The rhythm, the strength, the power: Falling for flamenco in Madrid.

“And let that day be lost to us on which we did not dance once!”

–Friedrich Nietzsche

“Are you going to see flamenco while you’re in Spain?” my mother asked over Skype one night while I was in Madrid.

“I doubt it,” I said, explaining that it’s more of a southern Spain thing. Specifically, it hails from Andalusia, a region known for its beaches, tapas and capital of Sevilla.

But beyond any regional concerns, what I should’ve added was – I’m not even sure I want to. Flamenco seemed right up there next to bullfighting on the List of Things You’re Supposed to See in Spain. (You know the list I mean, right? Every country has one…).

As I’ve said before, I don’t do well when I’m told there’s something I have to do or see – whether it’s trekking in Nepal or a full moon party in Thailand. I wanted to let Spain reveal herself to me on her own terms, rather than dictate my experience there.

A few days later, I attended a welcome orientation lunch for Pueblo Ingles in Madrid (my elevator-pitch explanation is that it’s a week-long program for Spaniards to practice their English with native speakers. But it’s also about so much more than that.)

Our lunch was being held at Casa Patas, what I assumed was quite a touristy restaurant from the way its logo appeared right above its location on my map of Madrid. After a delicious plate of paella, red wine and creamy flan for dessert, we moved upstairs for the actual orientation.

It didn’t occur to me that the stage at the front of the room was for anyone other than Pueblo Ingles reps to give their speil. Half an hour later, though, when two flamenco dancers, a guitarist and singer entered the room, I realized something else was going on.

Once they began to dance, I couldn’t imagine having left Spain without seeing this.

It was the kind of experience where the emotions of it didn’t connect to the physical surroundings. There I was, in a sparsely decorated room two stories above the streets of Madrid, sitting in a hard plastic chair surrounded by people who weren’t yet my friends – and I wanted to weep.

Just the day before, I had walked through the city with a fellow pilgrim from the Camino. “I feel numb,” I told him as we passed the iron gates of Retiro Park and made our way to the Prado art museum. “I feel like I could be anywhere right now.”

Part of this had to do with my PCD (post-Camino depression, of course…). Another part of it had to do with what happens when you stay in a new place every night. Your brain begins to resist the constant change after awhile, almost in an act of rebellion. It becomes harder to connect with a place, your roots refusing to unfurl themselves.

And so to find myself suddenly moved to tears – watching sweat gather on each dancer’s brow, feeling every stomp of their heels and every clap of their hands – I could only be grateful. Grateful to feel the numbness falling away, grateful to be bewitched by the beats, mesmerized by their movements and melodies.

When their performance was done and all of us let go until our departure in the morning, I hung around a bit, passing time until I needed to meet another friend later on. Out in the hall, I could hear a few people still talking, and then my ear caught the voice of the guitarist.

I hurried out to say hello. The roots of his dark, thick curls were still damp with sweat; his handshake was strong. He told me that although he started playing guitar at a young age, he played mainly rock. It wasn’t until he was 21 that he started learning flamenco.

“What made you switch?”

“The rhythm, the strength, the power,” he answered, and then he excused himself and said goodbye.

His words stayed with me long after he left, the perfect summation of what had moved me so much while they danced.

The rhythm, the strength, the power.

See your own flamenco dance in Madrid: