The dancers lifted up onto their toes and spun around, clicking their heels one, two, three times and landing lightly. Then, lifting their arms like birds about to take flight, they twirled their wrists and stamped their feet into the floor.
Olé.
It was my first day at the Amor de Dios, and I stood at the back of the classroom gawping at the other dancers. They all moved together like the corps de ballet of the Spanish National Dance Company. Perhaps that’s what they were.
It was my first class and I could barely join in, but I didn’t care. I was just so thrilled to be standing there on the famous sprung floors. I’d arrived in Madrid, as I’d promised myself I would, on New Year’s Eve, with my red shoes, castanets, and just enough money in my purse for the train fare to the city and a bocadillo, a sandwich.
I was so excited as I dragged my suitcase up out of the underground station and into my first Madrid day. I was so happy to have finally made it to Spain that I didn’t even mind getting lost in my search for my hostel. And when I finally found the street, I was too delighted to care that it was lined with prostitutes. I just admired their fabulous animal print coats and wondered where they got their awesome vinyl platforms. As I hoisted my suitcase up the stairs to reception, the smile on my face was a mile wide, and even the sight of the swastika tattooed on the receptionist’s forehead didn’t put a dent in it.
“Buenos días!” I said in my most “I’m in Spain; how cool is that?” voice.
“Buenos días,” he said, smiling back at me with curious eyes that said, I wonder what she’s on and where I can get some?
“Estamos en España!” I said. We’re in Spain!
“Sí,” he responded with one of those indulgent grins generally reserved for babies and drunks. He handed me a key and told me that my room was down the stairs.
Down the stairs? Weren’t hotel rooms generally upstairs? But this wasn’t a hotel; it was a hostel I’d found in the “At Your Own Risk” section of my Spain on a Shoestring guide.
As I rattled the key in the lock, I told myself that at the price I was paying, it would be normal for the room to lack some comforts. “Oh,” I said, looking around the room that was to be my home away from home. Comforts like…lights, perhaps? Or windows? Clean sheets, or even…sheets? There was at least a basin, and some mysterious cables that hung from the ceiling. It took me a little while to realize that my room wasn’t actually a room at all; it was an old elevator shaft with a plaster ceiling added. But I didn’t care. I unzipped my suitcase and took out my red shoes and castanets and placed them carefully on a shelf that seemed to be held up by Blu-Tack, turning it into a flamenco altar. I’d made it to Spain, and my days of being a shopgirl were no more.
I’d arrived on December 31 for symbolic value: new year, new country, new life. What I didn’t realize was that I’d have to wait a week before starting classes. I had expected the Amor de Dios would be closed on New Year’s Day, but nobody told me about el Día de los Reyes Magos.
El Día de los Reyes Magos, or Reyes as I came to know it, is held on January 6. It is the day of the three kings, the ones in the song that came following the star, and it’s like Spanish Christmas. These days the Spanish also celebrate “American Christmas” on December 25, so what happens is that December 25 to January 6 effectively becomes one long holiday, because there’s no point going back to work for a couple of days in between those days and New Year’s Day. And as this year Reyes fell on a Sunday, the holidays lasted till the seventh.
While I could appreciate this nifty arrangement, I’d come more than ten thousand miles to dance flamenco, and for the first week I was in Madrid the dance school was closed because everyone was off eating roscones, giant doughnuts filled with cream. And it wasn’t that I expected everyone to stop having Christmas so I could dance. Except…well, that’s exactly what I expected. I mean, come on, January? That’s New Year’s resolution time, time to buy that yearly gym membership or Bikram yoga pass. Quit smoking, read more books, learn to speak Mandarin or dance flamenco.
I don’t think the Spanish go in for New Year’s resolutions, but I soon discovered that they have at least one strange New Year’s Eve tradition. The hostel where I was staying was right next to Puerta del Sol, the square that is the official center of Spain. This was where the people came to watch the clock strike midnight and celebrate the New Year. So on my first night in Madrid, I put on a leotard, then a sweater, then two more sweaters and my coat to go out and join the festivities.
