There are twenty wooden sticks in the framework of my Spanish fan, or as flamenco aficionados would call it – abanico. They are of a neutral wood color, each 28cm in length, protected by a shiny polish that is to keep the fan from wear. Yet, even in its relatively new condition, my abanico could tell much about me. I open it fiercely, making with the coarse slip material, very much resembling paper, a series of blunt sounds, similar to those produced when stretching material in one fast motion. The edge of the slip is already worn, after less than a month, whether due to too much passion in my dance with the abanico, or the way it is always somewhere at the bottom of my bag being towed around in case of some highly unlikely flamenco emergency. The inner stick is crooked, a fault with which the fan arrived from Barcelona, and this is the side which I always have a firm grip on. The polish on this side is starting to wear – just as I am not kind to the polish, the abanico is not kind to the palm of my hand, both causing a great deal of friction with the other. The metal stop which prevents the abanico from falling apart has been bent so as to pinch my palm as little as possible. Being from a very thin metal, it will most likely soon fall apart, when the sharp end of a nail will be making its permanent mark in the skin just at the bottom of my right thumb.
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