Dancing In Spain (Pls Crit)

As we travelled across France, towards Spain, a thought began to creep insidiously into my mind. Why do we need 19 players for a three match series? Did that make sense? Would they really miss a friend and me, if we were to somehow get lost in the Spanish crowds as soon as we crossed the border?

And so, at the French-Basque border post, we two left an explanatory note with the driver and we left, feeling more free than ever before,

We walked off without any plan until we, purely by chance, came to a large market place. Perhaps, we were drawn by the fragrances of fresh tropical fruits. Products that we, coming from a sunshine country, felt deprived of for far too long. We walked over to where several young workers were packing and arranging and then began, without any invitation, to help them. 

To this day, I can't explain why they so readily accepted us. Now, because of their hospitable attitude, I have a soft spot for all people Spanish. We immediately knew that, when we left the bus, we had done the right thing.

That evening, we boarded their bus and travelled, obviously noticed by the others with some amusement and curiosity but not rejected by them in any way. We travelled to their small white plastered homes, on a farm, about 40 km away. These homes and a social complex were arranged around a large and bare square with a few trees and benches.

 I had earlier learned about 50 Spanish words before I came to Spain and so I could ask simple but rather useless questions like "where is the police station, the toilet or the nearest bus to town?" I was, however, in general, a complete failure as a conversationalist but I could mention words that showed my interest in music, singing and dancing. After that, there was no holding back by them. Every evening, from then on, out came the guitars, the castanets and the courtyard dust began to be kicked up by young dancers.

We two visitors, tried, barefooted, to join in but we were no match for their movements, postures and proud tosses of their heads. After all, they had been doing what Spaniards had been doing, for centuries, all the while learning form various long term visitors. There were the Moors and the Gypsies. The latter had probably found one of their final homes in Spain, after a thousand years of wandering. 

After a while, we began to notice that there was a growing buzz of conversation obviously about us  as well as more and more glances in our direction. That Friday night, we found out why. In their broken English and through the use of, to us, quaint phrases, they told us that we would be taken to a station on the next night. We would be given tickets for a performance at an old but hallowed theatre for Spanish dancing.  It was located up in the hills, at the end of a private narrow gauge railway line, owned and run by a community of Spanish "hillbillies", who lived high up in these mountains.

They would work in their clay studios all month, making some really unique and spectacularly attractive pottery. Once a month, the community would travel to the big city where their colourful  wares would be snapped up by tourists. 

We duly arrived at the very rickety looking railway station and to the enthusiastic shouts of encouragement from our new friends and co-workers, we boarded the second of the two carriages. The train was full of merry crowd of people, all obviously on their way to the theatre. Dress varied from the formal to the very casual. The conductor wore a perhaps never laundered uniform with at least two important buttons missing.

Unfortunately, however, we chose to watch the countryside from to the caboose area...you know that kind of covered platform at the back of the last coach.  The kind of place, from where US Presidential candidates used to make their campaign speeches.

As I stood there, I was awestruck and in a stage of near panic. None of the rail lengths were in line. Perhaps most of the sleeper bolts were missing or perhaps the track had been laid by workers who had had imbibed far too much of some Spanish hillbilly mountain dew. As a result, the carriages lurched frighteningly from side to side. Strangely enough, no one else seemed to care a damn. 

Eventually, the steam locomotive hissed resignedly, wheezed and achingly came to a halt. There in front of us was the theatre. Three stories tall, obviously with some lost grandeur,  but now ablaze with lights. From its inside we could hear the sounds of fascinating musical passages as musicians practiced their scales and tuned their instruments. 

On the lowest floor, the finely dressed guests were greeted and escorted by a magnificently attired man of al least Admiral ranking, judging by the uniform that he was wearing.

On the middle floor, a man in a suit but not wearing a tie, nonchalantly accepted tickets and pointed vaguely towards various doorways.

On the top floor, the ticket collector was quite oblivious of any comings and goings. His feet were on a table, his chair was tilted back against the wall and he had week-old newspaper over his face. He was fast asleep did not care whether we had tickets or not.

When we sat down and the lights dimmed, a strange magic filled the theatre. The mystical and passionate charm of the guitars, the castanets, the feet stomping and the enthusiastic "o le's" from the crowd gripped us in their collective passion and we soon forgot all about the world outside.

The dancers were either beautiful or dashingly handsome but in all cases, fires burned in their eyes. The tour de force for the evening, was the opera "El Amor Brujo" or "Love the Magician" written by de .Falla. That night it was not just the music and not just the dancing. This time the performers sang as they danced. It was an unforgettable experience. Whoever had arranged this performance, gave us all a treat of a lifetime.

The moment was truly incredible. Emotions ran high. So high, that the man next to me and I spontaneously embraced. In my broken Spanish, I explained to his wife that I was from South Africa and that I had fallen, totally and irrevocably, in love with Spanish music.

She looked at her husband, he nodded and soon we were on our way down the flights of stairs to the dressing rooms. The reason for our visit was flamboyantly explained by the wife and soon we were surrounded by Spanish dancers, in various stages of undress, trying to express their pleasure at hearing about our appreciation.

An evening program was found and the whole dance group signed it with gracious comments and many good wishes.

Late that night, exhausted yet thrilled, we were back in the train. This time, however, with the passion of the evening still simmering inside of ourselves, we no longer noticed any swaying and rattling. The ride was now so smooth and pleasurable that I was sure that we were riding in air, about a foot above the rails.

A few days later, at the previously appointed time, we stood waiting at the border post, ready to board the returning hockey bus. Needless to say, the hockey coach was furious with us. However, when we explained what had happened and what we had done, he looked a little dismayed.

With a tinge of sadness, he said "you lucky bastards. We only played hockey. Just hockey."