Flamenco, Without the Words

Some flamenco draws a crowd. Some flamenco breaks your heart.

The first dancers we saw were on the streets of Seville. Full skirts, sharp footwork, bright music. A crowd would gather, phones would rise, coins would drop into a hat.

They were skilled and entertaining, and we stopped more than once to watch.

But someone told us that if we wanted to experience flamenco, we needed to go inside.

So one evening we booked a table at a small restaurant with only a handful of tables and a stage barely the size of a rug.  There was a guitarist, a singer, and a dancer. Nothing elaborate. No room for distance.

I don't speak much Spanish, and I could not follow the words of the songs.

But the guitar seemed to ache before the singer ever opened her mouth. The dancer stood still for a long moment, one hand lifted, her face already carrying something I could not name. Then her foot struck the floor, and the whole room shifted.

Her face was set in a determined line as her feet stomped harder and faster, as if she meant to stomp straight through the floor of the stage. Whatever story she was telling, her body knew it before we did. Words were extraneous. She brought us to tears.

By the end, I still did not know what the words meant, but I knew what she meant.

Outside, the dancers had performed beautifully. Inside, I became part of the story.