|Manolo de Cordoba, Madrid|
Photo his own
That is the figure that spun in front of us during a flamenco show at our hotel.
Except that this male wore black tights and a shocking pink ruffled shirt under black vest and twirled a pink neon cape.
We shouldn't have been surprised. The hotel was billed a "five-star" on Mallorca, but was more like a Holiday Inn. Housekeeping had shoved twin beds together to form our king, so one of us was continually falling through the crack at night. When we used the sink, pipes gurgled in the shower and water rose from its drain. There were four computers available for guests to use (with accompanying coin machines), but none of the four worked. The front desk gave me refunds.
Ichabod continued to twirl in front of us, like a whirling dervish. He accompanied three very talented female dancers, who changed for each number from gold spangles to red ruffles to blue fringe to yellow satin. Their feet pounded the stage in a blur. Finally Ichabod stopped twirling and toppled toward the audience, obviously dizzy. Someone in the front row caught him.
The music muffled my laughter. In Ichabod's final moment of glory, he threw his head back while his arms shot straight toward the ceiling. As the music faded, we watched his long appendages creep down his torso and over the thin hips to his thighs. The seductive pink cape slithered with them. Fortunately, it was only a few steps to the bar.