Water irrigation in Jerez de la Frontera

Photo by Matteo Delred

It is rare I see a person cry here, though we are surrounded by water. With the arrival of spring come the irrigation systems, streets and gardens bursting with mists of water. Water flecked onto the creases of cheeks and quickly brushed away.

The fountains came from the moors, they weep their loss throughout dry lands. The smell of oil and chicharrones mask the fragrant oranges that bounce on the Levanta wind. They know the wind by how it caresses the face. I guess the wind the same way I try to guess the palo of flamenco someone is playing.

I can look into the eyes of a person and see the hands of generations of families protecting what’s beneath. Warmth and pleasantries flung through the air. I can never quite catch them. Like water to arid earth.

I want to capture that finesse. The art of social interaction, so effortlessly weaved around us. Flecks of water moving. Never far from a Moorish garden.

I feel moved. Emotive. Sometimes there is nowhere to catch the overflow. It pours onto terraces and floods cobblestone streets. On those days you have to take care not to slip. Or not leave the house. Peeking through the blinds. Baskets lowered from windows. Things taken in and out. A mysterious inner life, so different to the street.

They tell me I will find my tongue there, but it does not flow easy. I learnt the street was a place to close your mouth and look at the ground.

A pet parrot throws his voice to the street with the perfect lilt of an Andalusian: “Veteya Perro Sanchez!”

I hear people talk from the gut, words wrestling their throat and ejected with force. They wonder at the quiet heldness of my deliberate interjections.

The louder the street the more I dive into silence. In the same way I wanted to shout loudly into the low continuous hum of my own country. The secret is surely to find what we are lacking. To tease it out.

In moments of crisis, we go deep into what we know. It feels familiar. It feels comfortable. It is hell.