I’ve always found myself a bit of a fumble foot. I can flit elegantly on rocks, and picked up skating with ease, but dance has always eluded me. Like patting your head and rubbing your stomach, the combination of unknowns just causes my brain to short circuit.
Arriving at the venue late, by a whole five minutes, sent quite the shock through my system, leaving me frazzled and rather nervous. Not to mention the sweat starting to stain my shirt, a by-product of a mad dash to the location. Quickly we realised, the class had not yet started, and my flustered composure, or rather the cause of it, was for nought. Discarding my ephemera against a wall, the ground beneath which was already piled high with a multitude jackets and bags, we made our way to the dance floor. The hubbub of the crowd was smashing against the blaring music of a neighbouring class, resulting in a disorienting cacophony of noise. Nervously latched onto my companion as She led our way through the mass of the crowd, we emerged onto a wooden floor, simultaneously polished smooth, whilst still scuffed and well used over time.
‘Has anyone here been to one of these classes before?’ asks the Salsa Instructor. A tall and well-built man, his good looks merely a tool at the service of his charisma. His clear dialogue, punctuated by the odd quip, though obviously pre-rehearsed, reveals his skill as a teacher.
‘Who here has heard of Salsa before?’ a small handful of people raise their hands, nervously, their heads scan around, looking for the support that comes from a crowd, herd immunity.
‘Who here hasn’t heard of Salsa before? asks the tall and well-built Salsa Instructor. Fewer people raise their hands. Not expecting to be questioned so strongly, the patrons of the class have been caught in a lie, one of the statements must be true. Suspiciously, my hand seems to remain quite still throughout the process.
‘Who here brought a partner with them?’ he asks. A smile cracks across my face as the cowardly and duplicitous hands of the audience suddenly remember they have a voice after all, as they rise high into the air. Turning slightly to the side to face Her, I raise my hand.
She met me at a Christmas party. Sure, we were in the same circles, and had met before, but that’s where She met me. Properly. Shit-face drunk, sobbing, and slumped on the floor in a corner, my redeeming qualities must’ve been hard to uncover, and yet, a seed of intrigue was planted. Later I’m told, there was an attractive mystery around me. Perhaps I had shown a kindness in the pain, a haunted compassion. Maybe it was my drunken wit, my skills as a raconteur. Or more likely, it was the raw honesty of my situation I was comfortable with broadcasting to the world, and the confidence with which I placed in those around me. Whatever her reasoning, it was beyond my understanding and would fail to come to my attention for a great deal of time, but needless to say I had left a discernible mark. Albeit only visible under detailed inspection with a magnifying glass, but there, at the purest and most basic level of attraction.
The basic steps are just that. Basic. Or rather as the salsa instructor continues to shout in a call and response ‘Basico’. Still, in practice they prove to be anything but. My feet clumsily knock into each other, trying to simultaneously focus on the footwork, and the words of the dance instructor, who’s voice, despite blaring out of a speaker right behind my head, failed to penetrate the music. Finally, after stumbling around for some time like a bull with its boot laces bound together, the steps begin to come naturally, and with the instructor calling time, the feet, though still heavy in their steps, took over. Autopilot had engaged. A new sense of comfort, of assurance begins to grow, unknotting the tight ball in my chest that had been there long before the class had started. Left forward, right up, left back, right forward, left up, right back, left forward, right forward, left bac- stumbling as I fumble a step, my timing faster than those around me. Just managing to recover the rhythm lost in the flounder, the Salsa instructor, clearly sensing that everyone had got the hang of it, began instructing us on the ways of La Cucaracha. If Basico had left me in the dust, barely clinging on to some semblance of dignity, La Cucaracha filled me with a greater sense of trepidation, only compounding on that which came before it. Overheating, and already beginning to tire, the third dance move, Cumbia, took the wind out of my sails. Whereas Basico and La Cucaracha are simplistic, to a beat, easy to get into, Cumbia was more open to interpretation about when and where the spin should start. Any confidence brought with me was by that point well and truly gone, except for that which I kept in reserve, in anticipation of our dance.
I met Her on the set. Well, the workshop in which we built the set. She rocked up two months late, staggering, nay, swaggering in, with all the confidence granted by having talent. Thrusting a drill into Her hand and thrusting Her into the thick of it, She eagerly proved the confidence, by taking everything thrown at her tenfold, with ingenuity and a true passion for the work and the people around her. We worked well together, hand in hand. Sparks were flying, though that might’ve been the angle grinder. ‘A dynamic duo’, the director would later call us, and though we outwardly met such a label with chagrin, inside the praise felt earnest.
