My Unforgettable Flamenco Adventure in Spain.
Ever since I completed the Camino de Compostela in 2010, I made a promise to myself: every year, I would tackle something that seemed impossible but filled me with passion.
Yoni and I had a tradition of creating a big collage of our goals each year, which we hung in a spot we couldn’t ignore.
It was our screensaver, our fridge art, our daily inspiration.
For years, one of my dreams had been to go to Spain and learn Flamenco.
I also toyed with the idea of flying to Buenos Aires to learn Argentine Tango, but Yoni wasn’t exactly dance-savvy—two left feet and rhythm that never quite found the beat.
I, on the other hand, loved dancing and fancied myself pretty good at it (until I saw Thom’s dance magic).
But the thought of letting a man lead in Tango? That was a stretch too far for me, so Flamenco it was!
In 2012, I finally found a studio in a small village in the Sierra Nevada, not too far from Granada, offering a week-long Flamenco retreat.
Everything lined up perfectly—the dates coincided with Thom’s school vacation, and Yoni had his retreat in Scotland just the week before. It felt like destiny.
So off I went! I flew into Spain, rented a car, and drove to that remote village, eager to immerse myself in Flamenco.
I expected 4-5 hours of dancing each day.
But on the first day, the teacher informed us—me and the other girl in the class—that we’d only be dancing for 3 hours daily.
At first, I was disappointed. I hadn’t flown all the way to Spain for just 3 hours a day; I wanted the full experience!
But after that first lesson, oh boy, was I grateful it was only three hours.
Flamenco is no joke—it’s brutal on the legs and feet.
After class, I hobbled back to my hotel, thanking every saint and god that it wasn’t any longer.
The rest of the day, I rested and recovered.
The shorter hours turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
They gave me time to explore the stunning villages of the Sierra Nevada and fall in love with the Spanish way of life.
Little did I know that within three years, I’d be living in Spain—not in the Sierra Nevada, but in Vilaflor, Tenerife, a place with its own kind of magic.
On the last day of the course, we filmed the Flamenco routine we’d learned.
I had a blast, but it confirmed what I’d begun to suspect—I wasn’t destined to be a Flamenco dancer.
Despite its fiery passion, Flamenco is a dance of control and discipline.
And while I have passion in spades, control and discipline? Not so much.
I’m more of a wild spirit, not one for cold, controlled fire.
Before leaving Spain, I made a pilgrimage to the Alhambra in Granada.
There, I took photos of myself posing as a Flamenco dancer—something I now knew I would never truly be.
But it was a dream I had chased, and now I could happily cross it off my Bucket List.
It was an adventure, a discovery, and a cherished memory.
And it taught me that sometimes, the pursuit of a dream is just as fulfilling as achieving it.