My First Flamenco Lesson in Spain
My flamenco instructor is a striking young woman with fiery eyes, long dark hair, and a ready smile. She wears a long black practice skirt with ruffles and the traditional black shoes with taps on the bottom to make more noise. She seems confident that I can both follow her rapid-fire Spanish and her sultry and powerful moves.
I do not yet share her confidence.
The class takes place in a small studio near the church in our village in Southern Spain. There is a wooden platform stage facing a row of large mirrors, and the women who’ve come to class are wearing flamenco shoes, tights, and flowing shirts, like seasoned dancers at rehearsal.
I show up in yoga pants and walkers, feeling a little bit out of place.
Most women in the village already know the basics of flamenco, as it is taught from childhood. In fact, my friend’s 4-year-old daughter is already a veteran flamenco performer at local fiestas. Adult classes for beginning flamenco are not in high demand, so I’m pretty excited to have the chance to try it out.
La maestra stands facing the mirror, her back to us, and her skirt pulled up high so we can see how her legs move as she talks. (I smile when I notice she’s wearing skinny jeans underneath.) We align behind her, ready to start.
Un, do, tre, cua. Un do, tre, cua.
Golpe!
Golpe means “strike” and it is when the foot comes down hard on the wooden floor. This stomp is the emphasis within the swirl of movement, the hard crack amidst the swishing sound of skirts.
The strike feels good…powerful…noticeable. This I do well.
La maestra patiently teaches us to count, move, sweep, and twirl, working in half time. This I do not do so well, my arms flailing as my feet struggle to stay in time.
She adds music, and we repeat until we have some semblance of a dance, less than one-minute’s worth of moves after one hour of practice.
The result wasn’t graceful, but it was fun enough that I decided to sign up for a full course. Yesterday I went to the town hall to register, and when I told the clerk there I was taking baile (dance), she immediately did the graceful 3-step movement of the arms while sitting in her office chair and recited the line:
Coger, comer, tirar.
Grab, eat, throw.
You see, she learned as a kid to grab the imaginary apple from the tree, bring it toward her lips, and then throw it off to the side. She has a child’s terminology to help her remember the basic arm movements of flamenco, even after all these years.
This is what I love about trying new things around the world, sharing my stumbles and missteps with other people, and learning the little secrets they know to become better. Because in many ways I do need the child’s version of instructions, the simplest words and concepts possible.
I need to be treated like a child, to admit I know nothing, and absorb instruction from people who know more than I do.
The alternative is to stay in a safe bubble where I already know what I know and don’t challenge myself with anything else. And that’s not the way I want to live, even if it makes me look foolish from time to time.
So today I go to my second class, where I will grab, eat, and throw. I will likely stumble and make a few wrong moves. And I’ll still be wearing the wrong shoes and clothes. But I will have fun.
And if I want to become a better flamenco dancer, I’ll just ask my 4-year-old friend to coach me between classes.
Photo by Jean-David & Anne-Laure via Flickr and used under a Creative Commons license.