Summer Flings and Dancing Dreams (19 page)

I
woke
each morning and pinched myself – I was so very lucky to have the experience here, and for that I had to thank Tony. I had discovered while at the school that Tony could have easily postponed his holiday and had his money back. In the same way my dad had known all those years before that I had to dance, Tony knew I had to come to Spain, to dance and be me, the real me that had hidden inside all those years. Tony had given me back my life.

To say I could dance the flamenco after two weeks sounds rather arrogant – it’s a dance that takes years to learn, but I had made a good start. I’d also learned some Spanish, which helped with the compás and gave me confidence while I was there and made me determined to return one day. I’d also met a wonderful man who seemed to be more caring, more attentive as the days (and nights!) went on. Juan made me feel special, confident – and most of all, beautiful.

With just two days left in Granada, Juan said he wanted to take me somewhere special. ‘I don’t ever want you to forget,’ he said mysteriously as he held my hand and we walked through the Sacramento. I was tired, but keen to squeeze every last ounce out of what was left of my stay.

I was wearing a white vest and ankle-length skirt, a little lipstick and mascara and I’d left my hair down. When I was in my thirties I’d read in a magazine that a woman shouldn’t bare her arms or grow her hair long after the age of twenty-five. At the time I didn’t question this but blindly adhered to the ‘wisdom’. I thought about this now, walking through the dusk, enjoying the swing of my hair and the warmth of early evening on my arms. I questioned things much more these days, I didn’t just accept what others told me, or what I read in magazines. Juan held my hand as we walked through the streets and I smiled at this new sense of liberation in my life – and I wanted to punch that bitch of a beauty editor whose comment about women in their forties being too old to wear their hair long had made me, and doubtless many other women like me, feel inadequate, unworthy. Not any more though.

Juan led me into a small, intimate cave bar where he said a jeurga – a private party – was being held. Once inside the whitewashed crumbly walls, I heard the now familiar sound of the flamenco guitar. I studied the photos of flamenco artists and famous dancers that performed there and felt privileged to be in a place steeped in dance history.

We sat at a table and Juan ordered sangria.

‘This is real flamenco,’ he smiled and took my hand on the table. I was excited to be here, the place was tiny, but the air was thick with anticipation.

Within minutes the sound of castanets could be heard over the guitar and several women strutted onto the floor. It was thrilling to watch the music and dance come to life in front of us with whirling, whipping skirts, clicking feet and fingers. Shouts of ‘olé’ filled the air as we clapped along, and I couldn’t help it, my feet, unable to stay still despite being tired from the day’s dancing, tapped out the rhythm from my seat.

‘The dancers are performing the zambra,’ Juan explained in my ear, ‘a bit like a gypsy wedding.’

I nodded, unable to take my eyes off the flamboyant, energetic dancing, both thrilling and exhausting to watch. They were all good, but as a flamenco connoisseur I could now see the most talented dancer was in fact the one who looked the oldest and the biggest. That made me feel good – you don’t have to be young and skinny and beautiful to be the best. She didn't just dance the zambra, she embodied it, the emotion showing in her pained, contorted expressions, the elaborate stomping of her feet. By the time she finished, her eyeliner was running down her cheeks. And it occurred to me that you have to be a certain age, to live through pain, love and disappointment, to dance like that.

Later, Juan invited some of the dancers and the singer to our table, they were old friends of his and he introduced me as ‘the British Flamenco dancer’.

After a few drinks they invited us to join them all outside in the moonlight. They chatted and I tried to join in, what little bit of Spanish I’d learned helped, but Juan translated – as he had on the first day we met. Soon the flamenco guitar strains started up and Juan asked me to dance by holding out his hand dramatically, his eyes smouldering. I looked up and took his hand and strutted onto the floor.

‘You’re good,’ I shouted, impressed with his dramatic moves, his meaningful stare.

‘I am Andalusian... my blood runs with flamenco,’ he said his hands clapping in the air, his feet stomping to the music. When I whirled around him, he caught me by the waist and hissed into my ear, ‘You dance like a gypsy.’

I laughed, threw back my head and flapped my skirts as he stood back clapping.

The singer’s voice was wonderful, and though I wasn’t sure of the words, the sound was raw with emotion. Then the women joined me – supporting me in my dance, not outshining me as they could, so easily, have done. It was amazing to me that with such little language we could form such understanding through a voice, a guitar and the dance, moving in the moonlight. Of all the memories I will keep the one I will treasure is dancing with new friends, at midnight somewhere in the South of Spain.

A
fter the flamenco
party – Juan and I returned to my apartment and he stayed with me until morning. We talked about dancing and how the music made us feel.

‘What are the songs about?’ I asked him.

‘Don’t ask the meanings – it’s like asking why the sun sets. They are of everything – they sing of love, loss, war politics, family... being human.’

I could see that was why we didn’t need language when we had dance – the movements and the sound spoke to my heart in a way nothing else did. I couldn’t believe my time there was almost over and I was due to leave the following day. Juan said he’d miss me and I really felt he meant it – I’d miss him too, along with the heat, the wonderful sights and the amazing dancing.

