Atlantica - 01.04.2006, Síða 36

34 AT L A N T I CA
“My first time was horrible,” said Sarah Janssen, a lanky
German woman with a cigarette draped from her
long fingers.
We stood on the sidewalk of Calle Sol, a narrow street in central
Seville just wide enough for one car. Pedestrians pressed themselves
into the nearest doorway when anything heftier than a Vespa passed.
Flowerpots with geraniums and birdcages sat on the balconies of apart-
ments overhead.
“The second time was a little better,” she continued. “I think today
will be okay. I’ve learned the vocabulary.”
We were waiting for class to start at Escuela Flamenca Juan Polvillo,
one of Seville’s many flamenco schools. A bag of yoga clothes in tow, I
was within five minutes of making my first flamenco moves, and Sarah
was not making me feel any better about it.
“I don’t speak any Spanish,” I said. Sarah looked empathetic.
A woman came out to join us, wearing tight blue jeans. She had won-
derfully arched eyebrows and thick, dark hair that hung to her waist.
“Hola,” she and Sarah said to each other. This, I assumed, was Lola
Jaramillo, the teacher of flamenco inicial: flamenco for beginners.
Lola lit a cigarette and stood in the road with her arms crossed. She
didn’t look nurturing, exactly. I wondered if she minded getting pinned
with the beginning students.
Sarah told her that this was going to be my first flamenco class, and
that I didn’t speak Spanish.
“Nada?” Lola pivoted toward me, radiating a frosty smile.
“Nada,” I confirmed.
She arched a shapely eyebrow and took a drag.
¿POR FAVOR, DÓNDE ESTÁ LA DUENDE?
Before coming to Seville, there were a few things I learned right away:
Seville has the biggest Holy Week, or Semana Santa, in all of Spain;
there’s a lot of good ham in town; and if you’re coming to Seville to find
the ‘real’ flamenco, you might as well give up, because you won’t.
I saw the grandeur of Holy Week within five minutes of setting out
into the warm spring night from my hotel in the Santa Cruz neighbor-
hood. Orange blossoms dropped on the heads of thousands of Sevillians
and Spaniards dressed for Easter, all gathered to watch candlelit proces-
sions leading hand-carried floats of Catholic icons. My first night in
town, I watched one of the floats – or pasos – carried back into its home
church at 1am after touring the city. Dripping with candles and fresh
flowers, it lurched rhythmically right and left with the steps of the men
beneath it. People shushed each other, watching its silent approach.
I also enjoyed a plate of acorn-fed Iberian ham right away. But I wasn’t
going to accept that the true spirit of flamenco was completely out of
my reach. I could see from the flamenco cooking aprons, polyester
shawls, and posters of dancers that said “Your Name Here” what I was
up against. Impressionistic photographs of women spinning in jewel-
tone dresses, their brows furrowed with intensity, were propped up out-
side every other store within a kilometer of Seville’s grand cathedral.
Leave your inhibitions at
the puerta in Seville’s
flamenco schools.
By Krista Mahr.
Photos by
Páll Stefánsson.

(Continued on pg. 38 »)
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