Coge la manzana, comela y tirela-Flamenco!

With one bobby pin, the bailaora reached up and deftly twisted her damp hair in to a knot. That’s while her feet where tapping a mile a minute. The gypsy had already been dancing for 10 minutes, and with each fling of her arms or twist of her neck she lost more accessories. Her flowers had fallen out of her hair long ago, her earrings slung across the room. But she didn’t stop, and the crowd didn’t care. This was real flamenco, performed in a tiny whitewashed cave in the hills of Granada.

We had been invited to Sacromonte, where the gypsies have carved their homes in the mountains for centuries. About 50 people were packed in to the living room of Enrique de la Castanera

Decorated with hundreds of copper spoons, pot and other cooking essentials, the curved walls also displayed photos of flamenco dancers and singers from years past. But you didn’t have time to inspect everything. The show started the minute after we arrived, and listening to our teachers, we quickly snatched seats on the perimeter of the room. Much better to see the lightening fast feet.

When five women outfitted in polka dot dresses and typical coral jewelry starting clapping-it was so loud and fiery, that I thought I might cry. And that’s before everyone starting singing and dancing. Taking turns in the middle, the women twirled, snapped and manipulated castanets for an amazing show. But my favorite was when the older women and guitar player performed songs typical of Granada. There is no smiling involved in flamenco, it’s a sad, dramatic song and dance-something to recount the past. But we were told the families always dance for holidays and in their homes, so I’m sure there’s much more laughs then.

So here’s the best, or worst, part depending on who you talk to. For the last song, each dancer asked a crowd member to get up and shake it. I was trying my best not to stick out and not to be too eager so I wouldn’t be picked. I had two cameras in my lap and was balancing the complimentary glass of wine to boot. But when the purple polka dot dancer asked me to leave me seat, I said, No, Gracias, one time, but then after a look I couldn’t decipher, I quickly plopped my belongings with my teacher and got up.

Remembering “Coge la manzana, comela y tirala” basically pick the apple, eat it and throw it away….I twirled my fingers, did a few stomps, laughed way too much and saw lots of flashes from cameras. So I would call that a success. And I know I would have been disappointed if I had been a wallflower….

P.S. The word for dancer in Spanish is bailador or bailadora. But in flamenco it’s bailaor or bailaora, minus the d. Don’t ask me why, but if you say the first-you’re just not right.