Back Alley Flamenco

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Another hotel breakfast, another pack up, and off we go. Today; two and half hours by modern bus to Seville. The ride is simple and easy. We arrive, find the local bus again and then Google Map our way to the hotel.

Wow, Seville is very cool! This is some serious Europe right here. Everyone looks European, the streets are crowded with Europeans (you can tell by the scarfs and the cigarettes) and there is a party in the brisk air. We get to the hotel - btw, have you ever wondered just how many hotel rooms you have stayed in in your lifetime? For Steve, having traveled for business for so long, the number is hooker-worthy. And Julie’s numbers are pretty crazy at this point as well. If we would have taken a picture of every hotel room we had ever slept in, together or separately, we could create the longest, dullest photo album in history. Okay, back to Seville. We’re in and out at the hotel and headed for food.

We have read that travelers in the know tapas hop. But it turns out it’s Constitution Day and the Spaniards need little prompting to party like buccaneers, so the streets are nuts and the tapas bars are teaming. We manage to find a little corner place with a couple of warm inside tables and, armed with the knowledge that we are sin carne y sin queso, the waiter hooks us up with three plates. We enjoy more beer and wine as well, then tell him we are tapas hopping like good tourists and he sends us to his cousin’s place a ten-minute walk away. It’s a great tip as Julie, once again, meets mega ‘pus (you know what? ‘’’pus” as an abbreviation for octopus is kind of disgusting). Okay, here’s where today gets interesting.

The NY Times published an article called, “36 Hours in Seville.” However, the article was written in real time and required thirty-six hours to read! Actually, it was just a list of cool shit to do. One recommendation was too good to pass up; back alley flamenco!

The old quarter of Seville ain’t all that big so we can walk pretty much anywhere. It’s also densely populated with 24/7 fiesta people, so there are really no dark, lonely streets. Since the back-alley flamenco doesn’t start until midnight, we didn’t think we would actually end up hitting it, but it’s 11:15 (23:15) as we square up the check with cousin #2 and, since we’re appropriately lit, Avanti (yeah, it’s Italian – THAT’S how little Spanish we know)!

The walk takes us across a bridge into a new (for us; it’s actually way fucking old) section of town called Triana. It’s about the same deal; windy (and a little windy – 147,000 words in the English language and we couldn’t work out a way to make windy and windy different spellings?) We follow our Google Maps walking instructions with tipsy concentration and stumble-on-purpose onto the club. It’s smallish and just as we’re walking up the proprietress, a reported tourist destination in herself, is Studio 54ing a small crowd; separating the reservas from the “No!”s. Julie tries to adorable us in with some plaintive broken Spanish but is met with a definitive, international, “No!”

Our hostess is a 60-something-year-old veteran of a thousand such nights. This is her place and she charges no admission, though the purchase of a drink is expected. Her language, wardrobe* and comportment open a tobacco-patina’d scrapbook of flamenco shows proudly spinning back to when Jose Greco was pre-Stomp stomping the Sullivan stage. She’s ballsy, funny (we assume; it’s Spanish, but everyone is laughing), and… done. She closes the door. But the Studio 54 act was just the first dance of the evening, since moments after she shuts us out, a metal door slide open around the corner and we all funnel in and scramble for seats. Our “seat” turns out to be on a table against the back wall, but it fits an ass and a half, so, we’re um… lucky? The place is typical local restaurant design, with tchotchkes covering the walls next to yellowing posters and photographs. A stuffed bull’s head hangs next to a bullfighting poster inspiring us to keep our eyes moving. There are about 60 seats plus maybe thirty people standing in the area around the tiny bar.

Flamenco entertainment, it turns out, does not just mean people in body-hugging, fancy dress behaving like the world’s worse upstairs neighbors. It’s at least as much about the music, and that’s going to be the focus tonight. The music is provided by a quartet sitting around Elvis 68 Comeback Special-style at the same level as the rest of us, next to a postage stamp of empty floor space. There are two guitarists, a percussionist who straddles a versatile hittin’ thing that our 1 ½ seats prevent us from ever actually seeing, but it’s amazing, and an additional vocalist. Our hostess sits in as well. The music begins without ceremony. The musicians ALL have great, yet dissimilar voices. The songs are popular, though we don’t know them, with the exception of the one with the chorus that begins, “Aye, yi, yi, yi… “ but the rest of the group, which varies widely in age, totally know them all and there is much singing and laughing. Essentially, (for LA peeps) this is the Spanish Dresden Room and the show is like open mic with Marty and Elaine. It is most certainly where we need to be.

A, what; four months? pregnant waitress handles the whole place with style, finesse and a charming comportment topped by a lovely face made more so for the increased collagen. We order a pair of Jim Beam rocks that we totally don’t need, but we’re not driving, so fuck all y’all.

More on flamenco, or "the forbidden fiesta" (just made that up); flamenco performances are essentially hootnannies. If you’re not familiar with the term, first of all, you’re squaresville, daddio, but the format of the hootnanny is kind of a jam session where different performers group up in different formations for different songs and textures. Here, like most, everyone gets a chance to “front” the show and use the little performance space. Our hostess sings, the guitarists each take solos numbers, and the extra singer, a portly 50-something, brings down the house with a little showmanship. And to our delight, there is even a little taste of flamenco dancing!

By the time the show finishes at 2:30AM, we have drained yet another heavy pour of JB from our waitress. It is time for the very satisfied audience and we too wobble our clap-weary hands and song-beaten throats back out to the street. Actually, there has been a lot of drinking and reverie, but these Sevillians can hold their liquor! Seville, for all its crowds and street drinking, is amazingly under control. Can they negotiate pedestrian traffic? Not at all, but it clearly has nothing to do with intoxication. They may actually be better walkers when fortified!

The temperature has dropped and the city is cold, but we are human lanterns fueled by Kentucky bourbon, and we don’t give a shit. The frosty air just serves to preserve the exhilaration of a time very well had. The twenty-minute walk seems to take seconds and we return to our room and attempt to do what most drunks-in-love try to do… we have no reason to believe we were particularly successful.



*They wear real fur here, which, paired with what they consider “respect” for bulls, makes these genuinely enjoyable people a touch suspect.

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Comments

[Carol]

Sevilla sabrosa
So glad you liked Sevilla. We both really appreciated the energy there. You two are hard core to stay up and out so late. I'm impressed! LOVE to watch and hear flamenco. Would love even more to dance it. xo