Our final night in Madrid was with a show at the Teatro Falmenco. This little theater is located in a super cool little neighborhood a mere block or two from the bustling Gran Via, yet a world away. The worn brick, winding roads are flanked with old charming buildings. Cafes tumble out onto the sidewalks with bistro tables and big umbrellas. This area exudes casual hip vibes. It made me want to smoke cigarettes and discuss philosophy over an espresso.
Having been told this is THE place to see Flamenco in Madrid, I hoped I could use it in a story I will later shop to my editor. Having used my press pass, they welcomed us through a private side entrance and ushered us up to a private balcony with a bird's eye view of the stage. Glass of wine in hand, the show started.
After some lively group numbers, the lights dramatically snap off. The spotlight comes on and is illuminating the Bailaroa La Seniora, now solo in the center of the stage. She is dressed all in black lace and has tapped into some soulful loss. Her face tilted up as if looking directly into my eyes, she conjured the most achingly beautiful pain to sweep over her. Her hands beautifully twisted into picture perfect poses and she started to dance. The fast footwork is incredible, the pounding of her steps so intense you can feel them in your chest, but it is her face, her duende, that clutches the breath in your throat. Hot tears streamed heavy down my face as I commiserated with her sorrow and loneliness. When the stage goes black, I try to quickly pull myself together. The lights came up blazing with the Bailaor commanding the stage. He began to stomp the stage in such a powerful fashion that you could see the wood beneath his feet bending under the force. His dancing was a phenomenal feat of the impossible moving so quickly your eyes couldn't distinguish individual moves. The other dancers, singers and guitarist swirled layers of song and rhythm around him, all of them lost in an intimate exchange that we voyeuristically witnessed. Then came La Senorita in a polkadot dress with a train stretching far out behind her, its contrasting red tulle making it slide around the stage as if it were floating. She was the closer of the night and she hunted your admiration like a stealthy jungle cat. Her dance started slow and conservative, castanets clicking, then whipped into a masterpiece of origami work with her skirt while spinning voraciously, the pounding of her feet, the roll of her hips, the cunning look she'd cut over her shoulder at you, it was intoxicating. The show was only an hour, but you felt as if you'd left the planet. My daughter was gobsmacked, vibrating with emotion. I was still trying to grasp a breath and find my heart, the one La Seniora seemed to have ripped out and taken with her, when a theater security person appeared and asked if we would like to meet the artists and have a photo taken. Dumbfounded we followed him backstage where we were suddenly face to face with the sweat soaked magicians. They were just people, extremely talented, hard working people, but just people so why could I not speak? I definitely did not play it cool. We posed for photos together and they thanked us for coming to the show. My daughter gawked, I hoarsely grabbed at Spanish words I was struggling to remember, and then in a flash, we left the theater and were out on the street in the bright light of 9:00pm Madrid.
We were giddy as we walked the beautiful streets of this hidden neighborhood. We stopped at a cafe for a bite and a drink, but really just to make the night stretch on a little longer. Madrid had been a loving friend the last 4 days while we searched for emotional stability. It was hard to think of leaving, of moving on to a new town to explore. It sounded like a lot of work. So we ordered another drink and let time slow down as the city enfolded us one more time.
The next morning we woke at 5am and hit the dark streets to hail a taxi to the train station. Other families with luggage dotted the large street and nafarious looking people that had clearly been up all night seemed to eye us. The kid working the front desk at the hotel told me he couldn't call a cab. He couldn't or wouldn't I asked myself. Taxi after taxi I waived down said no to either the amount of bags we had (it is a group of 4 with 4 suitcases and a small personal item each, this is not extreme) or to going to the train! Frustrated, I turned to my Uber app which now wouldn't work. For no reason at all it was putting my location a mile away and while I usually can adjust this easily, it was not cooperating. I went back to the hotel person and begged him to call someone. He instead spoke to a taxi driver that was there to take people to the airport, the favored destination for taxis at 5am it seems. Everyone was speaking in fast Spanish and while I couldn't tell what was wrong or why I was missing the idea here, I did understand the "no, no, no". 45mins had ticked away, the only train for Bilbao waiting for us, and I lost it. Trying Uber once again with zero luck, I had a moment where I considered throwing my phone into the street or maybe myself. Just when it seemed all was lost, a taxi pulled up and saved the day. We made it to the station with plenty of time to pass through security ...and have my daughter hauled off to a side cubicle because they claimed she had a knife in her bag.
(to be continued)