On the other hand, you have the common hustling Gypsy. I'm walking between the cathedral and the Alcázar in Seville, when I am approached by a young Gypsy woman offering me a small branch. I refuse. "Gratis, gratis," she says. Naively thinking she will leave, I accept her branch and turn to leave. But my hand is anchored in her grip, and suddenly my palm is being read. In my limited Spanish, even though she may be speaking Caló, I can tell she is saying I am awesome, and my future is at least above average. Even so, I'm still looking for her little Gypsy friend who might try and pick my pocket. When she finishes, she shows me her palm, asking for money. It's been a couple of years, and I honestly don't remember if I gave her any money or not, but I'll tell you what I do remember. I stuffed that little branch in my back pocket, and every time I saw a Gypsy approaching I whipped out that branch like a crucifix towards a vampire.
So thank you, Gypsies, for your Flamenco, and next time I go to Spain, I'm bringing my own branch.
1 comment:
Man, I remember those Spanish Gypsy's. Good thing I had a tight hold on my wallet, I was a little distracted by the shiny gold that was part of their outfit.
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