Flamenco underground
I saw flamenco—steps and music—performed last night in a warehouse in NE Minneapolis. For free. Last night was a Wednesday, by the way.
The warehouse was cozier than a warehouse has any right to be—excepting the warehouse ceiling and cement construction, the room was closed in by a half-wall painted burnt orange, had tall mirrors on the walls, and was lit by tucked-away lamps and candles on the tables, scattered chairs, and stools.
The friend who had brought us—let’s call him “P”—plied us with Trader Joe’s three-buck chuck in Cabernet, Merlot, and Shiraz flavors. He had cases of the stuff . . .