I had a thick scarf that Dad had bought me for my trip, and as I wrapped it around my neck, I remembered my last New Year’s Eve in Sydney, walking down to Bondi Beach at a quarter to twelve in a summer dress and a pair of thongs. I carefully tucked the ends of the scarf into the neck of my coat to keep the icy air out, and remembered the way I had run into the surf with my girlfriends as we heard the fireworks go off. But this year I had traded my Sydney summer for a European winter, and even the cold added to the sense of adventure. Maybe it’ll snow, I thought as I ventured out to the street and down to the Puerta del Sol, where thousands of Spaniards were gathered in front of a gray stone clock tower, waiting for midnight.
On every corner there were people selling little packets of grapes. My guidebook had explained that it was a Spanish tradition to eat twelve grapes at midnight on New Year’s Eve, one on each tolling of the bell. Around me I could see people in woolen caps and heavy coats, holding their grapes in one gloved hand and a drink in the other, watching the clock and waiting. I bought a packet of grapes and wove my way through the crowd to get closer to the clock.
We all held our breath, waiting for the stroke of midnight. I inched the first grape closer to my lips. I was determined to do this right. It was the first important Spanish tradition I was taking part in and felt like a momentous responsibility. I had to prove that I could be Spanish too.
At the first stroke of midnight, everyone started cramming grapes into their mouths. I chewed and swallowed mine as quickly as I could. At the final tolling of the bell, the crowd erupted into cheers. I was swept up in the wave of joy that passed over them all, pulled into the arms of people I had never even laid eyes on before. Old women hugged me and kissed my cheeks, saying “Feliz año!” Happy New Year! All around I could hear corks popping, and someone pushed a plastic cup of Spanish champagne into my hands.
But then I had a whole week with nothing to do. So I grudgingly did the touristy stuff. Madrid has some of the most incredible art in the world, but it was all I could do to keep myself from tapping the heels of my boots on the marble floors in front of Guernica. I hadn’t come to Madrid to look at paintings; I’d come to dance.
• • •
The day the Amor de Dios reopened, I was up and dressed at seven in the morning. Just as I was packing my red shoes in my bag, I got a call on my mobile.
“Guapa!” It was Marina, calling from Sydney. “Are you dressed already?”
“Yes,” I confessed.
“I knew it!” she said, laughing. “What did you have for breakfast?”
“Er…a kiwifruit,” I said, not mentioning that I’d had to rip it apart with my fingers because I didn’t have a knife.
“I knew you wouldn’t be taking care of yourself! Go to the café underneath the Amor de Dios and order yourself pan con tomate y un café con leche.”
Pan con tomate is my favorite Spanish breakfast, toasted bread with tomato, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with salt. In my time in Sydney I had gone back to being vegan, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be a little indulgent. “Well, guapa, I’m just calling to wish you luck and tell you how proud I am of you.”
I couldn’t help the tears that welled up in my eyes. It was so kind of Marina to call me up on my first morning of class, and it made me realize how lucky I was to have such wonderful people in my life. I suddenly felt homesick, and I was afraid of what was ahead of me. But I’d made my decision about fear. I wasn’t going to let it stop me doing what I wanted to do with my life.
In my excitement about my first day at the famous school, I forgot to take the address with me. It was about a ten-minute walk to Antón Martin, the suburb where the dance school was, but it wasn’t until I got there that I realized I didn’t even know what street I was supposed to be looking for.
I wandered around in circles, listening for the sound of stamping feet. The Amor de Dios is the flamenco and classical Spanish dance academy, and one of the most important dance schools of the world, so I’d assumed it couldn’t be that hard to find, but there didn’t seem to be anything in Antón Martin except for a huge building that housed a produce market. The streets around it were lined with fruit and veggie shops, cheese shops, and butchers. I couldn’t see any signs of the world-renowned center for toma que toma.
A fishmonger stopped me as I came past his store for the fifth time and asked me what I was looking for. “El Amor de Dios,” I said.
“Ahhh!” he cried. “Vienes a bailar flamenco!” He twirled his rubber-gloved hands above his head, then pointed to the big market building and told me to go to the top floor; that was where I’d find the dance school.
At first I didn’t believe him. I thought it might have been a joke, especially as all the other fish guys had come out from behind the mountain of crushed ice and were nodding and grinning. But they insisted, and I was tired of circling, so I ventured inside the market.
