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I entered the small studio apprehensively, unsure of what to expect. The light was dim in the basement, but it provided temporary relief from the glare of the blazing Spanish sun. Manila shawls hung decoratively on the walls and the AC whirred softly in the background. With my basic Spanish pleasantries already exchanged in the dressing room, my current language limits had been reached but silence descended as we carefully chose our positions. I stood in the back row, flexing my toes in the too-tight Flamenco shoes borrowed from the dance school reception (I quickly decided that I would buy my own, as a memento if nothing else). Anticipation grew as the teacher made her way gracefully to the front of the class. In Spanish, she introduced herself and the art of Flamenco. The authenticity was enthralling but, how was I going to follow? The others relaxed, nodding and smiling. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead as together, we adopted the starting position. I imitated the teacher, who bunched a handful of her skirt in a small fist and placed it upon her waist. I stood poised, ready to be transported. Beginning life in a new country is hugely exciting, terrifying, and immensely rewarding. Moving to Madrid three weeks ago and determined to make the most of this long-desired lifestyle change, I was throwing myself into situations like this, desperately seeking opportunities to improve my Spanish and communicate. I’ve been challenged and tested, I’ve felt flustered, and proud. But with every experience, I grow. The sound of the guitar drifted into the room. Softly at first. Then a distinctive beat invaded. The teacher who had been smiling and chatting before, now looked anguished as she tilted her face upwards, pain visible in her eyes. Her mouth slightly open, it was as though she was wailing but without making a sound. I watched mesmerised as she demonstrated; I was under the spell. A master of technique, yet spontaneous in choreography, this was the beauty of the Flamenco dancer. The music built to an emotive climax, both haunting and powerful as she sharply turned her head, jet-black hair whipping the air behind her. With a slow rotation of her tiny body, she stopped. Now it was my turn. In beats of four, we were counted in “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro”. The teacher shouted commands, but I soon realised that I didn’t need to understand them, I simply had to watch. I studied her closely whilst copying the intricate movement of her fingers and the twist of her wrist, as we raised our arms high in unison. She caught my gaze in the mirror to confirm understanding and I smiled, realising. We were communicating through movement as people had done for centuries, connecting countries and cultures all over the world. My arms shook as we held the position for what felt like an eternity when, the tension was broken with a rapid machine-gun stamping of the feet and a flourishing “Olé”. I was hypnotised by the swishing skirts, the sporadic shouting, the sweat. Then, the spell broke as the class ended and we clapped encouragingly. I stamped my feet through 3 hour-long classes that week, and the weeks that followed. During those hours, I thought of nothing else. My fear of not being able to understand was left outside the studio door. Here, I understood perfectly. My body ached. In this whole new experience of mine, I was struggling, striving, and surviving, as I imagined los gitanos of past generations. Like them, I too was captivated by this mysterious land and chose it as my home, so delving into Spain’s colourful past was my duty. I connected not only in the present but with the past too, not through spoken words in broken Spanish, but through dance. Mastering the technique would take time, yet I was so proud when I thought I could “dance in Spanish”. Later, as I sat in the late afternoon sun reflecting, it occurred to me that in fact dance has no language and if it does, then it can be understood by all. The language of dance is universal. And this, is remarkable.