The Blanco Republic
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¿Te acuerdas Torres Bermejas?

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There she was… sitting above me to my left, elevated on the stage, the most beautiful creature a teenage boy had ever seen in his life. She looked the epitome of a Spanish princess, and made me wonder what her name was.

One of the other patrons on tour with us told me to ask for her name by writing it on one of the napkins. Mind you, this is a high class place, and they use real linens for their tablecloths and napkins.

“¿Como te llamas?,” I wrote. Then I handed the napkin to her. Her hand brushed mine and I melted in the dark pools of her eyes. She wrote her name down on the napkin and handed it back to me.

Teresa. Her name was Teresa. I shall always remember her as Teresita. She had jet black hair pinned back with a golden tiara and a full bodice traje de flamenca with a low neckline that plunged her cleavage like the depths of the Mediterranean Sea.

Her name has lived in my memory for years, as well as the tablao espectáculo de Torres Bermejas.

Slowly the lights went down and the dancers took their places on the stage. The guitarristas began their introduction with a slow tristeza. The cantaores recounted their heartaches of centuries of love and loss in their music and lyrics.

I listened to the strained chords of the farrucas and the zapateado on the stage floor, and watched Teresa as she danced. Her firm young breasts were well proportioned and pushed up in her bodice to accentuate her cleavage. Her neck was like a perfect column of Greek marble rising up from her shoulders.

Her dress was tight; God, was it tight! She was perfectly proportioned from her head to her feet. Her hips were accentuated by the mantela that she wore around her waist. I just wanted to hold her close to me and smell her perfume mixed with her perspiration. Oh, God! I wanted to do more than that! I was a teenage boy whose hormones were exploding in 5 different languages!

As the espectáculo grew into a crescendo the classic tale of España retold the centuries of love’s losses and conquests. History was being replayed for me and only if you understood the lyrics would you benefit. The idioma de flamenco was born of many ancient cultures and it told the stories of Jewish, Moorish, Christian and the Gypsies.

The geography of Spain was nowhere near as beautiful as the graceful movements of Teresa that night. Watching her dance El Pasaje al Medianoche has enchanted me for over 37 years. Her “crossing over” into midnight began slowly, then grew into a frenetic frenzy of choreographed movements with her hands, arms, and the rapid firing of castañuelos.

I wonder where she is now. Perhaps she is travelling with another troupe somewhere in Spain. Maybe she married years ago and forgot about the young boy at her side 37 years ago… that young American who fell into the abyss of her beauty and drowned. I’m sure she has had thousands of admirers since me.

If you ever go to Madrid, stay at the Meliá Castilla. Take a taxi and tell the driver you want to go to the Torres Bermejas on Mesonero Romanos, numero 11. Right in the heart of Madrid, two minutes walk from the Plaza Mayor and on the corner of Gran Via. Or take the subway to the Plaza de Callao. They’re just a two minute walk from the Plaza Mayor.

Yes… I remember Los Torres Bermejas. But most especially, I remember Teresa. I hope she remembers that silly kid sitting at her feet that night in 1970. He has been worshipping her ever since.
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One Response to “¿Te acuerdas Torres Bermejas?”

  1. Hey! Get your satellite connexn hooked up and update this!! 🙂


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