Spanish steps

Many moons ago, when I first moved to Malaga, one of the first Spanish people I got to know on any serious level told me an amusing tale about a trip he'd recently made to London. It's a story that still comes to mind from time to time, especially if I see a foreign person flailing about in a gallant, yet risible, attempt at a spot of Spanish dancing (that person may or may not be me).

Having spent all of his holiday money far too early and still having five or six days to go before his flight, Rafael had been faced with the prospect of sitting bereft in his hotel room, indulging in a week-long Pot Noodle marathon. However, being a resourceful kind of chap, he had other ideas. Rafael decided that, rather than accept his dispiriting fate, he would have a stab at a spot of busking to pay his way for the rest of his stay. The fact that he couldn't sing or play any instrument for toffee certainly wasn't going to stop him. No, being a red-blooded Andalusian, he would dance a spectacular bit of flamenco for a vast and admiring crowd. The minor detail that he'd never danced any flamenco in his life was, of course, neither here nor there.

According to what he told me, he borrowed a shirt with massive lapels, spent his Pot Noodle fund on a plastic rose to put between his teeth and headed off to Covent Garden where he proceeded to wow the assembled throng with his somewhat limited array of dance moves. (His) legend has it he made enough money by going down there each day to prolong his stay a further week, although I suspect this bit might have been an outrageous embellishment. Still, I was mightily impressed.

"What music did you dance to?" "A Flamenco tape from a petrol station on a borrowed ghetto blaster."

"What was the dance exactly?" "A lot of stamping and clapping and the apple thing."

Ah, yes, the apple thing. This is one of those arts which all Andalusians are trained in from birth - "cojo la manzana, me la como y la tiro" (I take the apple, I eat it and I throw it away).

The corresponding actions (reaching up for an apple from a tree, passing it by your lips and then flinging it to the ground, preferably throwing your head back and stamping your foot for emphasis) enable even the clumsiest participant to offer a passable impression of a real flamenco dancer, while sometimes even maintaining a modicum of dignity. It certainly worked for Rafael thirty years ago.

In conclusion then, there are, I think, two certainties to be extracted from this wildly inspirational tale: one, a little bit of initiative goes a very long way, and two, I bet you've just done the apple thing.

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