La Carbonería

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If you find yourself looking for a flamenco show somewhere in Seville, Spain, I highly suggest La Carbonería. Tucked away in the escondido plaza de las Mercenarias, you won’t find La Carbonería in the local hotel guide; and you’ll be lucky to find its microscopic plaza on the street map. As the sound of footsteps echoes down the narrow brick alleys and long ivies from rooftop gardens hang like beaded curtains in front of you, you may find yourself wondering why there are no throngs of tourists or swooning honeymooners. Set in an abandoned coal factory, La Carbonería is one of the cities best-kept secrets.

You will know you have found your way when you can see an old, 25 foot tall wooden door, that looks like it belongs on a fortress. One or two people may be standing outside; no signs, no lights, only a small knave doorway, sets open behind them. Stepping over the threshold, you may notice the ground beneath you change from ancient stone to whitewashed bricks. Running uphill in all directions, they quickly disappear into a curved wall and fade into the vaulted ceiling, all of the same brick.

A crooked, shining upright piano faces you, its black wood forming a stark contrast against the brick alcove into which it sets. Sevillanos, mostly in their 20´s and 30´s, occupy the medieval looking wooden benches and small tables all around, listening intently to the sounds echoing from the regular pianist, another twenty-something Spaniard, dressed in black, tropical-weight clothes. There is no cover charge.
“Pasa al fondo… Por favor,” says an old Spanish man occupying the first table, who I would later discover was the owner of this fine establishment. Passing from the golden glow of the alleys, following his instructions to keep the small entryway clear, the ambient blaze of the street lights gives way to an incandescent glow, interrupted only by the cooler white of long-life bulbs along the extensive bar. A sign boasts tonight´s special (which never changes), a mix of tropical fruit juices and alcohols known affectionately as Agua de Sevilla. The same trio of fifty-something’s and the young, dark-haired guitarrista that played a few nights before now occupy once more the wooden stage, back dropped with five paintings of singing, dancing, flamenco artists. Beyond that, a garden patio opens, its tall palm trees rising from clay jars they have long since outgrown and broken through, into the earth beneath. They vault into the night sky, allowing patrons to see only enough of it to know the outside world still exists, the four-story tall walls having encapsulated them. Probably older than my entire country, these walls bear every sign of the ages of raw coal to which they once played host.

The singing starts at 20:30 and ends at midnight, every night. In her black and white flamenco dress, the adept bailadora never fails to impress with her fantastic footwork, and her salt-and-pepper haired companion projects the Arabesque sound of flamenco lyrics clear into the streets, not that you´ll even watch them if you have already been seduced by the cool night air of the garden patio and the company of good friends.

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Comments

[Anita]

I just fell in love again...maybe with Spain...maybe with you. Well-written.