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Flamenco Festival in My City
"no preamble today" — someone
It was just an ordinary weekend, and we were wandering through the quiet, familiar streets of our town when we heard something unexpected — the sharp sound of heels tapping against wood, the strumming of a guitar, and loud, passionate Spanish voices cutting through the air. As we approached the source of the music, we found ourselves outside one of the local hotels, which had transformed its modest courtyard into a vibrant Spanish fiesta.
A tall, elegant woman dressed in a striking red and white flamenco outfit noticed our curiosity. Her lips curled into a warm smile, and with a graceful gesture, she waved us closer. “You are welcome,” she said. “This is Feria de Peñaros — Flamenco Festival. Come in, you will enjoy!” Her presence was magnetic — adorned with a red flower in her hair and wearing a traditional traje de flamenca with flowing ruffles and polka dots, she seemed as if she had stepped right out of Andalusia.
We weren’t invited guests — just passersby drawn in by the sounds and colors. Yet the atmosphere was so open and joyful that we immediately felt like part of the celebration.
The festival stage had a backdrop showing old Spanish streets, golden stone buildings glowing in the imaginary sun. On the stage, a group of women danced with powerful elegance, their dresses swirling in layers of red, white, green, and purple. Each dancer wore a fringed shawl, combs in their hair, and flowers tucked beside their smiles. The rhythm of their performance was intense, almost hypnotic — a dialogue between stomping heels and clapping hands.
In the audience, many people were dressed in festive attire. Two young women stood near us, one in a fitted red skirt and white blouse with poppy prints, the other in a long black skirt and simple white top. Their hair was adorned with bright red flowers, and one of them was filming the performance on her phone, visibly excited.
Walking further, we passed the old red building that served as a backstage area for the performers. Dozens of dancers were gathered on the steps, chatting, adjusting their flowers, re-tying shawls. The air buzzed with Spanish phrases, laughter, and the rustle of dresses. One woman stood tall in a red fitted jacket and long skirt, holding a cane like a matadora. Another, dressed in white and red polka dots, practiced turns on the stone pavement, her dress billowing with every movement.
Later on, the solo performances began. One dancer stood alone on stage in a white blouse with black dots and a deep red skirt. With every movement, she told a story — of pride, heartbreak, love — without speaking a word. Her dance was met with thunderous applause. Another performer, in a layered red skirt with a pink polka-dot ruffle and a fan in hand, gave a more playful and flirtatious dance, capturing the spirit of feria.
What struck us most was how surreal it all felt. Here we were, in a small Russian city far from Seville or Córdoba, yet surrounded by people who had poured their hearts into recreating this Spanish tradition with such authenticity and enthusiasm. There was no commercial glitz — just a sincere love for flamenco, for the culture, the dress, the emotion of it all.
As we finally left the festival, the music still ringing in our ears, I turned to my friend and said, “Isn’t it strange that something so Spanish could feel so at home here?” She smiled and replied, “Maybe passion speaks a universal language.”
That day, what started as a casual stroll turned into a vivid, unforgettable journey through another culture — brought to life not by travel, but by the people right here in our own city.
That,s all for today.
Stand by
Sincerely yours
