Wow, there were a lot of questions! He did his best to reiterate them in his mind.

"Yes, I live with my Abuela and my Uncle Juan, his wife Ana and two of their four sons - my cousins José and Manuel". He paused, and added, "But all my other uncles, Antonio, Ramón and Joaquím and their families live close by too. Oh, except for one uncle, José, who lives with his family in another town, Jerez de la Frontera, he added. "And then, there are the families of my cousins, like, the older brothers of José and Manuel, we can see the roofs of Juan and Ruben's houses from ours". That’s not including the second cousins, aaand, the cousins who are cousins via marriage. For example, the house opposite my grandmothers belongs to the family of the sister of my third uncles wife, Kike". There were even more cousins that the ones he'd mentioned too. He smirked, he didn’t need to see her face to know this was confusing. Really, she had no chance of understanding it…. but she had asked.

"I guess overall I probably do get extra treatment but as a male heir to my lineage, there are certain expectations placed on me. I'm expected to represent my family name and my gitano heritage, by dedicating myself to practicing our art. I've been fully immersed from the day of my birth and guided in developing the dance, music and traditions of my family and heritage". He shrugged because, even though he was proud, the expectations were just a normality for him.

This was the hardest question of them all, he really had to think about how to explain what flamenco was. It was a dance, yes, a music, an artistic representation of an ancient people, but it was so much more to him - it was his way of life. He could have spoken of its history, the roots of his people, of the deep song and the intense passion. But ultimately he couldn’t make her feel the profundity of it or help her know the presence of the dark ‘duende’ spirit that was invoked by the dance and the music. He lacked the words to convey the depth of its intensity. His uncle had once described the feeling of duende as “the moment one’s heart breaks and mends itself at the same time” but still it was more than that. He felt it was like beauty, something fleeting, that never repeated - a sad joy, or a longing for people or times or places that you could never return to - it was the love that remained. Ultimately, it was the expression of the suffering and grace and love of his people through the ages. He considered all of these things, but said none of it. He said, simply, “You would have to experience it to know”.

Indeed, she wouldn’t have to know anything about flamenco to feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise as it touched her, and he knew that if she were to experience the passion of a performance of pure flamenco, that the memory of the feeling it conjured would stay with her always. He did enjoy her enthusiasm about wanting to learn, but as for teaching her in one day, well, maybe they could start with the basic palmas or clapping patterns so that she could join in the when the singing began…

Then, she was worried about the age of her house! "Well, If you think your house is old, you’ll be surprised to know how old mine is, in fact, my whole town", he said with a smile. My grandmother’s house overlooks the Alhambra, which is a 13th century Moorish palace and fortress set atop the hillside. It’s a spectacular view, Nells, I’ve looked upon it nearly everyday of my life and still I can’t deny it’s beauty. You should see it at night when it is fully lit, the orange glow of the palace walls are a sight to behold". He smiled, at the memory of his hometown and said, "If you come and visit me, I’ll take you there". He knew she would adore the walled gardens and trickling fountains, the intricate carvings and tessellating glazed tiles, the domed ceilings and still ponds. The alhambra was a love letter to Moorish culture and enchanted all who knew her.

He thought about his grandmother's house."My house is at the top of a narrow road that weaves up into the hills. It’s a double-storey house with small wrought iron balconies under each window". He pictured it in his mind, blinding white in the summer heat. "Its white-walled, like most of the houses, but the shutters and door architraves are painted royal blue. At the front, theres a walled terraced garden with a wrought iron gated entrance that opens into a terracotta courtyard. Inside, the garden walls are lined with orange trees and on warm afternoons you can smell the orange scent wafting in the breeze". He recalled many a night spent in the courtyard with family and friends singing bulerias late into the night and he felt a pang of sadness ignite in him, he really missed those times. He gave a small smile and continued."The house itself is not that large but it opens out to the back through columned archways to a another walled terrace which has a row of date palms and a swimming pool. And if you look up Nells, in the distance, behind the house, are the Sierra Nevada mountains", he gestured upward with his hand as he spoke, indicating their dominence. He hoped this painted a better picture of where he lived - and, not a caravan in sight.