Three people asked me this week why I was going to Granada.
One asked politely.
One asked as if I’d announced I was taking up competitive ferret racing.
The third was my aunt, who still believes that at some point I’ll wake up, abandon flamenco entirely, and get a respectable office job with a pension.
I told them all slightly different answers because the truth is I’m not completely sure myself.
For years my life has been stitched together by trains, dance floors, rehearsal rooms, late-night bars, borrowed apartments, and that strange feeling of always having one foot somewhere else. Sevilla became familiar. Jerez became familiar. Even the endless cycle of classes, performances, and travelling started to feel familiar.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Flamenco has an odd habit of nudging you just when you think you’ve worked something out.
The first serious teacher I ever had watched me dance for less than five minutes before telling me to stop. Not pause. Not rest. Stop. I wrote about that in The First Time a Teacher Told Me to Stop Dancing, and I still think about it more often than I’d like.
At the time I thought she was criticising my technique.
Years later I realised she was criticising something else.
Comfort.
The moment you become comfortable in flamenco, you’re probably missing something.
So here I am.
Granada.
Or at least the idea of Granada.
The flat isn’t sorted yet.
Half the things I own are currently spread between two bags and a suitcase that should probably have retired three years ago.
I’ve already changed my mind twice.
Last Tuesday I was convinced it was a terrible idea.
On Thursday I found myself looking at rental listings near the Albaicín and imagining morning walks through streets I’ve only ever experienced as a visitor.
By Saturday I was buying train tickets.
Again.
People often imagine flamenco as certainty.
Strong posture.
Sharp footwork.
Absolute confidence.
The reality is much messier.
Most dancers spend a surprising amount of time wondering what they’re doing.
I certainly do.
The older I get, the less interested I become in perfect performances and the more interested I become in the people behind them.
The guitarist who’s still carrying equipment at two in the morning.
The singer who somehow remembers every verse but forgets where he parked his car.
The student who arrives terrified and leaves six months later standing a little taller.
The places matter too.
Every city seems to shape flamenco differently.
Sevilla feels expansive.
Jerez feels rooted.
Granada feels mysterious.
At least from the outside.
Maybe that’s what I’m chasing.
Not better dancing.
Not more work.
Not some grand artistic breakthrough.
Just a change of scenery before life quietly turns into repetition.
A few months ago I wrote The Night I Realised Flamenco Isn’t a Dance.
What I probably should have written was that flamenco isn’t really a destination either.
You don’t arrive.
You just keep following it.
Sometimes it takes you somewhere expected.
Sometimes it sends you to Granada with no particularly convincing explanation.
So that’s the plan.
Or the current version of the plan.
Ask me again next week and I may have changed my mind completely.
Flamenco has a habit of doing that.
