The sound of Spanish Rhytms

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I sit next to one of my best friends in a bar in Barcelona. Rhytms are pulsing through the room, and a spanish flamenco-dancer move like an elegant swan on a lake. The spotlight shines on the red dots on her black dress as she swirls around, the skirts following her. 

We are in Barcelona for three days, and we have been sightseeing most of the day. When we came back to the hotel, we wanted to find out if there was something to do that evening, and after some research decided to attend a flamenco show. We didn’t have much time, so we took a taxi to the area we thought would be about right. The taxi driver was of the chatty type and cheerfully told us there had been a murder right next to where we lived. With this cozy story in mind we  weren`t in the best mood when we came out of the taxi. The happiness was further stilted when we realized we were still quite far away from the adress to the flamenco show. We didn`t`think we would find it before it started, but incredible enough, we made it after running like two crazy maniacs. Is there a better way to prepare for an energetic evening? We walked into the room, that we first didn`t believe could be the right one. But when we came a bit further, we saw to our relief that it was. In the first room there was a plathora of dresses in every color imaginable. There were even some dresses for small children.

Before the show started we had a great refuelling Spanish-style dinner. Then the show started. We sucked it all in, like leeches always thirsty for more. I know Birgit loved every minute of it. She has danced since she could walk, but haven`t had the chance to do much dancing since she became a wife, mother and psychology student. Today, two lears later, she has finally started to dance again. I smile at her, knowing nothing of what came later in her life. The child that will be born and die 7 hours later. The divorce from her husband. The smile that she still manage to put on her beautiful face.

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