What kind of a dance school is in a building like this? I thought as I passed butchers and fruit stands and olive stalls. But as I climbed the stairs the shouts of the market were increasingly drowned out by the rumble of stamping feet, and the smell of fresh fish was overpowered by cigarette smoke. A man with swarthy skin and long black hair stood smoking in the stairwell next to his guitar case. He stared at me with dour eyes as I climbed the final flight of stairs and stopped in front of a brass plaque that read EL AMOR DE DIOS, CENTRO DE ARTE FLAMENCO Y DANZA ESPAÑOLA.
I stepped through the doorway and into the dance school of my dreams. It was just like Marina had said it would be. The walls were hung with black-and-white photos of the school’s famous teachers, and the reception area was full of Spanish dancers: girls in long skirts with dark hair pulled up on top of their heads, and boys in flamenco boots with long hair hanging down to their shoulders. They chatted in Spanish as they practiced footwork, tapping their feet at lightning speed.
The notice board was covered with signs for classes. Inmaculada Ortega was teaching bata de cola. Cristóbal Reyes was doing a workshop on farruca. Antonio Reyes had technique at two p.m., followed by choreography at three. I gazed up at the notices, thinking, I can do any of these classes. Any class I want. I wanted to do all of them. I wanted to learn bulerías de Jerez, alegrías, soleá, tientos, tangos, and tanguillos. But I had to start with one, so I picked a choreography class.
There was a white-haired old lady at the reception desk, and I tried to ask her in my broken Spanish how to sign up for the class. She waved me away and told me to go straight to the studio and pay the teacher directly.
I walked down the corridor to the changing room, gazing at the framed pictures of the Amor de Dios’s teachers, and every time I passed a studio where a class was going on, I stopped to have a peek inside. One studio had a few girls in ruffled skirts with yards of train. The girls were spread out around the room so that they had space to kick and twirl their long, long skirts. They wobbled and strained as they tried to lift up their skirts, which must have weighed at least ten pounds each, with one leg. In another studio half a dozen girls in pointe shoes twirled around, clicking castanets above their heads.
I found the changing room at the end of the corridor. It was full of girls changing in and out of ruffled skirts and brightly colored shoes. Girls in tights and leotards sauntered out of what I assumed to be a ballet class. One girl was stretched across a bench in the splits, lazily adjusting her leg warmers. Everyone was slim and sinuous and Spanish, and I wished desperately that I could blend in a little more.
My excitement was fast turning into terror as I prepared to go into my first class. Wishing I could be just a little less visible, I wet my hands and tried to smooth back my red hair, but I was still too pale, too thin, and just too damn foreign not to feel like everyone was staring at me.
I watched the other girls in the mirror as I changed into my dance clothes. Clearly dancers, as opposed to dance students, they walked with straight backs and turned-out feet, the way only real dancers do. And as the girl next to me buckled up her shoes, I noticed that her calves rippled with muscle.
Dancers had always seemed to me to be impossibly cool creatures who lived off wheatgrass shots and endorphins and lived in lofts with floorboards and no furniture because it would only get in the way of their continuous practice. I hoped one day that would be me, but until then I was somehow going to have to get through a dance class with these pirouetting princesses.
The fear grew inside me as I made my way down the corridor to the studio. The previous class was still going, so I joined the girls waiting in the doorway, peering past them to see what was happening inside. The studio was absolutely packed. There were at least thirty dancers going through a beautiful classical-inspired flamenco dance, all fluid arms and tricky turns.
At ten o’clock, the teacher clapped her hands and the students filed out of the studio and joined the swarm of dancers in the corridor. I went straight for the back corner of the room, and watched as the class filled up until there were four lines of dancers.
The teacher was the last in. He welcomed everyone back from their holidays, then clapped his hands for the class to begin. I took a step back and watched the dancers go into the choreography they’d been rehearsing over the Christmas break. Watching the exquisite poetry of their movements made me forget my fear. Standing there at the back of the room made me feel like I’d stumbled onstage during a performance of Carmen.
One day that will be me, I thought as I watched the way the girls lifted up their long skirts with one leg as they spun around.
One day.