My Spanish Dress and the Spanish Fair Essay -- Observation Essay, Descr

At eleven o'clock I am wishing my shoes did not have hobnails in them as I noisily tread down the tranquil street lined with four-o-clocks and horse stables. I try unsuccessfully to not let my footfalls disturb this peaceful night. Silently, I curse myself for deciding to wear this heavy Spanish dress loudly swishing at my ankles. Agitated, I tug at my hair and red shawl. At the comer a rainbow of people spreads out before me. The appetizing aromas of warm bread, seafood, and sherry surge over me and instill a craving. Vibrant colors reflect from the resplendent dresses my friends wear. We greet each other with two kisses and saunter under an arch of lights to the Spanish Fair, la Feria. From the left, screams of delight ascend from the rides on the other side of the Feria. We continue strolling on the gritty dirt road lined with stucco buildings called casetas. From these buildings drift a stifled blend of music and laughter. Families assemble together while eating and telling stories. Children and teenagers are captivated, as their fathers and grandfathers relate (with exaggerated hand gestures) funny stories and old tales. Most men don riding attire: vests, riding boots, chaps, and black wide-brimmed hats. A few women are dressed traditionally as well, in long skirts, riding boots, and amazona jackets. Many more women wear Sevillana dresses like ours. Some even wear the exquisitely hand-embroidered silk shawls called mantones. These dresses have a Gypsy style, heavy with lace and fabric. We all have the same type of shoes although some are more broken in than others. My shoes are new and the stubborn leather constricts my feet. The hobnails, used as taps, make sli ght clicking sounds on the and dirt underfoot. We enter a... ...tly. My wrists rotate and I delicately twist my fingers in the moist air as my hand-made red and black dress swishes with each pass I make. The long fringes of my manton swing smoothly at my sides as I dance with the clapped rhythm. I dance without stopping as each ancient song blends into the next. As the hours pass by I know I could dance fortever and forget about tomorrow. The air at seven a.m. is warmed with the rising sun. Perfumed four-o-clocks are sleeping peacefully, and the scent of the ocean pervades as the new morning begins. My dress sways pleasantly at my ankles. My disheveled hair plays around my face and my manton hangs crooked but comfortably on my shoulders. My legs and feet are exhausted but the nails tap flawlessly on the gritty earth. Their cadence refreshes the sensation I felt earlier while dancing, and I am proud to wear my Spanish dress.