Three Americans, three Mexicans and a Spaniard sit in a Spanish bar. What may be the start of a joke that likely fell flat was how I spent my Tuesday night. On weeknights in Granada, local bars take turns hosting “intercambios,” or language exchanges, put on by the university. Sala Premier, with a bright red exterior and “Lord of the Rings” themed interior — complete with a life-size, wooden Bilbo Baggins — is the proud mother of Tuesday nights.
After waiting in the line out the door, you pay the four-euro entry fee and a nice woman asks where you’re from and what language you want to practice. Bonus points if she thinks you’re Spanish. Once you’re at a table, you wait for the other seats to be filled. How it works is simple — you’re grouped with people who are often fluent in the language you want to practice and are looking to practice the language you already speak. On Tuesday, our table was split right down the middle with four of us there to practice Spanish and four eager to test out their English. They bring drinks and tapas that are included with the cover, and once you get done with pleasantries (always lots of “ooohs” when they hear “New York”), the fun begins.
Last week my table was trading riddles, switching the language of delivery for each riddle. An Italian kid said he had one but that it required toothpicks. Without a word, the girl next to me was on her feet, searching the bar for six wooden sticks. At one point, a guy set up a chair with an acoustic guitar. You started to be able to pick out the Americans in the crowd by seeing who turned their heads to Van Morrison or “Wake Me Up” by Avicii, which brought many of us back to 2013 in the backseat of our parents’ cars. This week, a student from the University of Monterrey in Mexico shared with us about the time he went to a party at a school in Texas and discovered Twisted Tea. He even had a picture of it in his shopping cart. You never know when you’ll get a taste of home here.
My Thursday night plans came to me via email at 12:06 a.m. on Wednesday. I had written to one of Granada’s oldest Flamenco rooms only 20 minutes prior, asking if they had space for four in any upcoming shows in my most casual and nonchalant Spanish, hoping they too would mistake me for a local. I soon had no choice — they had “reserved four seats in [my] name. Pay at door.”
The place, called La Platería, is located in the Albaicín, the old Islamic neighborhood of Granada home to steep, winding streets and white walls. Their blue-tiled patio hosts large parties under candlelight with a direct view of the Alhambra. We waited in line, paid (at the door!) and found our seats on stiff wicker chairs. Flamenco’s origins are in the Andalusian region of Spain, in which Granada is situated. The host announced that La Platería is celebrating its 75th year of operation this season. Onstage were a powerful singer, whose voice and undulations needed no microphone, a guitarist and a man who seemed to be there just to clap along. Tonight’s dancer, Vanesa Flores, sauntered onstage in an all-black piece with her hair pinned back with red flowers. As she spun around and whipped her head left and right, her hair spilled out of the updo.
After she finished in a foot tapping frenzy to an uproar of applause, the clapper man onstage turned out to be the second dancer, Antonio el Chupete. He wore a multi-shade gray getup, with an oddly threadbare shiny black scarf around his neck. While he lacked an elegant skirt to lift, his hands grasped the corners of his jacket while his hair stuck to his forehead. Flores, who had now taken clapper’s old seat, had changed into a red skirt and was clapping along in a syncopated rhythm and shouting to the beat. A French man behind me, having the time of his life, raised his glass of wine in approbation, his wicker chair creaking as he brought himself to his feet above the crowd.
I spent the majority of the show taking mental notes of the guitarist’s performance for my dad, who is a passionate professional musician. I watched the agile movements of his left hand brought to life by the blur of his right, all while keeping in perfect time with whom he was sharing the stage. Adhering to the ban on photography, I snuck voice memo recordings for my dad to be able to listen back and experience with me all the way in California. He responded, “They sure got a sound!” Tonight’s guitarist donned a sharp blue suit with a paisley blue button-up and black and white Spectator shoes. But alas, no funky socks.
My favorite thing to do while I’m here is to try and blend in with the locals, not only to find the best spots but also to learn through experience. To my credit, I do speak Spanish. Further blending in, I’m softening my accent when I speak, dropping the last syllables of words, finding the most authentic hole-in-the-wall places and not ordering paella. My next conquest is a wine tasting at a small Kafka-themed wine tavern, though they only do reservations once a month via unplanned Facebook posts. Needless to say, I might not be their intended audience.
