It was either join a flamenco class or cry into a bowl of microwaved arroz tres delicias again. I figured movement would help. Or at least distract from the ongoing saga of “Aerielle and the Accidental Business Registration.” (Still active, by the way. I keep getting letters. One of them was damp. Unrelated? Unclear.)
I arrived at the studio wearing trainers, which apparently is like showing up to a black-tie gala in Crocs. Everyone else had shoes that looked like instruments. They clicked and clacked and screamed olé just by existing. My shoes squeaked.
The teacher was a woman named Paloma who radiated judgment and wore a shawl like it was a weapon. She spoke only in rhythm. Every sentence ended with a clap. I loved her immediately. She hated me on sight.
We began with basic movements. I say “basic” the way people say “just a little wasabi.” Within five minutes I had stomped wrong, clapped off-beat, and stepped directly into something that was apparently sacred flamenco floor space. Paloma gasped like I’d insulted her grandmother.
There was a moment—brief, pure—where I almost found the rhythm. My hips betrayed me, my arms obeyed. I stomped once, hard, and caught the eye of a woman in the mirror. We nodded. Sisters. Then I spun.
And my elbow hit someone in the face.
Now, I want to be clear. I didn’t mean to. I was trying to create drama with my arms the way Paloma showed us. But instead of “duende” I achieved “collision.” A clean shot to the nose of an innocent bystander named Luis. He had simply come to pick up his girlfriend.
He went down. Someone screamed. Paloma shouted “¡OLÉ!” in confusion.
There was blood. A small amount. Enough to be memorable.
I apologised in three tenses and five languages. Luis was gracious, if slightly concussed. His girlfriend never spoke to me. She just handed him a tissue and glared like I was a political ideology she opposed.
Paloma told me, through clenched teeth, that I had a “free spirit” and perhaps should “explore that somewhere else.”
I limped home with one shoe slightly melted from a misplaced stomp on a studio light. Flamenco, I decided, was not my calling. But it did clarify something.
Movement is good. Direction is helpful. But aimless flailing in an unfamiliar room can be dangerous for everyone involved. Which, now that I think about it, sums up my entire experience in Spain so far.
Also, I may have to pay for the light. I received a note that might be an invoice or a poem. Possibly both.
