Only in Spain

by Nellie Bennett

  When the young dancer had examined each pair of shoes, he packed them back into their boxes and counted out a wad of notes. “Come,” the Shoe Man said to me as he deposited the money in the register. “Let’s talk.” He pulled open the door to his workroom and invited me to follow him. The workroom was a big open space with white walls and exposed wooden beams. “Sit, sit.” He waved me toward a long wooden bench. “Sit down and tell me who you are.” I sat down, and the Shoe Man went to the kitchenette and made us each a cup of instant coffee.

  “Tell me, why did you want to dance flamenco?” he called.

  “Because I love it.”

  He nodded and handed me a cup of scalding Nescafé. “And you are performing?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at that. The idea of me in a big ruffled dress on a stage was just too funny.

  “Why are you laughing?” he asked.

  “I don’t perform,” I explained. “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” he asked sharply.

  “I’m nowhere near good enough.”

  “What you talking yourself down for? You think you can build a house in one day? No! You have to start with the foundation.” He took a flamenco shoe off the workbench. “You see this?” He ran a calloused finger over the tiny nails that were hammered into the heel. “This is the foundation. But it is not enough on its own. The great dancer needs the foundation for the feet, and the foundation for the heart. Have you been to Spain?”

  “No.”

  He must have heard the longing in my voice because his tone softened and he said, “But you would like to, eh?”

  Like to go to Spain? It was my dream to go to Spain. My secret dream that was too precious to even articulate.

  “Let me give you one piece of advice, then I fix your shoes. Deal?”

  I nodded. “Deal.”

  “Dreaming is good, but living is better. Maybe it is time to start living your dream, eh? What do you say?”

  THE SEARCH

  Or

  It’s so you!

  It was nothing more than an innocent online search. But an online search is never really innocent. What we type into Google reveals our deepest desires, and mine was to dance flamenco in Spain.

  The conversation I’d had with the Shoe Man would return to me as I stood in line for bag check or on the unforgiving marble floors of Level Two. It was time for me to start living my dream. He’d been right, and I knew it. So I typed “dance flamenco in Spain” and clicked Search.

  The first result that came up was for a dance school in Seville. They had new courses starting every week and even organized accommodation for international students. I could take a month off work and just dance, I thought. One whole month with no swipe card, bag check, or cold coffee in a paper cup for lunch. No ID codes, First-Class Service Rules, shelves to dust, or mirrors to Windex… It sounded too good to be true.

  There was only one thing keeping me from tossing my dance shoes into a bag and jumping on the next flight to Seville, and that was money. I calculated that it would take me four months to save up what I needed for my airfare, classes, and living expenses, and every week I watched my bank account like a child watching a cake rise in the oven, until finally, in the last week of February, I had enough to buy my flight.

  On payday I slipped out on my coffee break and hurried up the street to the travel agency on the corner. I sat down opposite a red-blazered travel agent and asked for her best price on a round-trip flight to Seville. As her fingers went clackety-clack on the keyboard, I wondered, Am I crazy for doing this?

  Probably.

  But wasn’t it about time I did something crazy?

  My mother was always at me to “do something” with my life, and she didn’t mean a management course or an LLB in international taxation. My father would have liked to see me become an Oscar-winning film producer, or a high-flying venture capitalist, or really any job that involves running the free world from an island shaped like a skull. He was ambitious for me, and I was the oldest child, after all. But I always got the feeling that my mother would have preferred to see me tearing up the floors of an underground tango bar. She didn’t care if I had a job or how much money I made; she just wanted me to live my life and “get on with it, for goodness’ sake!”

  But now that I was about to put it into action, the idea of walking into a flamenco class in Spain terrified me. I didn’t even speak Spanish. Would I cope in a class full of gorgeous, dusky-skinned Sevillians? Or would I be humiliated in Spanish and laughed out of the country?

  By the time the travel agent had found me a good fare, my head was so full of doubts and fears that I didn’t know what to do. I asked her to hold the ticket for me for twenty-four hours while I made up my mind.

  Was I really ready to go to Spain? I mean, who was I to think that I could just turn up in the birthplace of flamenco? But if I didn’t go, then what? I had to make a crazy break somehow, because the thought of spending another year folding cashmere sweaters with tissue paper was enough to make me lock myself in the ladies’ room on Level Three and never come out.

  When I got back to the floor, Vivienne from Covers rushed over to speak to Sascha. “Michelle just called. They’ve arrived!” Michelle was Vivienne’s friend at Hermès, and “they” were the new handbags that had just been flown in (by private jet, presumably) from Paris. I was intrigued by Vivienne and Sascha’s breathless excitement. What could be so wonderful about these bags that they made these seemingly rational women go crazy? So I asked Sascha if I could go with her and Vivienne to Hermès, and as there were no customers around, and after Deborah said she’d watch our section, she agreed.

  “Darlings!” Michelle greeted us as we walked in the door. Her pale blond hair was styled into an elegant bob, and she wore pearl drop earrings and an impeccably cut suit.

