Flamenco

A handsome, eyebrow-pierced young Spaniard returns to his job at the cybercafe on a lonely corner in Salamanca.

Every once in a while, his thoughts turn to a quirky American girl with downcast eyes who came into the cybercafe one summer afternoon about two years ago. She sat sullenly, the only one there that day. He had some modern Flamenco on in the background. Suddenly, she inquired about the group playing, and he offered to make her a CD full of the music. Tears welled up in her eyes and she said she wasn't ready to leave Spain. She didn't want to go back to the States. He smiled and shook his head. What a silly little sentimental girl. He gave her candy and told her to keep her head up, that it's better to go through life smiling than crying. He gave her the CD, but not before he wrote "Flamenquito: music from Salamanca for a friend" on it. He then sent her off with his email address, more encouraging words, and oh-so-Spanish besitos on both cheeks.

Little does he know that the music on the CD he burned for her now gets its wear in a high school Spanish classroom thousands of miles away from his lonely corner. Students unaccustomed to such plaintive wailing, staccato raps and claps, and raspy guitar enter a new world for a few moments. Some, ever searching for an excuse, complain that they don't understand the words. "Maybe not," the girl, now a teacher, says, "but you can feel it."