Where are the Flamenco Dancers?

“I’ve been here for three days and have yet to see one Flamenco Dancer.  Are they on strike or something?”  This is what crosses my mind as I meander through the streets of Barcelona.  As a lover of live performances, I was really looking forward to seeing one up close and personal. I’d seen shows in the U.S. and even participated in a mini lesson once.  But surely, it would be different here.  I mean, it is SPAIN. 

If I’m honest with myself, that’s not the only thing that seems strange.  I can’t help but notice that no one looks like me.  I try to snap out of it by reminding myself that I knew this beforehand.  I’d almost convinced myself that I was prepared for it.  That doesn’t stop me from searching for sun kissed faces in the crowds.  But wait, that’s not totally true.  There was that one day I went to Museu Picasso and met a black gentleman from New York.  I remember him putting his best Spanish forward to ask me if he was in the right line for the museum.  I complimented him on his Spanish in English.  I’ll never forget the wave of relief that came across his face because he’d finally met someone who spoke English.  Boy, can I relate to that feeling!  We joked for awhile about how far away from home we were.  We parted once we entered the adolescent world of Picasso.  Oh and there was the black couple from California whom a friend and I met while eating lunch at Hard Rock Café.  They were in town for a few days after disembarking from the Dave Koz Jazz Cruise.  We chatted a bit before wishing each other farewell.  Most memorable was the daily greeting from the doorman at the Renaissance Hotel on Carrer de Pau Claris.  I walked by the hotel each morning on the way to class.  He was an older, black gentleman with the purest of white beards.  I marveled at his fluid Spanish, but his accent alone told me that Spain was not his origin.  Keeping in mind that the term “black” is relative, I had to remind myself that it doesn’t equal African-American.  There are millions of Brazilians, Colombians, Cubans, and Dominicans who often refer to themselves as black.   

Looking back, I remember just how much I stood out.  I got stares, but gradually learned that they were stares of admiration.  I would often get asked if I was Brasileña, but never American.  At school, people cared more about where I was from than the color of my skin.  As a matter of fact, if someone were to describe me, chances are they would say “Cheketa, la Americana” and not “Cheketa, the black woman.”  How I represented my country was more important than my pigmentation. 

After all these encounters, I still hadn’t found the Flamenco Dancers. On my last night in Spain, I returned home after having dinner with friends.  Preparing for a night of packing, I accidentally knocked my school folder to the floor.  As I went to pick the contents up, I found the Flamenco Dancers.  They were there in the form of flyers.  You see, for two weeks, I had blindly accepted all of these flyers from promoters on the streets.  I would always stuff them in my folder without looking at them.  Here I stood, holding flyers for Flamenco shows at Palau de la Música Catalana, Palacio del Flamenco, and El Tablao de Carmen.  How naïve was I to think that Flamenco Dancers would be performing in the streets of Barcelona for free?  Why would a  Flamenco Dancer in Barcelona be any different from any other hard working entertainer in any other city?  In Barcelona, Flamenco is performed in beautiful, ornate, costly venues!  I had to laugh at myself for being brainwashed by American TV advertisements.  The reality is that we all have prejudices.  We just have to be bold enough to seek the place that forces us to get rid of them.