After a few hours sleep Juan and I exchanged phone numbers and emails.

We were sitting at the little table in the tiny kitchenette in my apartment facing each other, the sun streaming through the windows. My eyes filled with tears, I knew this was only a holiday fling, a few nights of passion, but it had meant so much to me, Juan had awoken something inside me and made me feel so free, so happy.

‘Don’t be sad, I’ll be back one day,’ I said as he gazed longingly into my eyes. ‘I promise,’ I said, reaching for his hand across the table.

‘I can’t live without you, Laura,’ he sighed. ‘I think I am a little bit in love.’

‘Ah, me too.’ I heard my voice croaking with emotion, I hadn’t come to Granada to find love, I’d come here to dance – what a wonderful surprise all this had been. But now it was time to say our final goodbyes, he was working that evening and my flight was early and though he’d wanted to meet up during my last few hours, I’d said no. I didn’t want rushed, painful goodbyes before the airport. I wanted to remember him, my beautiful dark-haired Spanish lover, smiling in the morning sunshine.

I stood up from the table, leaned over and kissed him full on the lips, then pulled him towards me, my back against the tiny sink. And I was in Buenos Aires, I was hot, the heat from the sun licking at my face, and I wanted him now, against the wall. I pulled him towards me, kissing him passionately, then pushing him away just like the dance, teasing him, making him want me more. Then, when I knew I had his full attention, I unzipped him as we kissed more fervently, his breath in my neck, his hands on my breasts as he lifted me onto the sink, raising my nightdress he pulled my legs around him. His hands and mouth were all over me and I had to put my face in his neck to stifle the sounds of ecstasy, and my tears - our dance was over.

M
y last day
at dance class was bittersweet. I had come so far in such a short time, the classes were high-calibre and challenging and I’d come through with flying colours. Along with Juan, the dancing classes had released me, unpacking the complicated code of flamenco - and of freeing myself to dance. ‘You have the actitude, Laura,’ my teacher said; ‘In English it means attitude...you came without it, but found it here.’

I was so proud of myself. Here at the Escuela le Carmen School of Flamenco not only had I found Juan, but I had found my duende, my passion for flamenco – and Lola was here to stay.

D
espite fervent plans
for packing and a nun-like early night that the old Laura would have relished and adhered to, I rebelled. Sitting on my patio at eight p.m., the sound of flamenco guitar drifting through the air, I couldn’t resist a final wander into the Albayzín.

I walked through the streets, memories of earlier in my stay, the restaurant where we ate paella and drank until the sun dropped in the sky. The little tapas bars, Juan waiting for me by the school, the sun beating down, my heart dancing with happiness. I It seemed so long ago that first night when I’d sat alone in a tapas bar enjoying garlicky battered prawns and Rioja. I imagined that woman in her kaftan, white skin, hair tied up, nervous, wondering what the next two weeks might bring... She felt like someone else.

I thought it would be fitting to end my journey where I began, to compare the woman who arrived here and the one who would be leaving at dawn. Sitting down, I asked for a sherry. It was the dry, buttery Manzanilla sherry I’d enjoyed on that first night with Juan and with it, I ate simple tapas – a slice of crusty bread topped with local cheese, fiery red chorizo that tingled on my tongue, and a savoury sliver of meltingly salty jamon. With my hair down, my shoulders bare and brown, enjoying this Spanish feast, I felt like a native.

After I’d eaten, I wandered the lanes and there I bought Sophie a mantilla, Mum a brooch of a flamenco dancer and Tony a pair of castanets. Then, in Barrio, I found an artisan shop selling flamenco practice skirts that some of the other students had told me about. Local girls made the skirts and each one was different. They were available in every colour, every design, from black to bright orange to plain to floral. I immediately alighted on a black skirt with bright pink frills at the bottom and rushing behind the little curtain, I unfurled it. There was hardly room for both of us in that tiny cubicle, but when I put her on, I was Lola. I had to stop myself from foot stomping and swirling – I couldn’t wait to dance in my new gypsy flamenco skirt.

Delighted with all my purchases, I decided to have a coffee and perhaps something to eat before heading back uphill with my shopping and chose the terrace bar overlooking the city.

There is an old saying in Granada, ‘... there is nothing worse in this life than to be blind in Granada.’ But watching the moon on the fountains cascading, swishing over secret conversations, the smell of tapas and jasmine carried on the evening breeze, caressing my bare shoulders – the way the music wound through the streets, the flamenco rhythm beating a constant pulse through the city. Granada wasn’t just a feast for the eyes. This city sated all the senses and a warm evening in Granada is one of the best experiences in the world.

I
ordered
coffee in a little cafe near the palace and as it was my last night I tried the famous Piononos de Santa Fe. According to my guidebook this cake was made for Pope Pius IX when he visited Granada in 1897… and I bet he loved it. A sweet, sticky cake flavoured with lemon and rum, the delicious, dense mixture stuck to the roof of my mouth. The lemon brought it all alive, adding a zesty lift to the sugar and the kick of the rum. I ate this jaw-achingly sweet confection with bitter black coffee – and took my time, enjoying the moment, living for the ‘now’ and just being.

