Sunday, June 6, 2010

Flamenco Evening

May 27, Day 9

Well, I probably didn’t give this a fair shot, but I’ve hated these dance/song nights in Ireland, Greece, and New Zealand. I put on one of my two long-sleeve nicer shirts, went along, got seated in the knee-to-knee cramped chairs, draped with sheets for some odd notion of elegance. The show started, the dancers stomped, the guitars twanged. I waited, far too long, for my complementary sangria, downed that, and got out of there.

I walked across the street to a local park. I liked the purple blossoms fallen across the sand--I think some of them are still withering/molding in that shirt pocket in my suitcase. Got homesick watching a guy bounce a ball against a wall so his dog could chase it. Indifferently watched children play. Walked the other direction to a hardware—clothes—soft-drink store, where the 10 year old son very imperiously helped out in the Vietnamese? Chinese? family business.

I bought a canned soda, a Kas Limon, and went back to the theater to wait for the group. Sat on the marble steps inside, watched the waitresses go out front for a smoke break before the next show. Listened to the stomp inside, which sounded like a football game with the crowd on wooden bleachers. And had the sour taste of the soda to remember the evening.

And so I have no pictures of strange stiff dancers. Probably others should say a bit more about the delights of flamenco...

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