Salsa Dancing


On Saturday night, Johanna’s friend, Dalila, and her husband Juan, invited us out for a night of salsa dancing. My first thought was, “Great, I really like Dalila and Juan.” My second thought, “You moved to Colombia, you are not Colombian, you are white, very, very, white.” Johanna reassured me that I would be fine, and even practiced with me at the apartment. I was feeling better, until we danced by the mirror. I dance like a cadaver.

Liquid Courage
As my sweat glands burst, I realized I would need some liquid courage. Turns out, coffee and liquor only makes you sweat more. 
Boricua, morena, boricua, morena. Still Not a Player. 

The club was small, the music was loud, and we met up with about 10 people that spoke Spanish. My choices were: embarrass myself with my mouth or with my feet.

I embarrassed myself with both, but it started with my feet. Johanna took me out on the dance floor, where I proceeded to stomp around like Frankenstein. Soon, I was sweating from dancing, and I wasn’t feeling quite as nervous. I realized, just like learning the language, people love that you are trying, and are willing to help.

Old School DJ
Old school DJ, spinning CDs. No iTunes. 

With Johanna’s help and the help of a few friends, I started to loosen up. The copious amounts of Aguadiente passed around the table didn’t hurt either.

Man Down
Man down!

A friend of Juan and Dalila’s, who teaches salsa,  gave me some free lessons and, by the end of the night, I went from cadaver to walking dead. Baby steps.

Dance Face
I need as much work on my dance face, as I do on my dance steps. 

While Johanna and I didn’t know many people, they all showed us a great time and treated us as if we were old friends. Don’t underestimate the kindness of strangers.

Johanna, Juan and Dalila


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