Flamenco! Ole!
November 11, 2006 | 12:00am
Just read your column and thought I’d call. What are you doing later?" Ricky, old friend of one of my exes, said on the phone.
"Nothing," I said. Actually I was going to do something – knit in front of the TV set but what was the point of telling him that?
"Okay, I will pick you up. Let’s go to the flamenco."
We sat outside while he smoked and I looked at his cigarettes with a bit of nostalgia. I was a smoker for 40 years who five years ago stopped cold turkey. Should I smoke again? I wondered, then thought of all the hardship and anguish of giving it up, the 30 pounds on and finally off. No, just inhale the secondhand smoke. That made me happy.
He told me the background of flamenco, its Moorish and gypsy influences, technical details about the dance. Clara Ramona, lead dancer and teacher, was a Filipina who studied it for 20 years, probably one of the top flamenco dancers in the world. The show finally began. Outstanding costumes, wonderful shoes, excellent dancers. Liza Dino and Mercedes Soler were doing the flamenco onstage when suddenly in my mind, a whole new scene opened.
Madrid, 1962. I was a student there. My school was 14 blocks from where I lived. I preferred walking to taking the subway because the streets were more fragrant. But walking to school was a nuisance because of the men who bothered you with their piropos, their flirtations. They would come up and say, "Hola, chatita, mona. . .,"make a nuisance of themselves for a couple of blocks. Chatita was a compliment which meant "flat-nosed," and mona was "pretty." Every step of the way for 14 blocks they would regale me with piropos. I got to school with eyes glazed with suppressed rage. I was young then. If it happened today, I would be blissfully grateful.
To give me some protection, I got me a Spanish boyfriend, tall, thin, looked like David Niven. He danced a mean Brazil. We became friends on the dance floor. Tonight, suddenly, I remembered him, clapping his hands and singing flamenco, when we were with friends, drinking and eating tinto y tapas at the Spanish outdoor cafes we used to love.
I used to play the Spanish guitar. I saw myself struggling with my guitar onto the bus, traveling down the Gran Via, getting off at the bottom and walking the three blocks up to my teacher’s flat. There I learned how to accompany myself and to sing some Spanish pop classics — Cielito Lindo, Solamente Una Vez, Usted, Moliendo Café. I have forgotten how now. It has been 44 years, a long, long time.
All the dancers at the flamenco were great, I thought. Clara Ramona was the greatest of them all. The way she moved, the way she held her head and stamped her feet, and the way she moved you with her. There was a number she danced with an old chair in it. I thought that had an air of despair to it. You could sense the despair. I am not a good reviewer of anything because I just determine whether I like or dislike. After that night, I can say this about their flamenco: I like very much.
Clara has been a dancer all her life. First, she is a ballet dancer. Then she took up all sorts of other dances including flamenco and belly dancing. The most memorable thing she told me over her first cold beer was: You must always remember what you are dancing and get into that mind frame. If ballet, then you think ballet and your body will follow. If flamenco, then flamenco. Your body will follow.
Clara is moving into a new house and setting up a studio. She asks if I might enroll. I tell her I am too old. I don’t tell her that I have the world’s worst arms and just can’t see them flapping over my head when I stamp my feet clad in those wonderful flamenco shoes.
But I thank them all, Ricky, Clara and Bon-Bon for bringing me back my Madrid memories. Since then I have done nothing but wonder – does Jaime still remember me? Did he stay tall and thin or did he put on weight? What would we say to each other today? What happened to my friends Paloma, Pilar and the other Pilar? Do they ever think of me? I will never know but I’m glad I went to the flamenco and recommend it. Next time you read about it, go. You will enjoy it even if you may not have my Madrid memories.
Please send your comments to lilypad@skyinet.net or secondwind.barbara@gmail.com or text 0917-8155570.
"Nothing," I said. Actually I was going to do something – knit in front of the TV set but what was the point of telling him that?
"Okay, I will pick you up. Let’s go to the flamenco."
We sat outside while he smoked and I looked at his cigarettes with a bit of nostalgia. I was a smoker for 40 years who five years ago stopped cold turkey. Should I smoke again? I wondered, then thought of all the hardship and anguish of giving it up, the 30 pounds on and finally off. No, just inhale the secondhand smoke. That made me happy.
He told me the background of flamenco, its Moorish and gypsy influences, technical details about the dance. Clara Ramona, lead dancer and teacher, was a Filipina who studied it for 20 years, probably one of the top flamenco dancers in the world. The show finally began. Outstanding costumes, wonderful shoes, excellent dancers. Liza Dino and Mercedes Soler were doing the flamenco onstage when suddenly in my mind, a whole new scene opened.
Madrid, 1962. I was a student there. My school was 14 blocks from where I lived. I preferred walking to taking the subway because the streets were more fragrant. But walking to school was a nuisance because of the men who bothered you with their piropos, their flirtations. They would come up and say, "Hola, chatita, mona. . .,"make a nuisance of themselves for a couple of blocks. Chatita was a compliment which meant "flat-nosed," and mona was "pretty." Every step of the way for 14 blocks they would regale me with piropos. I got to school with eyes glazed with suppressed rage. I was young then. If it happened today, I would be blissfully grateful.
To give me some protection, I got me a Spanish boyfriend, tall, thin, looked like David Niven. He danced a mean Brazil. We became friends on the dance floor. Tonight, suddenly, I remembered him, clapping his hands and singing flamenco, when we were with friends, drinking and eating tinto y tapas at the Spanish outdoor cafes we used to love.
I used to play the Spanish guitar. I saw myself struggling with my guitar onto the bus, traveling down the Gran Via, getting off at the bottom and walking the three blocks up to my teacher’s flat. There I learned how to accompany myself and to sing some Spanish pop classics — Cielito Lindo, Solamente Una Vez, Usted, Moliendo Café. I have forgotten how now. It has been 44 years, a long, long time.
All the dancers at the flamenco were great, I thought. Clara Ramona was the greatest of them all. The way she moved, the way she held her head and stamped her feet, and the way she moved you with her. There was a number she danced with an old chair in it. I thought that had an air of despair to it. You could sense the despair. I am not a good reviewer of anything because I just determine whether I like or dislike. After that night, I can say this about their flamenco: I like very much.
Clara has been a dancer all her life. First, she is a ballet dancer. Then she took up all sorts of other dances including flamenco and belly dancing. The most memorable thing she told me over her first cold beer was: You must always remember what you are dancing and get into that mind frame. If ballet, then you think ballet and your body will follow. If flamenco, then flamenco. Your body will follow.
Clara is moving into a new house and setting up a studio. She asks if I might enroll. I tell her I am too old. I don’t tell her that I have the world’s worst arms and just can’t see them flapping over my head when I stamp my feet clad in those wonderful flamenco shoes.
But I thank them all, Ricky, Clara and Bon-Bon for bringing me back my Madrid memories. Since then I have done nothing but wonder – does Jaime still remember me? Did he stay tall and thin or did he put on weight? What would we say to each other today? What happened to my friends Paloma, Pilar and the other Pilar? Do they ever think of me? I will never know but I’m glad I went to the flamenco and recommend it. Next time you read about it, go. You will enjoy it even if you may not have my Madrid memories.
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