August 8 I packed my bags and flew off to Barcelona, from where I'd catch a train to Valencia on the 9th. I should rephrase the beginning of this statement to midnight, August 8, as I was in a manic state of indecision until the very last moment. Were I spending my summer break somewhere bleak and gray, I'm sure Valencia would sound very appetizing, but the warm climate and hours of lazying about under the sun did make me reconsider my summer plans.
But I caught the plane, motivated more than anything by the idea of working with a principal dancer from the Bejart Ballet (Jania Batista) and on the 9th I was dropping off my bags at the halls of residence where I'd live during the three weeks of the European Dance Arts Salzburg summer school.
My arrival saw horrific event after horrific event, all superseded as if determined to make me catch the last train back to Barcelona. The reception of the halls was full of children with beach balls, screaming, running,children. All of them running up and down stairs, up and down the lifts, here a kid, there a kid,everywhere a kid.
I was convinced I had entered an episode of Tracy Beaker by the time I went to an introductory meeting organized for the dancers. At first glance, I could have been the rest of my mates' father (okay, perhaps if I had had a baby at 14 or 15; some poetic license is allowed). Several of them had come with their parents, and most of them looked terrified to be away from home. I felt like a member of staff, instead of a student.
It was clear I couldn't stay here. And if there was any other doubt, the kids shouting abuse and spitting at me from their balcony when I went outside to have a cigarette confirmed that my departure was inminent.
I decided to give the actual course a try before doing anything drastic. The next morning we were walked to the Valencia Conservatoire for Dance, where we were met by a considerable ammount of dancers who weren't staying at the halls.I had a quick look around and spied a couple of boys with stubbles similar to mine,and girls who had seemed to develop past the age of twelve. After the first ballet class we were given time to rehearse solos (those of us who wanted to perform them at the end of the course gala shows)- I must add I've never seen an audition with that many Kitris and Paquitas, deliciously apt for a Spanish gala I suppose- and during that time I met people who were above eighteen. I could breathe at last.
The situation at the halls remained the same, unfortunately- children who ran around screaming until late hours of the night amongst many other disturbances, mainly drunk Italians, but the first few days were made easier by the excitement of the course. Soon,however, I realized this was no summer school. It was a socio-scientific experiment: what happens if we put 50 dancers in tiny studios under 43 degree temperatures and make them dance from 8 am to 7 pm? I wdon't kno what the answer will be, but it quite literally doesn't smell nice.