  The plush carpet and low lights of the shop were already working their magic on me. I felt like I had entered Aladdin’s cave. I gazed around at the smooth leather briefcases and organizers in signature Hermès orange. Long cashmere shawls were draped on stands, and silk scarves decorated with Indian elephants were framed on the walls.

  Michelle disappeared into the back and returned moments later carrying a bag on a velvet cushion. She walked slowly, bearing aloft the Holy Grail of designer handbags. It was a black Kelly.

  As my eyes fell on it, I realized that it was not just a bag—oh no. It was the stuff dreams are made of. It was small—just big enough to fit keys, sunglasses, and a lip gloss—and the very picture of elegance. I could imagine Grace Kelly carrying it by its perfect handle when she went out on the town in Monaco. I wanted it desperately, and I’d never felt that way about a bag before.

  I knew enough about the physics of fashion to understand that a bag like that dangling from my arm would transmute my cheap black suit into Armani. I could wear fake pearls and they would look like Tahitians. This bag was my ticket to a new and glamorous existence.

  Michelle could sense my desire. She smiled at me with her glossy mouth and said, “Take it.” I reached a hand forward hesitantly and slipped it onto my arm, where it hung as if it belonged there.

  “Daaarling…you should do it,” Sascha said, angling herself behind me in the mirror.

  Vivienne nodded and ran one lacquered red fingertip over the platinum appendages. “It’s so you,” she cooed. “You have to have it.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Yes, why don’t I? I could go to Spain next year, I told myself. It would give me another year to study flamenco here, and I would probably get more out of my trip if I waited. And then I could take my new bag with me. Hmmm…maybe instead of the Kelly I should get a Birkin so I could fit my dance shoes inside? All I had to do was say yes and it would be mine. It would only cost me my four months’ savings plus the next two months’ salary.

  Sascha pulled out her phone and calculated the
daily wear price. “Twenty-four cents a day, darling. It’s a steal.”

  It was as if a cloud had descended over my brain. I could faintly hear my common sense telling me to put the bag back and step away. Put the bag back… With a superhuman effort I took the bag off my arm and sat it on its velvet cushion. Michelle barely raised an eyebrow. She had a list of women who would do anything for a Kelly, and if I didn’t understand how lucky I was to be offered one, then I clearly didn’t deserve it. She led Sascha and Vivienne over to a glass cabinet to show them the latest designs in scarves, pulling out scarf after scarf as though performing a magic trick. Butterflies and carnival masks and spring roses fluttered in the air as she held them up. Maybe I should just get a scarf…?

  No, Nellie!

  I knew I had to get out of that shop. A girl could lose her mind in there. I calculated that I had fifteen minutes before I had to be back on the floor, so I slipped out the door and ran down to the travel agency as fast as my slingbacks would take me. I collapsed breathless into the chair, handed over my card for the travel agent to swipe, and asked for an aisle seat and vegan meals.

  For less than half of what the Kelly would have cost me, I booked six weeks in Seville. Six whole weeks away from the marble floors and the air conditioning and the panpipe music. For six whole weeks I wouldn’t have to lock myself in a toilet stall to get a moment of peace in the middle of the day. Now it was time to live my dream, and dream my life, and live life like it was a dream.

  Olé.

  THE MACARENA

  Or

  I declare I love you

  “Passport?” The dark-eyed immigration official put out his hand and raised an eyebrow as I rummaged in my bag.

  I’d just stepped off the plane at Seville Airport after a thirty-hour flight from Sydney. My breath was furry, my eyes were bleary, and my face was as rumpled as my clothes. And here I was, face-to-face with the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.

  At the same time, my bag seemed to have transformed itself into an interdimensional vortex. Instead of my passport, I kept pulling out random objects I hadn’t seen in years: old notebooks, those sunglasses I thought I’d lost, a Pez dispenser…

  “Er…” I muttered, looking up at the immigration guys. There was not one but four, all standing languidly around the passport checkpoint, each more gorgeous than the last. I’d known Spain had a reputation for being up the steep end of the graph when it came to looks, but I hadn’t expected to be confronted with the evidence before I’d even picked up my suitcase.

  They nodded ever so slightly as the other passengers from my flight walked past and held up their passports. I couldn’t help comparing this to the rigorous exit procedure at Sydney Airport, where after having my passport scrutinized by a stern man in a glass box who had made me cross my heart and hope to die that I wasn’t an al-Qaeda operative/endangered-wildlife smuggler, I was asked a series of calculated questions about where I was going and for how long. But the Spaniards didn’t even ask to see the photo page.

  One of the guys leaned forward. He had bright green eyes, a two-day beard, and a uniform that fitted in a way that left me in no doubt of the bulging biceps beneath. He asked in the sexiest accent, “You have something for declare?”

  “Um…no,” I said.

  “No?” he repeated, a wounded look crossing his beautiful face. “You no declare no thing?”

  I mentally scanned the contents of my bag and tried to remember whether I’d thrown out that apple core. “Uh, no. Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  People kept coming past, showing their passports, and being waved through, but I still couldn’t find mine.

