una noche, una vestida

June 19, 2008

Anitha and I wore our dresses out tonight. The flamenco bar near Plaza Mayor was open tonight for only 10 euro (including a drink) so we decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea. The building’s foundation shows its age. We sat beside the wooden beams that enter into the ceiling that also hangs with large iron lights.  The sangria was tangy-er than usual and the air was damp. Two dancers came on stage. Both women wore pokka dotted dresses, mermaid-like because they are tight on top and flow out on the bottom. Then another women walked on stage. Then two men and then a woman dressed like the men. The woeful music led a woman out into the spotlight to take the first dance. She pounded the stage with her high-heeled shoes. Not a fragile woman. Her facial expression was serious and focused. Her wrists were flexible and communicative. The following dances were just as entertaining. One woman, wearing a purple skirt and flowered top, grabbed her long hair in mid-dance and began to twirl it behind her like a helicopter. Flamenco, supposedly originated in Sevilla, is a crazy dance. I don’t quite understand the rhythm of it. Those with good ears can pick up the beat and clap to it. Or clap to the off beats. After the dance, Anitha and I wondered around Calle Cava Baja where we came across some boys who asked us to come hear them play and sing flamenco. We went to the basement of another old building and listed to one of the boys play. They are my age more or less and they claim to be gypsies. There must have been miscommunication somewhere, because the conversation turned ugly and the next thing I knew was that an impatient boy was telling me that they’re from Egypt and that I look like Jackie Chan with my slanty eyes. Upon hearing that, Anitha and I left to our pizza-serving bar for a late night bite. Despite the cigarettes, olive pits, and napkins on the ground, I really enjoy restaurants where I can sit in the narrow streets. It must have been the dresses we were wearing because as soon as we sat down four British boys came to guess our nationalities. In exchange for a rose we gave one lad a slice of pizza and after our meal we all went to a very touristy bar. It was a busy night and now I’m pooped.  There’s something about wearing a dress that makes Madrid more fun.