Held Hostage by Flamenco? Blink Twice

So far in Barcelona I’ve explored design, paintings, pottery, and architectural art. So to round out the art theme for today, it made sense to check out some performance art. Peta had a recommendation for the oldest flamenco show in the city. Once her conference wrapped up for the day, we met up and took the metro into the Gothic Quarter to see a show.

I’m used to travelling solo, so it was refreshing to have company for tonight’s exploring. Having someone to chat to, wander the streets with, and share the evening with has been a bit of a novelty for me lately—a nice one tonight.

We arrived early, as our confirmation advised, to “ensure you get the best seats,” only to find we were the first ones there—and a bit too early. Turns out the earlier show was still going. We learned the show ran for 40 minutes and were told to come back in 15. After a quick walk around the block, a bit of window shopping, and some chatting, we returned and joined another dozen or so guests—hardly the sell-out the tickets had warned about.

Peta and I were both keen to see the show and relieved it was only 40 minutes—neither of us were up for something long. Inside, we had our pick of the seats and chose the second row: close, but not too close. Drink in hand, we watched as the performers took to the stage. The cast included two dancers, a singer, a guitarist, and a drummer who seemed to be grumbling about his drum box not working. Oh well—no time to fix that. The show must go on.

The chemistry-lacking couple started the show with a number where the woman’s eyes just screamed, “help me.” Maybe understanding the lyrics would’ve helped, but her face—especially her eyes—looked completely dead inside. I’m half-convinced she’s being held hostage, forced to perform for gringo tourists night after night. Her dancing was impressive, though, even if it seemed fuelled by rage.

The duet became a solo when she took a break, leaving the male dancer to perform alone. With his long hair, Peta hoped for some dramatic hair flipping. He delivered a few, and I noticed he had far better chemistry with the guitarist than he ever had with the female dancer. He danced better than I ever could, but his main move seemed to be making loud foot noises.

The female dancer returned for her solo. I was a bit disappointed by her black dress—something more colourful might’ve lifted the mood—but I guess it matched her dead-inside vibe. Her feet moved at the speed of sound. The tapping more than made up for the missing drum—honestly, the drummer could’ve gone home.

Everyone but the guitarist took a break, so we got a solo from him. Of all the cast, he was the most attractive, so that was a plus—even if his performance could’ve been a third shorter. It went on for a bit before the rest of the cast returned for a final number. There was more duet dancing, hair spinning, dresses swirling—and by the end, even a few smiles.

With the performance over, I couldn’t help but wonder—while they may be the oldest-running show in Barcelona, they might not be the best. I still have doubts about whether the cast are actually captives, and I feel for them playing to an audience at maybe 15% capacity. We stepped out into the square and agreed it was worth the ticket, if only to say we’d seen flamenco dancing.

Making a night of it, we headed to a cute little tapas bar I’d found online. Tucked in a tiny alley (as everything seems to be in this part of Barcelona), we grabbed a table inside a stone-walled, cave-like restaurant. We ordered most of the meat dishes, plus some feta-stuffed peppers for balance, and enjoyed a wine and a beer over several courses. The food was some kind of fusion—tapas meets Asia, maybe? Whatever it was, it was delicious. Expensive, but delish!

Full after a massive meal, we decided to walk it off on the way back to the hotel. We passed a park, got drawn in by something gold atop a statue, found a little lake, and posed with a giant elephant. An unexpected find, but a lovely way to end my art-inspired day in Barcelona.Leia mais