Flamenco is Life

Estella fastened big silver hoops in her ears and stared at her reflection in the mirror. At the base of her neck, her coal black hair coiled into a tight bun on one side, a large white rose pinned securely next to the bun. She smiled at the woman staring back at her. Excitement sparkled in her eyes. She stood, picking up the white shawl draped over the back of the chair and flipped it over her shoulder. The ends of the shawl trickled down the jet-black slip dress that skimmed her body. Without thinking, she flipped her foot moving the long-ruffled train that formed the bottom of the dress out of her way. She was ready.

Tension filled her, the expectation rising in her soul. This was the feeling she lived for. Estella left her dressing room the taps of her shoes clicking out a syncopated beat as she made her way to the stage. The muted sounds of Ramon’s guitar pulsated from behind the stage doors. Flinging the doors open the canción andalucia broke over her, swirled around her, beckoned her forward, promising so much more. The dancer finished in a flourish of zapateado perfectly timed with the culmination of the increasing tempo and the articulated legato of the guitar.

The crowd applauded as the breathless dancer bowed in appreciation then left the stage. Estella waited offstage as the notes echoed in her body, churning through her before they faded leaving a dull emptiness, a longing. She stepped onto the stage.

Head bowed, her body relaxed, she waited. Ramon picked the strings softly, tentatively releasing notes to wake her. The music touched her, sending shivers over her skin, but still she waited. The words of the canción gitana reached into her soul, calling to her ancestors. Her hand lifted flowing and rising with the swell of the music. Her toe tapped following the beat. The music instructed her, guided her body’s interpretation of the words. Emotions flashed across her face.

Her feet drilled into the floor, reverberating through the hall, pounding into other chests. The words told the story of lovers. Her shawl protected her from his smoldering glances, teased him with glimpses of his desire. Eyes locked, the intensity grew. She turned away, turning predator into prey. Transformed the shawl became the lover. Passion matched with passion, music quickened, breath quickened. Estella became the music, she was the song, the lover from the legend. The competition raced them towards the culmination. Her heart exploded, emotions boomed around the room.

Silence. It hung in the air. The jaleo was done.

Estella knew they wanted more.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Marion and Robin

They met as children; it was love at first sight. Heaven smiled on the match and created a love to last the ages. Together they made wishes and worked to make them real. The path they walked was never straight, but their love was true. There were days when the sun kissed their faces, and days when the rain fell hard upon their heads. When one wanted only to surrender, the other summoned strength and together they walked through life even when it wasn’t easy. Their courage allowed them to stand strong and upright when the road rose to challenge them.

Marion and Robin struggled up each steep hill and rejoiced when they attained the peak. Each step they climbed together brought them closer to the stars. Along the path, they discovered diamonds. They named each one and held them dear. Their love gave them a strong foundation on which to build their joy. Each of their experiences coalesced to become a sweet melody. It was the song they sang which kept them forever young.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Xenophile is not your average everyday word, but it is one that should be added to our repertoire.

Xenophile from Greek, from xeno- + -phile
Xeno: relating to a foreigner or foreigners, other; different in origin.
Phile: denoting fondness for a specified thing.

So, a Xenophile is a person who is attracted to foreign peoples, cultures, or customs.

You might be a Xenophile if:

10. Your favorite restaurant is whatever ethnic restaurant you haven’t eaten at yet this week. When you get there, you order off the menu in their language.

9. You spend months learning everything you can about a new place you plan to visit for a week.

8. You own and have watched every Rick Steve’s video ever produced and his travel guides line your bookshelves.

7. When you travel, you book the Airbnb furthest from all the tourist destinations.

6. You know enough other languages you can speak Spanish to the Kurdish street vendor in Turkey and make a new friend.

5. You know items called Boubou, Chamanto, Dirndl, Gele, Keffiyeh, Kimono, Lederhosen, Pashmina, Sari, Thawb, Ushanka and Welly and know when and where to wear each one.

4. A group of young men tell a joke and you laugh, not because you understand the joke (you don’t even speak their language) but because their camaraderie and their good nature infects you.

3. You embrace the customs and the rituals of the place you are visiting, by eating dinner at 10pm, showing up 15 minutes late, or slurping your noodles.

2. You value and respect the different people, cultures and traditions you learn about and experience.

1. You don’t understand hate because no matter how different we are, common threads connect us and bind us together.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer