Last night I wrapped up a stressful and rather odd week with a treat in the form of seeing Paco de Lucia at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Pure magic, sprinkled with crazed-flamenca drama.
Saturday morning, just before I was to leave for dance classes, I realized I had no idea where I put the tickets. For nearly two hours, I frantically searched closets, drawers, spaces behind furniture and everywhere in between, and by the time I found them, I was exhausted and almost in tears. Ok, there might have been a few tears.
I’m going to leave out a lot of details because there are far too many, but getting there was an adventure, and my spare ticket changed hands a few times before it finally ended up with a dancer friend. As I settled into my crappy seat behind the stage, my head was pounding and my hands were shaking, but I was beginning to calm down. The show started and I focused on Paco’s glorious playing, but half my brain was still rehashing events that led up to this night…
I don’t know if it was the stress of the day and what was going on in my head, or purely the emotion of the performance, or a bit of both, but when Farruco, a very powerful dancer, got up to do his thing, I was shocked and wide-eyed for a moment and then the tears just started falling. Between Farruco’s dancing, Duquende’s wailing, Paco’s playing and my thinking, it was just too much for me to handle at that moment. And then I felt like a damn fool for sitting there wiping my eyes while my seat mate is patting me on the back — which made me want to cry even more.
Oh man, I really hate when people see me cry. But I guess that’s flamenco. It just stirs things up and I’m kind of a crybaby to begin with, so I didn’t have a chance.
Wow, I cannot believe I’m sharing this. But whatever. The show was fantastic and worth the humiliation.
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