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Una Noche de Flamenco
Story by Travis Press and Photos courtesy of USAC
Collegian Travel & Adventure Magazine
Fall/Winter 2004 |
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Rush hour in Granada, Spain does not necessarily mean bumper-to-bumper traffic; more like shoulder-to-shoulder. Julia and I had to direct ourselves under the awning of Banco Atlantico to finish our conversation. "Alright, I'll see you at around ten." Julia had asked me if I would like to join her and her roommate, Monica, at a free flamenco show that night. We were enrolled in a program through Cultural Experiences Abroad, and took classes at the Centro de Lenguas Modernas, part of the Universidad de Granada. We were situated in the center of Andalucia, the province from which most stereotypical Spanish imagery hails; sweet wine and flashy flamenco dancers, gypsies and dark skin, bullfights and topless beaches. Yet so far I had hardly seen what I had expected. Sometimes on my walk through the concrete jungle I would catch a lone guitarist plucking a workday lament for those of us passing by hastily in our high heels and Adidas. But the English that reverberated throughout the courtyard upon arrival at the Centro rang with familiarity. Julia and her roommate, Monica, shared my desire for something different.
The three of us departed from the busy Calle Ronda on the lower end of town. We made our way past tapas bars hanging ham legs, and the pastelería that smelled of chocolate croissants and pizza bread. Cars zoomed through stoplights and crackling motos rattled our ear drums. At night the sidewalks of these busy streets were invariably slicked black with water by city workers who sprayed it dutifully. Straying from the main road, we found ourselves in a quiet, close-quarters neighborhood in which the streets could scarcely fit a car. Most buildings were whitewashed, and a daytime view was blinding. But at night, warm yellow light relaxed us on our journey. We walked down another glowing corridor of concrete. "That's it," said Julia. Cautiously peering through two small glass doors to our left with neatly white-painted borders, we saw a small room, a bar in the back, and about thirty people sitting on the floor, staring ahead. Soft guitar, muffled and absorbed by all the bodies inside, found its way out the door into our earshot. Apart from that, all was silent, like an uncomfortable family dinner in the movies when all you can hear are spoons clinking and mouths smacking. The congregation of students and locals inside left no room for us, so we stood outside and stared in the direction of the guitarists that we could only hear, waiting for a break in the "silence." |
After one song two fair-skinned Spanish women made their way past me out to the street fanning themselves, excitedly approving the music, "buenisimo!" but conceding that it was just too hot inside to go back. "¡Si!" I responded, and took a deep breath as they walked down the cobblestone street and disappeared into the shadows. Eventually we made our way in and staked out a spot on the floor. The musicians sat in front of two green bookshelves. The other foreigners and I took caution with our movements in order to downplay our 'foreignness' while the Spanish sat with smiles on their faces, clapping with the music and shouting "¡¡vale!!" or "¡¡eso!!" at the musicians. Meanwhile the guitarists plucked so cleanly that each note tickled only the specific tiny hair assigned to hear that frequency. The set ended with a gracious applause and the majority of patrons filed out. Julia's teacher advised us to stay; better music was up ahead. A scruffy young man sat on a chair in front of us, tuning a guitar. He picked a chord string by string with fingernails close to an inch long.
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He plucked an intriguing melody that left me suspended somewhere in the clouds. Just when I could have been lost forever, the young guitarist swiftly brought me down, strumming full chords at once, now darker and substantial. His hand moved so fast that it appeared to stay still. Faster than a Spaniard rolls his r's, a hundred corresponding notes found their way to us inside of a second. That second seemed to last and explain a lifetime. All this came to a crashing halt with a quadruple strum and a hard knock on his guitar. Time seemed to stop. It started again, as more people began to bang the rhythm on the counters, on their hands… The intensity swelled to almost unbearable levels. I gasped for air. An ingenious style of music, I thought, where the audience participates too. I felt the rhythm pulsating, but I was paralyzed. I couldn't bring myself to clap. I couldn't get up to get a drink; I merely clutched the two euros tight in my sweaty hand. At one point, a girl in a bright red dress took center stage and stomped rhythms with her feet, turning in a circle, lifting her skirt slowly to provoke. The guitarist intertwined minor and major chords, reflecting the pain and happiness that engender flamenco. A black-haired older man with clothes to match sang mournfully of lost gypsy girl lovers. "El flamenco," my señora later told me, "es la música que mejor expresa las emociones." Around 3 a.m. they pulled down a steel door on the outside to keep the police from crashing. All the while I sat in a trance, unable to answer the singer's call for more clapping. As we said goodbye and made our way down Recogidas, I declared to the girls that I had just had my first real Spanish experience. I told myself it was okay. Could I expect to waltz into the local spot and start clapping? It's not like flamenco sprang up overnight, either. It developed through centuries of mixing cultures, centuries of pain and struggle. I hoped that someday I would be a part of creating something so beautiful.
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| Travis Press is a student at the University of Redlands and studied abroad in Granada, Spain with Cultural Experiences Abroad (CEA) in the Fall of 2003. CEA is a study abroad provider for college students. More info? Cultural Experiences Abroad (CEA) 800-266-4441 www.GoWithCEA.com/collegian |
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