Seriously! I had absolutely no idea. What does one wear on a first date with a gypsy? If anyone should know, it would be me: I’d read every article ever written on date dressing. I knew that beach walk = sundress, Sunday brunch = jeans and cashmere sweater, cocktail party = tailored pants (everyone else will be in party dresses and you’ll want to stand out). But what do you wear when your first date is to a notorious gypsy bar?
I cast my mind back to the shots in the Harper’s Bazaar mag, those tantalizing images that set my imagination on fire. If only I had a fashionably tattered red dress…but then that would be too much. If there’s one date rule that applies to all situations, it’s to never overdress.
But what was I going to wear?
That phrase repeated itself over and over in my head as I walked back through the streets of Antón Martin, weaving between pedestrians and stopped cars in the eternally congested streets. In my mind I was tipping my suitcase upside down and watching leotard after leotard fall out. That was all I had, apart from the jeans I was wearing and the few semirespectable white shirts I’d bought for work. There was only one thing to do: shop. So instead of walking back to the apartment, I directed my steps to the big department store in the center of town.
You know the one…they are the same in every city in the world. More predictable than airport duty-free shops, and more comforting than Starbucks. As my dusty sneakers tramped up the marble steps, the automatic doors slid open and I was greeted by the smell of Estée Lauder Pleasures spiked with Dior Tender Poison. I let the escalators carry me up to Señoras: Women’s Fashion.
I’d figured out what I needed: a sexy red top that I could wear with jeans and high heels. That was a look I had labeled in my mind as “understated gypsy.” And my budget was twenty euro. More than I could afford, but then it isn’t every day you get invited to a dangerous den of vice and sin. As I wandered through the racks and rails, though, I started to feel more and more hopeless. The clothing was drab, to be generous, and I didn’t want to rock up at Cardamomo looking like a dental hygienist or the mother of the bride. So I did something I knew I would regret: I went up another flight to High Fashion.
But there are shades of regret. There are things in life that you really do regret, like missing friends’ birthdays or mixing beer and wine. And then there are things that fall into the category of mistakes you just had to make. Mistakes that add the exclamation marks to your life. And as the escalator leveled out into the world of designer fashion, I found myself staring at one such mistake.
It was the black dress on the mannequin. Well, it was sold as a dress, but it was really just a piece of black, aerodynamic cling wrap. It was Eurotrash perfection, the kind of dress that was guaranteed to get a girl into trouble. And if it didn’t, then the price tag would. I knew as soon as I saw it that I had to have it. I didn’t even need to try it on. But I did take a peek at the price tag. Ouch. It was the same amount that I had saved for dance class. I knew that I shouldn’t even be thinking about buying it. I should put it back and walk right out of the store. But I’d been given an invitation into the underground world of gypsy flamenco, and wasn’t that more important than a few dance classes? If I was ever going to learn to dance authentic flamenco, I had to go to the source. And if there was ever a dress for dancing with gypsies, this was it.
I had to smuggle the dress into the apartment. I knew if Mariela and the girls saw the shopping bag they’d want to see what I’d bought, and how could I explain that the girl who couldn’t afford to buy her own olive oil had just blown half a month’s rent on a dress?
Once I was safely in my room with the door firmly shut, I took out the dress and tried it on. Yes, it was perfect. And with my one pair of battered heels and the gypsy princess earrings I’d bought from Lola, I had the perfect outfit for a date with a gypsy.
• • •
Cardamomo is tucked in among a tangle of streets in the center of Madrid, in an area known as Huertas. If it’s true that Madrid has the highest concentration of bars per capita in all of Europe—and I have absolutely no reason to doubt that claim—most of them are in Huertas.
After dark on any night of the week, Huertas is busier than the busiest shopping strip in Sydney. There are traffic jams all through the night, and the footpaths are so crowded that to get anywhere you have to weave through the cars.
I tottered down the street with my gypsy earrings jangling, dodging the drunks that stumbled out of bars in front of me and the boys who kept trying to push free drink cards into my hands.
“Guapa.”
There was Diego, leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. I suddenly realized just how handsome he was. In the Amor de Dios he was just another young dancer, but standing under the streetlight, his black hair slicked back and his dark eyes sparkling, he could have been one of the boys from that Harper’s shoot. Yes…I was finally running away with the gypsies.
He pushed open a plain wooden door with no sign. Flamenco music blared out and I got my first glimpse of the infamous Cardamomo. I stepped through the door and into another world. The club was packed with gypsies. Everywhere I looked, long-haired men in black suits were clapping compás with lit cigarettes tucked between their fingers, and gitanas, gypsy girls, waved fans in front of their faces as they danced.
Within moments we were surrounded by a crowd of young gypsies, and Diego started introducing me to the primos, or cousins. “Mi primo José.” I kissed both cheeks of a gypsy boy with playful eyes. “Mi primo Luis.” Luis elbowed his cousin out of the way and leaned in to give me two kisses. “Mi primo José Luis.” Another gypsy boy stepped forward. “Mi primo Antonio…mi primo Luis Antonio…mi primo José…” and on and on it went until I was dizzy from kissing the cheeks of so many dark-eyed boys called either José, Luis, or Antonio.
The primos formed a circle around me, clapping compás and shouting out, “Que toma que toma…” and Diego stepped forward like a bullfighter, clicking his fingers.
One of my favorite songs from the latest Vicente Amigo album came on over the speakers. I’d been listening to this song over and over again on my iPod, trying to figure out the words. I asked Diego, “What is he singing?” He pulled me close and sang in my ear. “Mi primo Antonio qué bien me baila…” My cousin Antonio dances so well… Diego explained that the singer was referring to the legendary flamenco dancer Antonio Canales.
It was the first time I’d had a gypsy boy sing flamenco in my ear, and I melted. I melted like a Popsicle on the backseat of a car on a summer day. When Diego pressed a glass of rum into my hands, I knew I shouldn’t take it. I’m such a cheap drunk I get tipsy off the pop of a champagne cork. But I thought: Why don’t I? It’s not every day that you get the chance to dance till dawn with the gypsies.