Posting after an event, after I’ve been there and have taken photos, is much more enjoyable than writing about it in advance. But this is important.
You would be angry with me for not alerting you ahead of time because this is San Antonio’s best festival. Well, second best. Right after the San Antonio Book Festival. And that says a lot in a city known for non-stop-fiesta-ing.
(Pause here and scroll to the bottom first if you would like a soundtrack to get you in the mood for this post.)
The International Accordion Festival takes place Saturday, September 13, from noon to 11 p.m., throughout La Villita. And it’s admission-free.
Expect a United Nations of sound. Some traditional. Some contemporary. All highly addictive. And it’s admission-free.
Expect the unexpected.
Accordion with a dizi, Chinese bamboo flute, and a pipa, Chinese four-string lute, employed by the Cross-Strait Trio. Chinese and Taiwanese musicians who collided while studying ethnomusicology in Texas.
The New York-based Matuto. “Appalachia-gone-Afro-Brazilian sound.”
The Italians, Canzionere Grecanico Salentino. With their traditional drum, the tamburello, that “sounds like a beating heart:”
The style is based on the ancient ritual of healing a dangerous tarantula bite called pizzica tarantata and a local cultural phenomenon called tarantim. Their music includes frantic strumming and mad trance-inducing dancing.
And on a much slower note, the lyrics of one of the Cansionere Grecanico Salentino’s more serious songs translates as though written to apply to immigration politics in Texas:
…we children of the horizon, washing us up, spilling us out. No police can abuse us more than what we’ve suffered already. We’ll serve as your servants the children you never had our lives will be your adventure tales. We carry Homer and Dante, the blind man and the pilgrim, the smell that you’ve lost the equality you’ve repressed. No matter the distance, millions of paces, we will come, we are the feet and we carry your weight. We shovel the snow, comb the lawns, beat your rugs, collect your tomatoes and insults….
This is the 84th edition of the Lisboa Book Fair, so it has had ample time to grow and mature. We watched as the rows of containers were lined up along both sides of sloping King Edward VII Park. They looked sterile, but what a change when we went back and the containers had been customized. Every single one looked different, depending on the bookstore or publisher occupying it.
Not sure how jam-packed the Book Fair is on weekends, but we strolled through on a Monday. There are 250 book vendors represented at the event running more than two weeks. Tented areas along the way provide space for small readings and autograph sessions.
Thirty food and beverage booths are interspersed among the book vendors, again all different. In between rows of booths are seating areas, each distinctively designed – some tables and chairs for adults; some pint-size reading or play “rooms” for children; and some laid out like comfortable lounges with living room furniture resembling a Copenhagen showroom.
How pleasant it looked to pause to peruse purchases over an espresso or glass of wine. Of course, we didn’t buy anything; naturally, most books are in Portuguese.
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San Antonio, headed to its third edition of its Book Festival, has plenty of time and room to grow. The San Antonio Public Library Foundation already squeezes an incredible amount into one day, and, frankly, it’s so accessible because of the manageable size and close proximity of the venues.
One day, we’ll look back at these early San Antonio Book Festivals nostalgically, the same way old-timers reflect on the neighborhood intimacy of the first years of the King William Fair. Even now, the agenda is so crowded, decisions about which author sessions to attend are wrenching.
But, best of all, most of the featured books and readings at the San Antonio Book Festival are in a language I understand. Looking forward to the 2015 edition.
No matter what, it’s the San Antonio Book Festival’s fault. Writing about some of the authors scheduled to appear there sent me back to a post from long ago about Jake Silverstein’s book, Nothing Happened and Then It Did, which had sent me delving back into The Devil’s Dictionary. Hence the omen reference. Add to that overstimulation from listening to five full sessions of authors talking followed by the Literary Death Match.
National Park Service photo of red-tailed hawk
This past Thursday morning, the Mister and I headed southward for our morning walk. A hawk swooped onto a tree not 15 feet in front of us. It was a newly planted tree on the Eagleland stretch of the San Antonio River, the name of which comes not from sightings of eagles but from the Brackenridge High School’s mascot.
The branches of this 12-foot tree were not big enough to successfully support a hold-onto-your-chihuahua-size hawk; so, before we could even zip out and focus the smartphone, he flew off. While we were fiddling like dummies with the smartphone, the hawk caught something white now dangling helplessly from the hawk’s claws.
I wasn’t thinking omen yet. But a mile or so later on the Mission Reach by Lone Star, we saw another hawk swooping through the sky. We were impressed by a two-hawk day because we rarely even spy one.
But that afternoon, there was a third flying across 281 right in front of me as I headed to a meeting.
Three hawks. Now that seemed ominous to me.
Some people view hawks as messengers. Messengers bearing warnings, not usually glad tidings. I was afraid to even begin to surf the internet to find out what it would mean if three were trying to deliver news to me. I elected to prefer the theory that the hawks just happened to live nearby; it was meal time; and I was passing through their grocery store.
The next afternoon was warm. We had the doors on the second floor wide open. I kept hearing noises, though home alone.
Bravely going back up the stairs to the third floor, I found the source. A sparrow clinging to the shade on the south bank of windows.
I’m thinking omens again. Some people believe a bird flying into your house is a sign of death. I prefer the belief it means a loved one is trying to communicate with you from the grave. That seems more comforting.
Unfortunately, the windows on the third floor do not open. I was pondering how I was going to convince the sparrow to go back down a floor to the open doors when the sparrow spied this:
The bank of windows on the north side. Well, the sparrow went for it as fast as his wings could flap through the length of the house.
Smack. Thud.
I’m thinking serious omen.
A bird breaks his neck flying into your window, particularly while inside the house? Not a good sign. A harbinger of death.
But a break came. A major stroke of good luck. When the sparrow hit the glass, he fell smack into the middle of the trashcan beside my desk onto a soft bed of kleenix, ever-present during this season of pollen.
I was able to cover him with a jacket and cart him out to the back porch. Upon my removal of the cover, he sat there stunned for quite a while. He had been tricked by those very same green leaves once, and, no fool, he wasn’t going to race toward them again. After about 30 minutes, he trusted his surroundings and fluttered home.
Surely that trumped all prior gloomy warnings.
I fretted a bit all weekend but finally decided no news was good news.
Our daughter solved it all inadvertently with an email with this photo attached. Aha, the sparrow must have been trying to tell me there had been a storm in Austin, and a branch blew into their house and smashed a window. Phew.
And then, on the phone later, she told me about the impending death. The Mister’s Infinity that had passed her way was in the process of passing away.
The Mister was sad. He loved that car.
But I was jubilant. Those hawks were only trying to tell me the Infinity was dying. I can handle that. I never even learned to find it in a parking lot; one silver sedan looks just like all the others to me.
I’m not paying attention to messages from birds again though; no matter what that pair of coots on the Mission Reach seems to be trying to say. The foreboding row of dark cormorants perched on the dam won’t scare me.
And those herons and egrets? They and all the other birds who didn’t use to flourish here are only here because our environment is improving everyday as the San Antonio River Improvements Project matures.
The Mister and I just happen to walk right across their dining room table, often interrupting a crawfish feast, as we head southward.
And, that sparrow spared by the bed of kleenix absolutely has to be a sign of good luck.
April 29, 2014, Update: The flock of wild parrots that are spied around Southtown periodically just spent about 10 minutes fluttering around a cypress tree outside my window. Spectacular. Wish they would stay, but I think even that temporal a siting is a good sign.
Postcards from Barton Springs 