The All Elusive Authenticity.
Like most tourists that visit Seville, we wanted to see two of the things for which Seville is best known: flamenco dancing and bullfighting.
According to the all knowing on the Internet, there are many ways to see flamenco. There’s the dinner and a show approach at a tablao, all packaged up neatly for tourists. The advantage is that the dancers are supposedly superb and decked out in full costumes. The disadvantage is that the shows feel a little touristy, and are expensive: upwards of 35 or 40 euros per person. There’s also smaller performances at neighborhood bars, many of which are impromptu and often cost no more than the price of your drinks. The advantage is the more intimate setting and the lower cost; the disadvantage is that sometimes the shows are more low-key. One person analogized viewing flamenco shows like this: you can see Buddy Guy at a large arena show with lots of other people, or an unknown blues band at a local bar. The Buddy Guy show is classic blues and technically superior, but the experience at the local bar is likely more authentic.
It really wasn’t that much of a choice for us due to our new frugal lifestyle. Our google searches revealed the name of a bar supposedly renowned for their free flamenco shows – La Carboneria. By the looks of it, everyone else did the same google search. Walking down a dark narrow street off a more lively one, I heard someone say behind us, We’re supposed to look for a red door. Is that a red door? No, I think that’s more orange. Oh, there it is! The instructions on Google mentioned that the bar was not marked and to look for a red door. It sounded very mysterious and exciting, which it may have been, had at least 3 or 4 other groups of people not been looking for the same thing.
Though we arrived early, crowds were already packed in on the picnic benches. Around 11:00 p.m., a woman and three men came to the front of the room. Two played the guitar and one played the flute while the woman twirled and danced. She wore a green print dress that she hiked above her knees. She did not have a lot of room to move. She stomped around and waived her arms as a sweat broke out on her clavicle. The performance lasted only about 30 minutes. I heard a daughter next to me say to her mother, Mom, you’ve only seen flamenco on cruise ships. This is different. This is authentic.
The performance wasn’t quite what I imagined, but I was intrigued and I wanted to see more. Sean was done with “this flamingo dancing.” I talked him into taking a cab across the river to Triana for another show starting at midnight anyway.
Triana is supposed to be the “birthplace” of flamenco, and I read online that Anselma’s was one of the better places in the city to see casual, impromptu flamenco. So did at least 100 others. When we arrived, there was a huge line waiting to get into the bar before midnight when the “show” started. Meanwhile, there already were people occupying every seat at every table. Anselma finally opened up the gate, and the line of people streamed into the bar. When we finally came to a halt, I couldn’t move. There were people standing within inches of me on all sides, and still more people struggled to get by. Anselma made herself known, pushing past people to insist that they get a drink. Occasionally, people we were more important than Sean or me were escorted to premier spots in the bar. One was apparently such a VIP that Anselma booted two people out of their seats and cleared the way for a guy in a suit and his date. Huh. Guess we should suited up, as our backpacker clothes were not getting us any special treatment.
We lasted for one drink and couldn’t take feeling like a sardine in a can anymore. We didn’t see anyone dance, but heard some people play music that sounded excellent. So much for our “authentic” flamenco experience…stay tuned for our bullfighting experience which was a little too authentic for my liking.
Love in Seville
Seville, Spain has something special that all cities want. I’m not sure if is the fascinating culture, the sunny weather, the colorful Spanish tile, the river snaking through town, the wide streets lined with flowers and palm trees, the narrow winding streets in the old section, or some combination of above.
One of the things that Seville definitely has is romance. May must be wedding season in Seville like it is at home, because we saw brides and grooms everywhere. Strolling through the main square. Riding in horse-drawn carriages. Posing for pictures under flowers. At one point, everywhere I turned I saw a newly married couple. Their happiness and passion is infectious.
I was so entertained by the wedding couples that I turned into wedding paparazzi. I need to improve my surreptitious photography skills for sure, as I am sure more than one bride wondered why the crazy American tourist was taking her picture.
Seriously salty fish.
I don’t have a whole lot to say about Cadiz other than man, is the fish salty. The town is nice, lots of shopping, beautiful walkway on the water, etc but all I will remember is the saltiness of the fish I tried at dinner. It was one of those ordering situations where you come away not entirely sure what you had actually ordered. I suspected I was getting the waiter’s recommendation, which would have been fine with me, except it was the.saltiest.thing.i.have.ever.eaten. And it was swimming in oil. I believe it was bacalao (salted cod), but seeing has I wasn’t even hundred percent sure I ordered a main dish, what do I know.
I managed two bites. Sean took pity on me and tried it. He managed two bites as well. One to try it, and the second because you think, surely, it could not possibly be that salty, can it? It is. I moved it around my plate to try to make it look like I ate it, on account of the recommendation and all, but the waiter was on to me. Our first miss in our Spanish dining. Oh well. Bound to happen at some point.
