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Flamenco

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He had planned it long ago. It was my only wish, then. A date marked on the calendar with the red pencil. Red is the color of a flamingo. The color of passion, pain and intense life. Red caused all my senses. So the only thing I could do was immerse myself in Andalusia. Home where others usually end the night, ie in an elegant hotel in Seville, where the friendly staff strives to visit some remote corners of the old Hispaniola.

I am involved in the move from Seville, and journey through the dark streets of the old city, in search of color and Andalusian heat .. I find and lose myself. Absolutely. The hours are small and the short night and the day is coming soon, but I’m ready and I hope so. This time is the area of Triana conquest me, a sort of fascination. In a traditional restaurant, a terrace table overlooking the river Guadalquivir, let me gently pampered by the typical tapas and wine, red as well, which reminds me of something authentic and patriarchal.

And flamenco, again, and the passion that comes from the Andalusian dancer, which is owned by the gypsy guitar that hits hard. Today also I am going back to my hotel later in Seville, tired but satisfied. The ‘lady tomorrow’ see me again in Italy, and the aircrew will notice probably my eyes closed because of the dream, and my heart will not inflamed due to flamenco. But this will be their problem, not mine.

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