Afterwards I heard a kid in the stall in the men's can tell his grandpa, waiting for him by the sink, that he wasn't afraid of anything anymore. Good boy, said grandpa. When the kid came out, I saw he was about eight years old.
We could pause now for what we feared when we were eight. I'll start. It was the wall right next to me, which in the night caused hallucinations.
The subject of fear had nothing to do, surely, with the flamenco performance. In 48 hours, the group had found their way deeper into what they were doing (guitar/vocal, chorus of clappers, one solo dancer). Maybe the later hour and larger crowd helped things. For me, the signal of flamenco that works is that it answers a prayer I wasn't aware of sending.
Before all that, I caught Lowell Dean's Wolfcop, a buddy/suspense/fantasy/cop comedy/drama produced largely in western Canada. It delivered just enough surprise to make it past some dubious moments to an ending.