On the recommendation of the lady who directed us to our bicycles, we returned to La Llorona for a night of Flamenco dancing from a local troupe. We found a table near the front, under a loft decadently decorated in the style of a Moroccan salon. The lights were low and crimson, with the occasional car or bicycle light breaking the warmth of the ambiance. We ordered enchiladas—his with green chili and mine with mole, both flavorful and spicy—and beers and settled in.
The man in the back with the guitar, his eyes shaded with a straw Panama hat, hummed along with each strum, and the woman next to him used an old apple crate to provide the pulse of the music.
And they circled around, the sprightly dancers…
swirling skirts and stomping heels.
Claps of hands and flicks of wrists kept time, each passionate step outlining a sad story of longing and unfulfilled desire.
The dances of Flamenco tell stories of yearning and love and adventure and tragedy,
each step made with absolute precision
each sensual movement an expression of duende…
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