Fiery Flamenco
The stone pavement and my stiletto heels were clashing, but at the time, they went perfectly well with my black dress. Why did I choose such a pair of shoes on a night like this? I thought of taking them off and walking barefooted. On the way, I stopped at an outside restaurant in the square of Plaza de Mayor to order paella, a Spanish dish that has become one of my favorites. I believe I had chicken paella every day from the time I arrived in Spain. It consists of vegetables, meat or seafood and rice.
I tried walking elegantly and gracefully without the heels getting stuck between the cobblestones; hopefully I wasn’t walking like a crab in heels. The streets of Madrid, decorated with mannequins in red dresses, showcased the culture and art of flamenco, an expressive Spanish dance.
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Now At The Venue
The cobblestones and my heels have now reconciled and I am seated with a cool drink.
On the dim stage are four dancers with two men dressed in black bellowing tunes. A handsome guitarist sits; hugging his guitar in his arms. The rhythmic accompaniment of his instrument follows every pitch in their voices and fuses with the clicks of the dancers.
One of dancers comes forward. She bangs her heel on the ground and the sounds echoes in the room. Her footwork is articulate with every full swing, and when she snaps her fingers, it savors the rhythm. Her synchronized arm and body movements harmonize with the singers. She swishes her dress and the frills grace the floor as she she moves her torso like fluidly. While she dances, the other dancers shout and cheer her on with their voices, heel work, and small hand cymbals called castanets. Both singers and dancers support each other in a stunning musical display. Their voices, loaded with profound emotions, distill an enigmatic story. I hang on to the chords, even though the words elude me, but she translates the lyrics with intricate body movements and the arch in her wrists.
The guitarist catches my attention. I zoom in on him, engrossed in his sleek hair- do and the intensity in his eyes. Why are you trying to distract me, Mister Guitarist? I had gone there to see everyone ; I would not be distracted by him.
Another dancer enters the spotlight:
She swings and sways her hips ever so gently and delicately, yet skillfully, while rotating her wrist. Her curlicued arm gestures, and rapid shoulder movements are intertwined with intense facial expressions. She drapes her ruffled skirt off the ground as if to take them to an unknown place, and I intently watch her next move.
The flavor and rhythm of the music, weaved with their body movements and claps, captured the fiery art of flamenco.
I remain in my seat and continue to sip my drink.
But there he was again; the guitarist, we had to meet:
As I look fixedly at him plucking his strings away, vigorously and lovingly, I am moved to another place: I am on the stage in a red dress. I rotate my hands and tap my heels in a circular movement as I enclose on him like a tiger. My hips move to the beat of his strings and I’m swept away by his glares. At the end of a stanza, he stops playing and stares at me like a bull looking at a red flag; then with my left wrist curved upwards, and my right arm slightly bent over my head, I dance the night away until the crowd erupts.
It was a night filled with musical expressions and undressed emotions.
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Beautiful story!
Thanks, I’m happy you liked it.