‘If you’ve come with someone you want to dance with exclusively, a special someone in your life, raise your hand.’ says the Salsa Instructor. Raising my arm, it occurred that for a class on footwork there sure is a lot of hand action.
‘Ok congratulations to you lucky couples, pat yourself on the backs, but for tonight would you all mind sharing?’ he says before anyone has a chance to lower their hands. Their display of love, once brash and boastful, held aloft high and mighty, now seemed dwarfed by the interest they began to take in their shoes. Ignoring their sudden fascination in the intricacies of the floorboards, he continues, swiftly dividing the room among traditional gender lines, into what he refers to as ‘Leads and follows’. A rather outdated distinction I muse, as the instructor tries to wrangle us ‘leads, into a circle. Clearly satisfied with the oblate ellipse we form, he stepped into the middle.
‘Right ladies, in a few moments, you’re going to go find a partner to dance with, so if you’ve got your eye on one, go straight for him.’ As he said this, a glimmer of doubt crossed my mind, a flicker of anxiety. I might be here to dance, but I came here to dance with someone particular. A touch of neurosis flaring, what if’s flying, he releases the ‘follows’ and they quickly fan out, selecting prime leads as if they were horse racers selecting prime studs for their mares. As they diffuse, She begins to make Her way to me. The distance growing ever smaller, a grin breaks out on my face once more. The look, which is mirrored in Her features and returned in kind, gives way to a one of shock, as another ‘follow’, appearing out of nowhere plants herself directly between the two of us. It was clear she had made a direct b line for me. Taken aback, and staring at the two of us, the moment of hesitation proves fatal as She is left without a partner to dance. Chuckling to myself at the ‘prewritten’ nature of the incident, my tittering belies a swathe of disappointment. Reluctantly, as the instructor called time, we joined hands and, in a delayed synchronisation, Basico’d, then La Cucaracha’d, switching into a pitiful excuse for a Cumbia. Finally ending on the overly intimate finishing we had learned right after breaking into pairs.
‘Alright ladies, move to the partner on your right, and rotate,’ said the Salsa Instructor. This process, of uncomfortably dancing with new individuals progressed for the rest of hour, each stranger more a mismatch than the last. Dancing with the wrong person is so painfully obvious, its almost impossible to salsa with someone not meant to be.
We met at a birthday party. By pure coincidence we showed up together, an awkwardly long time before anyone else. The tension in the air was so thick you would blunt a knife trying to cut it. It was a miracle we could even see each other through its fog. Over the course of the night, we had drifted apart, however when the event came to a close, and people started to filter out, as inevitably happens, we found each other again. This time, aided by one and a half litres of liquid courage rippling through my body, I held out my arms. She grabbed me by the hands, and we pulled in tight. She hummed a light salsa music, as we swayed slowly. Like that, it had clicked. It can take a while to find the right dance partner, but once you do, it can feel like you’ve been dancing your whole life, even if it's just been the one song. Drunk as I was, the dance was what left me most intoxicated that night.
It takes two to tango, as the saying goes, and the same is true for salsa. It takes the right two. As the class wrapped up, and the dancing came to a standstill, I quickly smiled at my dance partner and bobbed politely, attempting to be decorous, making my way slowly to Her location, hoping for a speedy egress, where we might find a private dancefloor.
Afterwards, we weave our way out of the class, skirting around the awkward country couple who are just signing up to things to make friends in the big smoke, who’s conversation, entrapping us through social convention, had only made the tension more palpable. Exiting onto the quiet city street, the misty fog of bewitchment surrounding us was as it had been the night we first danced, most likely due to frustrating experience of being denied the encore that we’d been so longing. The event had been a tantalising one, with each other so close at times, and yet always managing to be too far away. A shadow in the corner of each other’s eyes, each focused on not treading on their unsuitable suitors’ shoes. All the pent up emotions which had been simmering suddenly seemed to boil over, and a consensus needed to be made. Quickly, we clambered onto our bikes and with great vim, and perhaps a tad of vigour, made our way to the nearest park. Hastily locking up, we circled the park looking for a suitably private location, and after what had seemed like an eternity past, and this time with the courage of Her presence flowing through my body, I held out my arms. She grabbed me by the hands, and we pulled in tight. She hummed a light salsa music. Finally, after thirty of the wrong dance partners, I got the right one. Instantly it clicked as it has countless times before, and a wealth of warmth seeped through my bones. What was relatively new felt like it had always been. The class which had been eons in length, faded into foggy memory, a lifetime ago. All that mattered was the moment in front of my eyes. With a gentleness and moment-savouring movement, I let my arms down into the Basico position, and together, in that park, out of the way of prying eyes and free of the stuffy dance room, we tripped a light fantastic.
