My mother always told me when I was growing up that artists live on air. After a few weeks in Madrid, I started to understand what she’d meant. The desire to create something beautiful out of thin air is what drives you on, and even if you don’t know how you’ll make it to the end of the month, or even the end of the day, you can live on the dream that you’re chasing and your feet won’t touch the ground.
But my mother didn’t know just how high above my present circumstances I was having to levitate. If there was one thing Mum always insisted on, it was beauty—she could make any place beautiful with a new tablecloth and a bunch of flowers in a jam jar. But even she would have been at a loss faced with my hostel room. My parents thought I was staying in a nice midrange hotel, the kind with a TV and individually wrapped mini soaps. They didn’t know how far I was prepared to go to economize.
Mum never needs to know, I told myself as I spread out my supplies for lunch on my hostel bed. I had a carton of gazpacho, a tortilla, and half a baguette that I’d bought at the supermarket the day before. The cold air in the room was as good as a fridge, and the gazpacho was cool and fresh.
If I’d stopped and thought about what I was doing, I would have said that I was mad. Coming to a big city like Madrid to compete with thousands of Spanish dancers was beyond arrogant—it was insane. So I chose not to think about it. What was the point? It wasn’t as if I had a choice. I was in love, pure and simple. I was in love with flamenco, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to live without it.
It never occurred to me to think about what I was giving up by embarking on this mad adventure. A voice of reason might have pointed out that these were the crucial years of my life to get an education and a good job and start putting money away; otherwise, I’d find that while I was off chasing down a hopeless dream, the ship of my life had sailed. But I chose not to listen to that voice of reason. I drowned it out with the flamenco music in my head. I leaned back and closed my eyes and saw again those dancers at the Amor de Dios twirling in front of my eyes.
• • •
Marina had told me to check the notice board at the Amor de Dios for a room to rent. I looked over all the handwritten notices. Someone was selling their dance shoes, size seven, dark green, ninety euro. There was an ad for Japanese conversation classes, flamenco guitar tuition, babysitting, a seamstress experienced in making flamenco costumes… I looked up at all the different ways the students tried to make money. Someone was offering English lessons at five euro an hour. Five euro an hour? That was seven dollars. My morning coffee had cost me two euro fifty. How desperate were these people? And would that be me one day?
There was only one ad for a room. It was in Tirso de Molina, the suburb before Antón Martin and only about a ten-minute walk from the school. I wrote down the phone number and hoped for the best.
That afternoon I walked from my hostel, across the Plaza Mayor, the main square of Madrid, and down to Tirso de Molina. I followed my map along a narrow street lined with tall stone apartment buildings. It seemed to be a couple of degrees colder in this part of town, perhaps because the sunlight couldn’t make it in between the crowded rooftops.
I found the apartment building and pushed open the heavy wooden door. It was even colder inside than it had been out. I heard my heels click on the stone floor. I pressed an illuminated button and a dim light came on.
A man was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. “Hola, hija,” he slurred, putting his hand on my shoulder and giving me a kiss on each cheek. His skin was creased like someone had scrunched up paper and smoothed it out again. He had a hooked nose and sharp cheekbones, and his hair was thick and black and cut in a mullet. Leaning on a brass-capped walking stick, he waved me into the apartment.
His name was Miguel, he said, lifting his head like a chieftain, and he was a gypsy from one of the most important flamenco families in Spain. I was impressed. I’d never met a gypsy before, much less a flamenco gypsy. The idea of moving into a flamenco house was exciting, but my heart sank as I looked around. It was an old apartment that had been roughly divided up into different rooms with flimsy walls and shabby curtains. Miguel showed me what he called the best bedroom. It was separated from the corridor by a pair of glass doors with curtains for privacy. Inside there was a small single bed pushed up against the back wall underneath a high window that made the room look like a prison cell.
I thought about it, but there wasn’t much to think about. It was a step up from where I was, and I needed to get into cheaper and more permanent accommodation. So even though it was dark and dingy, I told him I’d come around the next day with the first month’s rent.
“I’m living on air,” I whispered to myself as I stepped back out onto the cold streets. “And my feet don’t touch the ground.”