The Fire of Flamenco
Reading time: About 4 minutes.
When I showed up for a flamenco dinner in Seville, I wasn’t expecting a life-altering moment. I was just trying not to cry into my tapas. But then she appeared—in the corner of a tiny bar, under twinkle lights and a “no moving during the show” rule—and reminded me, with every stomp and sweep of her arm, that I still had a body. And a choice.
Ingrid Mugu dances as Paula Ramírez sings and Juan de los Reyes plays guitar at La Madriguera in Seville, Spain. Photo by Mairead Sardina.
This was supposed to be a trip for two.
You know the kind—paella under a café umbrella, side-by-side mosaic tile making, mutual declarations that yes, olive oil is absolutely a spiritual experience. My husband and I had planned it all. There were PDF’d tickets. There were Apple Notes. There were color-coded dreams.
But life (and also work—mostly work) had other plans.
By the time our tour group gathered in Seville for our first official dinner, he was packing for Barcelona to “focus on work” and “get his head on straight”—both phrases I support, respect, and have also wanted to scream into a pillow.
So I stayed. Which meant I was now traveling solo… in a group… on a pre-planned vegan tour through Spain. A plot twist even my most dramatic journal entries hadn’t anticipated.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t flee. I didn’t even dramatically stomp down a cobblestone street with no clear destination. I just… stayed. Floaty. Untethered. Determined to make the best of it. The kind of “fine” that deserves its own font.
That night, we went to a flamenco bar.
Calling it a “bar” is generous. From the outside, it looked like somewhere you might accidentally wander into thinking you could buy gum. Black awning, handwritten sign, not a tapas menu in sight. Our guide’s entire pitch: “It’s tiny, but you’ll love it.” Which, frankly, is also how people describe me—so I was in.
Inside: twinkle lights. Brick walls plastered with local art. A bar so small you could touch it from almost anywhere. The smell of garlic and anticipation in the air.
Our group of nine squeezed around a long table of mismatched chairs, shoulder-to-shoulder, elbow-to-elbow. Tapas arrived—round after round of vegan delights. Laughter bounced. Wine flowed. But I still felt a little numb, like I was still waiting for someone to show up. (Spoiler: they wouldn’t.)
Then the owner—sharp as a tack and twice as commanding—stepped forward and silenced the room with a single sentence: “No moving once the show starts.”
The lights dimmed. We obeyed.
First: the guitarist. He shuffled onstage like he’d just woken up, then proceeded to play like the guitar owed him three months’ back rent. No small talk. Just hands conjuring thunder from nylon strings.
Then: the singer. She stepped into the spotlight like she was entering another realm. Her voice? Not a voice. A portal. A howl and a hymn and a homecoming all in one. She sang in old Spanish, but I felt every syllable in my chest. It was heartbreak and longing and the smell of roasted red peppers. I didn’t understand the words. I didn’t need to.
And just when it felt like the whole room might burst from the weight of it—
She arrived.
The flamenco dancer.
She didn’t enter. She claimed. No smile. No flourish. No hint of performance. Just a presence so dense it bent the air around her. She wasn’t there for us. She was there because the floor called to her.
Every stomp sent a message. Her skirt was part weapon, part storm cloud. Her arms carved stories into the air. Her fingers flicked like flames. Her body spoke—fluent in truths older than words.
And somewhere in the thrum of it all, something in me cracked open. Not loudly. Not epically. Just… quietly. Like a seam giving way.
Because here was this woman—alive, rooted, unapologetic—taking up space like her soul had signed a lease. Not smiling. Not softening. Not explaining. Just being.
Fiercely.
And me? I was still trying to apologize for the empty chair at dinner.
But that night, I remembered I had a body. Not a ghost of one. Not a suggestion. A full, feeling, flame-warmed body. And I didn’t need someone else next to me to validate it.
The next morning, I woke up different.
Not “new woman” different. More like “re-entered woman” different. As if I’d crossed back into myself—quietly, unapologetically, without needing to ask permission.
I still missed him. I still wished we’d shared that moment.
But the rhythm had found its way into my bones. The space had been claimed. The story—my story—had shifted.
And I was dancing in it now.
P.S. Huge thanks to Kim at Veg Jaunts and Journeys for organizing such a beautiful adventure, and to our guide Mairead, who led us through each unforgettable experience (including this flamenco show!) with warmth, humor, and so much care. Also—can we talk about the food? Chef’s kiss, every single day.
