Flamenco Summer Day 4: 11 August 2009, Jerez
I’m breaking the Jerez 30 minute landspeed record as I gallop through the streets, trying not to skid on the wet pavements. Jerezanos watch the chica loca, baffled, as they stir their coffee and take another bite of a leisurely breakfast. But there’s no time for food – happily worn out from Monday’s adventures, I overslept. A lot. I slide into the back of the class in the nick of time and we’re down to business.
Inspired by the show the night before, I attack the choreography. The level was still too high for me, but I tore into it and made it work – there’s a lot to be said for this method! Experience had also now taught me to bring at least 3 litres of cold water to class, and I got through the lot. The room was like a sauna. It was like bikram flamenco. The small aircon units did their best but were no match for 30 women and a truckload of alegrias. Five minutes into class and I was drenched in sweat. 90 minutes in and we were all practically underwater. (I lost 5 pounds that week, and I didn’t skimp on the tapas either.) I kept thinking of the teacher in Fame: “You want fame? Well fame costs. And here’s where you start paying. In sweat!”
(What a tune! Tell me you weren’t nodding along. I used to crash into my bedroom walls on a weekly basis, dancing to that. And there’s something for me to remember from the lovely Leroy as well:
“Cos I’m gonna be a dancer. A good dancer. And you know who says so? ME!”
Damn straight.)
Anyway, I couldn’t care less about fame, but getting good at flamenco is a different business altogether. I pushed myself harder and harder, ignoring my biceps squealing in pain, stiff from the first day’s exertions. My feet started to throb menacingly and when I took my shoes off they looked like brutalized pig trotters. It felt great. After class I needed the full hour for lunch to collapse in a heap on a pavement chair, glugging Coke, geting my breath back and catching some rays.
Bulerias was a lot better than the first day as it started to come together, but yet again I resolved to learn Spanish, as I was missing a lot of the detail. By the end of the day I was exhausted, and could barely lift my arms. It was a long walk home, but after a quick gourmet lunch of Pringles and Laughing Cow triangles I sneaked into my friends’ hotel to take full advantage of their pool. Let me tell you, there’s no pleasure quite like easing a flamenco-ravaged body into an ice-cool swimming pool. The long afternoon of lazing in the sun and sipping tintos wasn’t bad either. I believe this is what you call a work-life balance. After a long day at the Duende Office, every hardworking gal needs some R&R, right?
Later that evening we headed into town, but unfortunately we’d spent so long in a communal primping and preening session that we were all ravenously hungry and ready to eat almost anything. We got our wish: stopping at one of the first places we could, the food was epically bad and largely unidentifiable. Still, a pretty square, a fig tree that would have dwarfed a T-Rex, cold beer, what more do you want? Well, ice-cream, to be honest. As we left I sighed, “you know, what would be perfect right now would be some really good ice-cream.” We turned a corner and tucked into a medieval alleyway was a tiny shop selling 45 flavours of swooningly delicious home-made helado. I was a slave for the sour cherry flavour, and became their best customer.
We meandered through Jerez, savouring the chill of the ice-cream and the warmth of the air. 1am on a Tuesday night and the place was gently buzzing with people walking, laughing, chatting, drinking. But it wasn’t a 1am vibe like England. It was relaxed, more like 7pm, cocktail hour. No fighting, no puking, no hassle. Just people enjoying a beautiful summer evening (or indeed, morning).
We arrived at the cathedral, a towering wall of stone reached by hundreds of steps. It is an awe-inspiring colossus of a place. In the orange glow of the street lamps it looked like it was on fire.
At the top, in front of the doors, was a wide, stone terrace. It was just too tempting. We raced up the steps and danced bulerias, the sound of heel striking stone carrying far over the rooftops, over the Alcazar, and into the night.
