Last night was day two of the festivál, and I learned to salsa!
After a long day on Cayo during which I rapidly used up all my apple slices and managed to break my tripod, I returned to my now almost entirely operational flat, showered, and took a mid-afternoon excursion to the La Fav, the supermercado, with Sasha. I loaded up on stimuli and baking materials and made my way back past the already packed roadside bars to the Yalies house.
I had settled on apple pie, and despite the fact that I had never baked an apple pie in my life, I figured that with premade filling and a store bought bottom crust it would be fool-proof. Not so. Did you know that store bought crusts have little in the way of instructions and that what they do have is useless to a newbie pie baker? Well, this is the case. Nevertheless, I managed to put together the premade items and improvised the crumb topping (flour, brown sugar, canola oil, and a little egg). It was delicious! A success!! Manifique!!! I was so happy. I shall try again sometime and do the whole thing from scratch, but for the time being, the pie worked out well. The crust was fine, but needed butter or margarine or something else. I’m pretty sure the Yalies didn’t mind, though, as nearly 2/3 of the entire pie was gone within minutes of the first cut.
By the time I finished baking and work in the office, it was festival time. The long strings of party lights that hung between telephone poles and the glow of the carousel and teacup rides lit the dockside with a warm glow. People everywhere. Chatter. Comotion. The salsa music was blaring from the specially constructed white stage by the dock, and the pinchos were sizzling on their skewers and dripping with sauce. The little booths selling hand-crafted and “hand-crafted” wares were bustling with people, and drinks were flowing freely. Local radio hosts popped on stage between sets shouting things rapidly in Spanish about Doctor Mecánico (the sponsor, read: Doctórrrrr Mecáaaaaaaaaanicoooooo) and inviting girls up on stage for suck and blow contests (the game with the card, ask if you don’t know…) and free t-shirts. At one point, we all found ourselves up by the stage transfixed by a dance contest. It feels as if everyone around here can really move. It’s awesome. I love how everyone is always dancing. Alone, with partners, with two partners, in groups. Just dancing. It is almost as if swaying your hips is clapping. It shows appreciation, enjoyment, delight, and it is far more fun than just tapping your foot. We should adopt this mentality. Plus, the movement is better for you.
People in Punta really like to party, too. When I was waiting for some friends outside my flat, my landlord’s brother came by. He had helped me move in and get settled in the place, when I first visited, and seemed very happy to say hello to his little blond friend. As he leaned over the upstairs balcony to say hello, he cheerfully told me he’d already put back 4 beers. He looked it. How do you like the festival? Are you going out? Why don’t you have a beer? Do you drink? Of course you do. He generously offered me something, listing off a beer brands like a bartended. I thanked him graciously, but declined. Suddenly, nearly all the family members had noted and latched on to my beerless state and insisted on giving me something. What did I want? A Medalla? A Coors? Let us get you something. You should be having fun. Relaxing. You need to salsa! It took a lot of convincing to assure them I was fine and headed for the piña colada stand in just a minute, but they genuinely seemed concerned that I might not have that one beer and, thus, the evening would be shot.
Similarly, even though it can be a little uncomfortable at times, the men are very willing to ask you to dance with them. Mainly the older and middle-aged men. I often wonder if they could write a manual for guys back home, who do nothing but lurk in corners at parties or do the “man dance” on repeat (side step, fist pump x3, repeat). Then again, perhaps we, girls, would be unreceptive. After all, it took a few frozen drinks and a couple of hours before I was loosened up and keen enough to dance that I accepted an invitation.
Nevertheless, by evenings end, I am pretty certain that everyone danced with someone at least once and that we all now possess a basic knowledge of salsa. Adrienne was pursued doggedly by one bent over old man, who after dancing with her once, decided Adrienne was his partner de jour and would randomly turn up by her side all evening, eyeing her and beseeching her to take a turn. More than once, Tara or Kelly would have to step in and give Adrienne an occupation so as not to slight the poor man too dramatically.
Tara was a dance machine, eager to teach everyone the basic moves and be everyone’s partner. She was willing to be the boy and lead, if you were willing to sway with her. As a result, when she was not dancing with an agreeable stranger, she ended up dancing with Amy quite a bit, since Amy spent the night dancing and trying to learn to move her hips. The rest of us danced with each other or watched in amusement as those braver than we were spun rocked back and force with friendly partners.
I was a little nervous to dance with anyone, since I am not now, nor have I ever been, a couples dancer. I only know how to move on my own, and I never really learned how properly to follow. (This takes practice with a good leading partner, which I have never had.) I did long to try out a salsa, though, and hoped that if a less-than-creepy man asked me to dance and I got up the guts to say yes, I would be able to use my knowledge of the basic step to carry me through to a totally adequate, if boring, performance. I say performance because it was clear that as the only group of non-Puerto Ricans in the crowd, we were being viewed. Ah, the pressure!
Around midnight that less-than-creepy guy asked me to dance. He was a middle-aged guy, bald, salt and pepper moustache, glasses, and very smiley. He looked like he could have been someone’s kindly uncle and was the friend of one of guys, who had been dancing with Tara and Amy. It took definite convincing, but he seemed very nice and what the heck, it was just a dance. I told him he would have to teach me. He was very helpful and patient, but as soon as it was clear that I had the step down, we were off. He taught me spins, twists, side-dances. I don’t even know how I kept up, but I managed OK actually. I have my bag on the whole time though, and occasionally a spin would send it slamming into his side. In my embarrassment and nerves, I spent almost the entire dance laughing and apologizing, glancing at my feet and trying to feel the dance, but we were pretty good actually. I became less coordinated as the song went on. Cora and Adrienne were off to the side watching and taking photos. More embarrassment. My calves were burning, and we were moving so quick that I started losing the steps, but he kept on twirling and smiling, and never said a word. He was a very good leader. Finally, after about six false endings, the song ended. I thanked him, and he thanked me. I smiled. He smiled more. He pointed at his chest, “Théodore.” “I’m Rebecca.” “Rebecca.” He smiled again and did a little bow of the head, and we went our separate ways. I love innocent fun.
Anyway, this post is very long already, so I shall hold off on other stories. After all, there is more festival this evening, so hopefully more stories will be forthcoming. In the meantime, enjoy your weekends, and go dancing. It frees up the mind and gives you great legs.
Adios amigos!
Much love,
B