After a second coffee, it was almost 11 and I really did have to head back if I was going to rise early in the morning for my flight. So I gathered my bags and began the long walk uphill to my apartment.

Stopping briefly to put my bags down and take a moment, I gazed at some beautiful flamenco posters on an orange wall. I thought it would make a good photo so I took out my phone. I was just standing back, holding the phone up in front of the poster when something caught my eye in the corner of the frame. It was a couple, heads close, and when I zoomed in I could see they were sharing a moment. The man was reading something from a piece of paper – it reminded me of Juan and his poetry. I zoomed in further so I could get a closer look and my heart did a little bounce. For there he was, the one who’d fallen so much in love with me it hurt, the man who said he couldn’t survive without me – Juan was with another woman, and he was reading her one of his poems.

It took me a few seconds to register what was going on and in my rush to get the hell out of there, I started to run. Of course these things never go smoothly and within seconds a voice was calling, ‘Senorita... senorita...’ I’d left one of the bags behind on the floor and although I just wanted to go, I knew if I didn’t go back, the woman would just keep shouting and drawing attention to me.

So I quickly ran back to where my carrier bag stood, with the old woman like a bloody sentinel standing over it, announcing both my departure and now my re-entrance. There was no way Juan wouldn’t see me now, I thought, and as I quietly and quickly thanked the woman and made a grab for the bag, I turned to see him watching me. For a moment time stood still, our eyes met and I waited for the glimmer of recognition, the sudden smile to light his face. But nothing. He looked straight through me – and in that moment I realised – for him I was already gone. I was his yesterday and he’d already moved on. He looked back at his companion, continuing their intimate conversation. His eyes and his smile were for her now, and I noted – so were his hands, which now held one of hers in both of his, just like he had with me.

Tears sprung to my eyes as I picked up my bags and started walking away. I had fallen for the oldest trick in the book… again. First Cameron and now Juan. I know we’d never promised each other anything and we’d said goodbye but I was hurt and angry by the speed with which he’d found a replacement. Was I so forgettable? As I walked away I thought about how the old Laura would have just put her head down and walked on... like I was doing now. She found it hard to stand up for herself, to face things head on – but this wasn’t the old Laura, this was Lola. I slowed down and glanced back, they were still deep in conversation and I was suddenly filled with a surge of anger and slowly turning around I went back to the bar. I was strong, I could hold my own on the dance floor, and now it was time to hold my own in life. I strode through the tables, unable to believe this was me, almost strutting, my head held high Lola style. Juan looked up at the ruckus I was causing as I sashayed past chairs and tables towards him. Arriving at his table our eyes met, he couldn’t turn away from me now. I was the gypsy, the wild woman who wouldn’t be tamed and he couldn’t read me, had no idea what I would do next – and scarily, neither did I. His face was a combination of horror and confusion and I saw my hand reach for the large bottle of olive oil on their table. I took it, unscrewed the cork, held it high and slowly poured it all over his head. He just sat there in horrified silence as it glooped down through his hair, onto his face and seeped into his T shirt, hopefully ruining it forever. A hush had descended, as the other diners sat, open-mouthed, watching the show. I glanced at his companion, whose hand was over her mouth in shock, she was looking from me to him for a clue, but I would leave it to Juan to explain.

‘Adios mi sole,’ I said, a line from his poem which in Spanish means ‘you are my sun.’ I saw a look of guilt, sadness even - flash across his face as I carefully placed the empty bottle on the table in front of him, took his napkin and wiped my hands. With that, I picked up my bags - and left.

I walked away, leaving Juan and his new love behind. It had felt wonderful to show my feelings like that, and I could hear Tony’s voice in my head; ‘very Joan Crawford dear.’ I’d never done anything like that before, I’d always accepted it when men dumped me or didn’t call, never wanted to make a fuss didn’t want confrontation and always keeping my feelings to myself – well not anymore. I was still tinged with anger and hurt as I marched back to my apartment. Then the evening breeze brushed over me, filling me with calm and a strange happiness and the rustling trees said, shhhhhh it’s okay... it’s all okay. And it was.

I found my way back in the darkness, I heard a flamenco guitar in the distance and my heart sand thinking about the wonderful nights we’d spent together. For me it hadn’t just been about sex, it had been about the idea of romance, the dancing and feeling desired, like a woman again. It hurt that I hadn’t apparently made any impact on him. I had been so unmemorable he’d found another ‘tourist’ before I’d even left the country, but that was life. I was able to rationalise everything because I’d taken back control and made myself heard... okay it was through the medium of olive oil, but I’d said my piece in my own way I don’t know why I cried all the way back to my apartment, probably because I wished he’d meant just a few of all the lovely things he’d said, but he probably didn’t. Later that night I sat on my balcony in the darkness overlooking the starry lights sprinkled through the city. I counted my blessings, I had just had the most wonderful two weeks in this amazing place and I was grateful and happy. I reminded myself that Juan had never promised me his forever – and I was ready now to make my own forevers, on my own terms.