible.  So, not only do I want to speak French and go to Africa, but I want to learn how to dance like that.

Amadou and Mariam are married.  They are blind.  They are from Mali.  They have back up dancers and incredible drummers and are absolutely adorable and clearly liked what they were doing and are clearly good at it. Their song “Sabali” is on Pitchfork’s Best Tracks of 2008,  and was produced by my love Damon Albarn.  It’s the opening track and his presence is insight into why those who are longtime fans of the couple see a distinctive change in this latest album.  In my opinion it’s a good change and takes nothing away from their past.  We move on, we change, we get better.  If not, things are looking pretty plain vanilla, no?

Read a review of the latest album here.

A band that has consistently remained at the top of my list for a couple of years is The National.  Solidified after seeing them again recently at the House of Blues.

They have been labeled moody pop (or so I’m told.)  I suppose it’s accurate.  The lyrics tend to be interesting and poetic and emotional and honest (hence the moody) and yet the music is catchy and enjoyable and perfectly done and makes you want to jump around (bring on the pop.)

It also helps that if I could crawl into the singer’s voice and lay down, I would.

As James Salter says, life is weather. And it may be that springtime has helped me decide to not only focus on the things that interest me, but actually do them. And go where my interest leads. Even if this means going it alone.

Now, make no mistake. I like doing things by myself. I am an only child. I was an equestrian growing up (a fairly individual sport aside from the horse). I backpacked through Europe on my own for 2+ months in college. My dream vacation is to rent one of the lonely dune shacks on the national seashore outside Provincetown for a few weeks. I love yoga because every movement, every breath, is entirely my own. I’ll stop with the examples before I begin to come off as strange.

Because sometimes, solo does seem strange. Wherever you go people are coupled up or in groups. I consider them and think – wow, lucky that they all like to do the same things and get to do them together. (Sometimes I think, how lucky that they like one another.)

But, truth be told: it’s hard to find other people who have exactly the same interests as you. And if that’s what it takes to actually go out and do the things you want to do…well, I found that you just don’t do anything. So, in years past – I found myself not doing much because those around me didn’t like to do the same things that I did. For the most part. So we settled on what we did have in common. And that was fun and that was fine. But nothing was new.

Then something happened which then led me to eventually realize I am the master of my own design. (I have never before used that saying, but it is true.) And on top of that, I don’t have to look around to find someone who likes to do something just so that I can feel okay doing it too. That’s a high-grade waste of time. And it seems like such an obvious waste of time, but I think we can all fall into that trap every once in a while. (irony know no bounds as I think to myself…it can’t be just me, right?)

I didn’t realize I was doing this when I went to the Boston Symphony Orchestra last Saturday night. I just really wanted to hear the Beethoven and Mahler combo and didn’t think of anyone who would/could go with me. Of course, the music was amazing, and at the BSO, does it really matter if you are with someone? No. In fact, it might be preferable. My thoughts wandered unhinged wherever they wanted during Opus 61. During Mahler’s Symphony 4, I admittedly got a touch bored.

And I also didn’t fully realize I was doing this when I went to see Elvis Perkins in Deerland last night at the Brattle Theatre. I don’t think I know anyone who knows Elvis Perkins aside from my friend Karla, who had suggested that I go. And I went, and it was a little bit weird to go by myself just because I’m not used to going to music on my own. But this is the very thing that I actually like. Being just two steps out of my comfort zone. Just enough to feel a little electricity in everything but not so much that I can’t focus on what’s going on around me.

The Boston Sacred Harp Singers opened up for Perkins (who was good) and they were unusual. And religious. Sacred Harp singing is a tradition of choral music that took root in the South and it’s based on something called “shape note” music. Anyway. They did sing about god in a non-denominational way and I was reminded of when I realized that Iron & Wine is chock-full of Christian imagery and I had to come to terms with whether or not that altered what I thought about the music.

Here’s a line that particularly struck me from the Sacred Harp Singers last night: “The moment when our lives begin, we all begin to die.” So, of the two last night, I liked Elvis Perkins more, but I have thought more about the Sacred Harp Singers.

Tomorrow, I’m thinking about going to a talk at the Kennedy School with the screenwriter of the movie “Milk.” Then I have an awesome day planned for a beautifully sunny Saturday and I’m not going to tell you about it, because you’ll probably want to come.