The dirt road is bumpy. Our truck lumbers along through acres of farmland, kicking up dust at every turn. I put my hand out the window and feel the dry heat of the summer sun. When we finally pull into the driveway of a farmhouse, the sweet aroma of figs hits me. There is a lavish spread of the fruit prepared for us. The cedar table is decorated with large, glossy, leathery fig leaves— ranging from pale to dark green. I fill my mouth with sticky figs until I can’t eat anymore. In the distance, I hear laughter and the faint strains of music.The driver takes me by the hand and leads me through the house and out the back door. We start running at full speed through the hills of fig trees.

Against the backdrop of the fiery sunset, we reach a large gathering of people. Everyone is wearing elaborate dresses and suits, their faces painted in emerald and burgundy. They are sipping milky cocktails, paying no mind to the splashes as they twirl, stomp, and bend to the music. An old man, plain-faced, sits on a stage. I watch his weathered yet strong hands masterfully strum away at the guitar strings. The crowd moves and dances to the Flamenco music in perfect choreography. Even though it’s the first time I’ve heard this song, I know the dance by heart. The driver spins me around and around until the colors of the crowd swirl into infinity. No matter how much we dance, the music plays on.