Ole!

Last Friday night, a crazy little man approached me from behind, grabbed me around my waist, pulled my backside towards him, and pushed me down, further to the ground, so that I was practically facing the floor.

From that position, he wanted me to dance.  I knew this, because he screamed at me to do so.  In Spanish.

I'm not Spanish.  But with long dark hair and an olive complexion, and being prone to hang out in flamenco dance classes, visiting teachers from Spain naturally mistake me as being Spanish, too.  When I lived in New York City, teachers would be especially confused when, upon asking where I was from, I would answer, "Australia".  I would let them be puzzled for a few seconds before adding, "But my family is from Greece".  They would nod their head, understand, and for about five minutes, communicate with me in their broken English.  But after a while, they forgot and reverted to Spanish, and so rather than fight it, I've learned to speak their language, if only just enough so that I can understand when I am being insulted.

I would like to think that Manuel Betanzos was not directing his tirade solely against me when he screamed, "Es muy feo!!!!" (It's very ugly! - as in, this scene before me, it is very ugly), but it would be unwise to assume that he was cutting me up with the daggers in his eyes by sheer coincidence.

My reward for being a good 12wbt'er for a month was to attend the Manuel Betanzos workshops in Adelaide last weekend.  That meant 10 hours of serious dancing with a very serious (but wonderful!) flamenco maestro, over the course of 4 days.

Practically, this meant 10 long hours of staring at myself very hard in the mirror as I tried to bring out my inner flamenco.  Or flamenca.  You get my drift.  The point is, that was more time than healthy individuals should spend examining every lump and bump on their body, even if it is because they are trying to coax it into flamenco dance mode.

Truth be told, while I was practically electrified with inspiration from Manuel, I was left completely and utterly depressed at how unskilled a dancer I am, and at the state of my body.

Crazy as it might seem coming from a 39 year old, I really can get better.  I can get good, even.  And all of this running around the neighbourhood at ridiculous hours of the morning and turning into the Mother Teresa of holy eating is the catalyst to a new flamenco me.  It's only going to get better from hereon.

Hell, by December - when the next flamenco workshops on my calendar are scheduled for - I'll have my flamenco body back.  Then there will be just the small matter of my technique.

I can hear Manuel shouting, "Practica, practica, practica!!!!!".

Ok.  I will.