  “I have something to declare,” the immigration guy said, leaning in closer. “I declare I love you.” The rest of the guys started laughing. Great, I thought as I turned red.

  “What for you come to Spain?” one of the other guys asked. That question instantly put me on guard. So that was their game. They were trying to trap me into admitting that I had come there to work without a visa or sell drugs or steal Spanish babies for shady international adoption agencies.

  “Just a holiday,” I said, a little too quickly. I tried to make up for my nervous reply by adding, “And to see some flamenco.”

  “Flamenco?” The guys exchanged glances. “What do you know about flamenco?”

  “Um…” I floundered, feeling the pressure of eight smoldering eyes on me.

  “See this boy?” he said, pointing to one of the other officials, who smiled suavely, flashing a set of Colgate teeth. “He is a very nice dancer. You want to see?” He started clapping and singing a flamenco tune, and his colleague stepped forward. He lifted his arms, clicked his fingers, and began to dance.

  I stared, dumbfounded, as the guy who was supposed to be checking my passport for suspicious stamps or recent trips to Colombia wiggled his shoulders and stamped his feet on the carpet of the terminal floor.

  “Olé!” cried the other guys.

  “Enjoy your vacation,” one of them added.

  My fingers finally grasped my passport at the bottom of my bag. I pulled it out triumphantly, but they paid no attention. They were already waving through the next line of arrivals.

  A sign on the wall in front of me said WELCOME TO SPAIN. That’s right, Spain. It felt too good to be true, that after working and saving and planning and packing and repacking I had finally made it to the land of flamenco.

  My parents had taken me to the airport in Sydney. Dad checked me in and used his frequent-flier card to get me lounge passes. He seemed as excited about my trip as if he were going himself, and I was relieved that he’d recovered from his initial anxiety about his eldest child throwing her life away.

  I hadn’t known how my parents would react when I told them of my plan to spend six weeks dancing flamenco in Seville. I finally broached it with Mum while she was making dinner one night, and she said the same thing she always said when I came to her with a plan: “Good idea, darling.”

  “But,” I’d pressed, “you don’t think I’m being irresponsible?”

  “Nellie.” She put down the potato peeler. “Being irresponsible is what being an adult is all about.”

  Then I went upstairs to my father’s office where he was working on a script. “You’re going to Spain to dance flamenco,” he repeated back to me. Illuminated by the glare of the computer screen, his face was etched with concern.

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause before he asked, “And where do you think this will lead you?”

  The question didn’t seem fair to me. It seemed that every other day my parents had young people coming to them itching to work in the film industry. My father would look at those kids, fresh out of school, and tell them to go off and live a life and come back to him when they had some real stories to tell. And now, when I was proposing to do just that, he just sighed and said, “It’s your life, Nellie.”

  But when we said good-bye at the airport gate, that was all forgotten. Dad made sure my camera was set to the right aperture, then told me to check my email when I got in because he’d sent me an article from the New York Times with a list of the best tapas restaurants in Seville. And Mum told me not to worry, because everything was going to be wonderful.

  I couldn’t help getting teary as I said good-bye. But as I walked through the entrance into the “passengers only” section of the airport, I felt my excitement build. My journey had begun, and each step I took was taking me closer to my new adventure.

  • • •

  As part of my booking, the dance school had organized my accommodation. I was renting a room in the apartment of a woman called Inés, who worked at the school office.

  “Welcome to Sevilla,” she said, opening her door wide and helping me in with my bags. Inés was in her late twenties and had brown hair to her shoulders with a long fringe and a big smile. Sh
e spoke good English and was used to showing foreigners around her home.

  She had two bedrooms that she rented out to flamenco students. Mine was a narrow room with a single bed, a wardrobe, a bedside table, and a window that looked out over the courtyard. I left my suitcase and followed her as she showed me the rest of the apartment. There was a big living room with a little balcony and a small kitchen with an old gas stove and a wooden table.

  “This is a really great part of the city,” she said. “It is called La Macarena. Only two minutes walking from here is the long street called the Alameda de Hércules, which is full of bars and cafés and restaurants. It’s a great place to go out for drinks or for dinner. You’re not vegetarian, are you?”

  “No,” I said.

  Inés looked relieved. “Good. Some of the girls who come here are vegetarian, and you know in Spain vegetarian does not exist.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’m vegan.”

  Inés looked at me blankly. “What is vegan?”

  I explained proudly that vegans are like vegetarians, except they don’t eat any products that come from animals.

  “So what do you eat?” she asked.

  “Lots of things. Brown rice, whole grains, lentils…” I went through the vegan’s shopping list as Inés’s eyebrows climbed higher and higher up her forehead.

  “Wow,” she said. “You are really going to starve.”

  Inés didn’t realize that’s what vegans do. When there’s no bean curd to be had, we starve proudly, looking scornfully at those who say, “Let them eat cake.” And anyway, what did I care about food? I was in Spain to dance, and that was all that mattered to me.

  Inés looked at her watch. “I have to go to the office now. Do you want to come with me and see the school?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, forgetting my jet lag and the exhaustion I was feeling after the thirty-hour flight.