It is a Sunday afternoon in August.
Jerez is deserted, motionless. Everyone is at the beach or indoor to escape the heat.
I walk toward my Airbnb, passing through the whitewashed streets and narrow alleys of the casco histórico. I am in Jerez to study flamenco, to make sense of the bulería, that mysterious 12-count rhythm people say you don’t count, you breathe. Ahead of me lies a week of classes at the school of Chiqui de Jerez.
When I reach the apartment, the doña hands me the keys along with a few local tips: El Anticuario, a good tabanco to get something to eat, the Andalusian horses, the bodegas, Tío Pepe. I don’t have high expectations for the afternoon. The city is closed down, so I take advantage of it to observe it from the outside.
I step out. A heavy, warm African wind carries the scent of dry earth and orange blossoms.
The gates of Chiqui’s school, in the San Miguel neighborhood, are locked. A little further down, Bar La Plazuela is also closed. La Paquera gazes down at me from her towering, powerful statue. Calle Empedrada is empty, its alleyways broken only by sun and wind. Doors and shutters are pulled down, even those of the peñas, but voices, footsteps, and notes find their way out.
And then, there’s the house of Lola Flores. The myth of La Faraona runs through the streets of San Miguel, through the alleys, through the rustle of a mantón hanging from a window. The Centro Cultural Lola Flores? I think of it and check online. Closed. Maybe tomorrow.
Ha, yes, and my flamenco shoes. I want to buy a pair with the tacón jerezano, broader and stouter than all other heels, striking the ground with a solid, earthy thud, as if the sound were coming straight from the floorboards. Calle Francos, 8, Senovilla: the shop is closed. Through the window, I catch glimpses of shoes, fans, skirts, and flowers. I note down the opening hours. I’ll come back during the week.
I am heading back to my Airbnb when I pass by Tabanco El Pasaje, near the market. Touristy, perhaps, but in Jerez, it’s an institution. Glasses clinking, hands clapping, a voice launching into a letra. Flamenco bounces off the walls. Three shows a day: 14:00, 20:00, 22:00.
I go inside without thinking. I listen. I follow the bulería in the bailaora’s footwork, in the cantaor’s sighs. My heart speeds up, slows down, stops, and starts again to the beat of the music. The sound pierces right through me.
When I step back outside, I feel as though I’ve left something behind. I walk away with a pulse that keeps beating.
The surrounding streets are still empty and silent.