Las montañas de Granada

It's almost completely quiet here.  The faint hum of the bus engine is the only sound that can infiltrate the music in my headphones.  The sun shines through the window.  Of course it does; it's always sunny here.

We're returning from our two-day trip to Granada.  The city, a city plastered with a rich and deep history, is set on the side of a mountain.  From a local peak, you can see houses for miles.  The name, Granada, apparently means pomegranate in Arabic.

Oh the things you learn.

The streets are precarious and random-- even more so than those of Sevilla.  The mountain-side city makes for an added dynamic of windy roads with steep slopes.  Zig-zags.  Back and fourth.  Up and down the mountain.


Speaking of mountains, I saw some of the most brilliant snow-covered peaks this weekend.  It may have been 70 degrees on our little mountain, and down in the valley, but on the high, majestic peaks of the far-off summit, the temperature was obviously much lower.  So incredibly breath-taking.  This is the first time I've ever seen snow-blanketed mountains in person.

Aside from the nature, and the wonders of the tiny pueblo, the trip was rather a bust.  Actually, that's really critical to say.  The trip itself was fun, and the hotel was a blast, but let's just say that I had higher hopes going into the weekend.


For instance.

It is rather difficult to enjoy a 2+ hour tour of a cathedral in freezing temperatures.  Like, really cold.  That tour was then followed up today by a 3+ hour tour of La Alhambra.  It's really just a bunch of tiny gardens and pools over and over and over.  (In fact, it's super similar to El Alcázar, which makes sense considering both were designed by Arabs; and in all honesty I preferred the Alcázar better).  Also it didn't help that we were all tired, hungry, hot, sweaty, sleep-deprived, and grumpy.  I really can't blame students for getting bored during these tours.  Simply put, it was all just too much.

But friendships hold everything together.  And that's what I've gained from this program.  Friends from all over the country.

So. Cal, Long Island, Arizona, North Dakota, New Hampshire, Ohio, Oregon, Texas, etc.

I mean, it'll definitely be a challenge reuniting once we all get back to the States, that's for sure.

And some friendships will be nourished, and some will fade.  But I can honestly say that this program would be incredibly boring without great people to share it with.

Now, to do homework for classes which start back up tomorrow.  I'm just dying with excitement.

La obra de flamenco

The crowd was still, waiting in anticipation for the guitarist to take his seat.  He made his move.  Content with his posture and position of the guitar, he began to tune.

E - E - E - E

A - A- A - A

And so on, until all six strings sounded perfect.  He positioned the capo.  First fret.  Played an E chord.  Well, an F because of the capo..

And the room buzzed with sound.  And not just any sound.

Music.

There are 27 people seated in unstable chairs, crammed into this tiny room, and all have this, this, anticipation about them.  Because yes, now we could begin.  The room had life.

The fingers of the guitarist began dancing on strings, like a harpist.  His nails picking the nylon chords of the simple instrument.  In reality, a guitar is very simple: a piece of hollow wood, connected to a solid piece of sturdy wood, wound with six strings that somehow are precisely adjusted to make beautiful melodies.

Making his way up and down the fretboard, the introduction to the next hour and a half had commenced.  What started as a few simple chords had progressed into fluttering riffs of finger-picking that can only be found here in Spain.

The sound of the South, rather.  The sound of Andalucia.

The guitarist was not alone now.  He was accompanied by two flamenco dancers, who began to make rhythm with their claps.  Their claps progressed into claps and stomps.  At times it seemed a structure-less mix of claps, stomps, and snaps.  But it all worked together to produce the unique sound of flamenco.

Flamenco.

Next, a song about Galacia.  The third dancer, who was relatively inactive for the first song, now took her seat next to the guitarist.  What happened next would catch the unprepared ear quite off-guard.

A guttural wail pierced the air.  A wail so sincere and so sad.  The wail turned into music.  The vocal chords fluctuated the steady notes that advanced from her mouth.

Such passion.  Such sincerity.

And so intimate.  Her one hand clutched the side of her shawl draped over her shoulders.  Her other, extended, reaching toward the imaginary scene that she described right before us.  Her face, contorted in agony and anguish as she longed for the resolution of what was portrayed before our very eyes.

The fact that we were all within meters of the guitarist and dancer made the experience exponentially... intimate. The same experience could not have occurred in the back of an auditorium, or even in the front row.  No, the audience played a part too.  We were part of the scene.

The song commenced.  During the next song began the real dancing.

Flowing dresses.

Clapping.

Snapping.

Stomping.

Hair pins flying.

The dancers, one-by-one showed us what energy and passion looks like when accompanied by Spanish guitar.  On a platform of 10 x 15 feet they performed.

Reaching.

Flailing.

Singing.

Wailing.

The claps and stomps echoed throughout the halls and rooms of the building.  Passerby's in the calle even came to watch.

Round and round the dancers went.  Hands high above their heads.  Earrings dangling, oscillating side to side.  The guitarist strummed furiously.  The strings buzzed and pinged with vibrations that gave depth to the dancing.  Sweat was everywhere.  Foreheads beaded with the stuff.

And so they continued.  Polka-dotted, ruffled, blue and red dresses spun and twirled like a colorful three-dimensional art piece.  Of course, it was art.  But it was moving, changing, reforming.

Olé.

That's the word you use to cheer on the show, cheer on the dancers and guitarist.

Olé.

... because you want the passion to continue...

Olé.

... because you don't want the dancing to end.


Such passion.  Such beauty.


The night ended with variations of singing, dancing, strumming, and clapping.  The guitarist and three dancers all tiredly took their bows on the tiny platform.  Each praising each other with claps and motioning with grateful hands, for it was a combined effort.  Each played his or her part.

Now, I can finally say that I've experienced a true flamenco show.  It was what I expected, and then some.  Well, in truth, my expectations were blown out of the water.  It was an opportunity to see what most people will never have the chance to experience.

And that, I am truly thankful for.