He had planned it long ago. It was my only desire, then. A date marked on the calendar with the red pencil. Red is the color of flamenco. The color of passion, pain and intense life. Red which causes all my senses. So the only thing that could be done was to immerse me in Andalusia.
Start where others often end up overnight, i.e. in an elegant hotel in Seville, where the pleasant staff strives to visit some recondite corners of the old Hispalis. I am enveloped in the Sevillian movida, and road through the dark streets of the old city, in search of the color and the Andalusian heat…I find it and I lose myself. Completely. The hours are small, and short night and day comes soon, but I’m ready and already I hope so. This time it is the zone of Triana which conquered me, a sort of fascination. A traditional restaurant, in a table of a terrace overlooking the Guadalquivir River, let me pamper sweetly by the typical tapas and red wine too, it reminds me something authentic and patriarchal. And the Flamenco, again, and the passion that comes from the Andalusian dancer, who is possessed by the Gypsy guitar that hits hard.
Today also I will return late to my hotel in Seville, tired, but satisfied. Lady tomorrow I will see in Italy, and aircrew probably will notice my eyes closed because of the dream, and will not see my heart swollen with flamenco. But this will be their problem, not mine.