Flamenco

La Carboneria is my kind of place. It came highly recommended by my friend and sorority sister Alli as 'the place to watch flamenco'. Plus, it was free. Alli also mentioned it was 'next to impossible to find'. She told us to ask on the street for directions because it was a turn left and a turn right here and then it's just a door, a non-descript door that leads into a cavern of free Flamenco. Sounded enigmatic enough for me.

And sure enough, it was next to impossible to find. After one particular Riojafest at our favourite tapas bar, La Gitana (in the Jewish quarter), Rosa and I attempted and failed to find it. We made friends with some waiters who gave us directions and then promptly ditched them. But seriously, this place was a big wooden door in a big stone wall in the middle of a series of other big wooden doors and stone walls.
Inside, there was a maze of tables, artwork and high, high arched ceilings that led into two rooms--one big and one small.


In the front of the big room was a stage, low to the ground and small. We blocked out a seat and made for the sangria until the show started.
Then a large sideburned woman came on stage with her musicians who began clapping in a series of crescendos and decrescendos. I was skeptical until the woman stood up and began to stomp, clap and shake her way across the floor.
And from there I was mesmerised. She was angry, she was sad. And the man began singing his mournful song. He was angry, he was sad. And I fell in love with them all.
After their half hour set, they moved to a stage in the small room where we followed. We took a makeshift seat essentially on the stage, where we got a much closer view of things:

Later in the week, we were persuaded to pay to see a 'Real Flamenco Show' in one of the city's cultural centres. What a shame that was. Compared to our night in the Carboneria, the costumes seemed fake and the dancing seemed lackluster.