Beer guys

 As I walked down the beer aisle at HEB, I passed two beer delivery guys talking.

One beer guy: I'm going on vacation next week, so I'm going to be out of cell phone coverage for a month.

Other beer guy: That sounds like heaven!

Me in my head: Yeah, buddy. I live in heaven!

Things that make you go hmmmm...

 

At a salsa event last month in Austin, a salsera turned down the dance request of a long time Austin salsero.  The next day, the salsero’s anger boiled over into an attitude spill, which he shared in a long, convoluted FB rant about the current state of the Austin salsa scene.  The responses to his post were many and varied.  Here are my impressions.

 First, he characterized various Austin salsa groups as cliques.  (https://www.verywellfamily.com/a-clique-or-friends-how-to-tell-the-difference-460637)

 My response:  Well, yeah.  If you take any large assembly of people, and have them mingle, they will naturally sort themselves into groups of like-minded people.  

Examples: On 1 vs. On 2 vs. On 4 styles; New York vs. LA styles;  Caribbean  vs. continental Latin American styles; Anglo vs. Latin styles; Mexicans vs. everybody else.

I have a Latino friend who claims he can identify a stranger’s country of origin by how they dance cumbia. 

 Then, the poster claimed that some Austin salseros were elitist.  My response:  Well, yeah.  Here again, in any large group of people engaged in a common pursuit, there will be natural ranking of skill levels from low to medium to high.  Get used to it.  I try to dance with people who share my skill level, so as to not overwhelm beginners, or bore the experts.

 A third critique of his:  That some Austin salseros were showoffs.  My response:  You think?  When I read this comment, the flashback of a talented showoff showing off that night popped into my head.      I remember my reaction.  “Gee, I wish I could do that.”

 Finally, he postulated a possible source for what he characterized as obnoxious behavior:  Expatriate Californians.   Now this one hadn’t occurred to me.    His speculation in turn caused an actual expatriate Californian to boil over.  In a long and articulate rebuttal, she defended the absolute right of any salsera to turn down a request to dance from any one for any reason.  My guess:  Based on her response, I’d bet she’s the one who turned him down.  My response to her rant:  You bet.

 All of this commotion caused me to go hummmm:  What is salsa for?  Who is salsa for? 

 My response:  It’s custom-made for showoffs.  Look at me!  Look what I’ve learned!  Look what I can do!  Look what We can do!  Oh, yeah, watch this!  Look, look, look!

 The poster claimed he was going to boycott Austin salsa, but Saturday night he was at SalsaMania, cruising the floor, looking for someone who would dance with him, so he could show off.  As was I.

How do you measure happiness?

 

I recently had my annual wellness physical.  As a part of the exam, my doctor read off a checklist of mental health questions.  He was looking for signs of distress; statements suggesting depression, desire for self-harm, or suicide.

 “How are you feeling?”

 Thinking about my dance encounters over the last several weeks, I said:

 “Doc, I’ve been have moments of intense happiness.”

 He couldn’t find a place on his clipboard for my statement.

Sweet 16

 

Dateline:  June 6, 2023.  Sweet 16.

 Today marks my 16^th anniversary of my introduction to salsa.  A year and a half before, I lost Retta, my best friend and wife of 15 years, to complications of Hepatitis C.  After mourning her loss for a year, I put my grief away, and began to search for something to occupy my time. 

 Sometime later, I saw an ad in the paper for “Free salsa lessons at Ruta Maya.” 

 I thought, “Oh, good, I’ll go try that.” 

 So I went on Wednesday, June 6, 2007, which was also D Day. 

 Now, you must understand, I had never heard of salsa as a dance.  It was completely foreign to me.  I thought I was going to a cooking class.  I walked in the door with a bag of chips under my arm, not knowing whether we were going to make red salsa or green salsa.  What I saw and heard and felt, with the pounding rhythms, the beautiful girls spinning and twirling, the guys looking calm and confident, changed me forever. 

I said: “I want THAT!” 

And here I am.

You

 You're too white, too black.  too this , too that...

The cat.

 A couple of months ago, as I sat in my usual front row seat at the One2One waiting for the timba band to start, a young lady in her early twenties walked past me diagonally on the way to the ladies room. As she passed, I thought to myself: “There goes a dancer.” She walked like a cat.

Later, we danced. From previous experience, I knew that U.T. dance majors go out on the town, hit random clubs, and dance whatever dance they find there. She was one of those. She could do anything I asked of her, flawlessly, the first time. Amazing.

As the song ended, I dropped my most difficult move on her, ending in a cuddle, which she followed perfectly, and then blew her out into a triple inside spin. She returned, hugged me with out-stretched arms, and then walked out, not looking back.

She walked like a cat.

Oh, man...

 She: You must'a been really handsome when you were younger.

me: (le sigh)

Jaco

So, I walked into a crowded bar in downtown Jaco, Costa Rica (pronounced ha-Coh), a surfing town on the Pacific side. According to the Uber driver that picked us up from the airport in San Jose and drove us to Jaco, this is the place that Ticos (native Costa Ricans) go when they want to get wild and crazy. We stayed at the Green Iguana, a beach house located in the epicenter of both the beach and the town. I was there on a bachelor party with four wild men from the States. The bar, super crowded, was on the main drag in downtown Jaco. As I made the way through the masses, I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve. Thinking I might get lucky,

I turned to find a slender, dark-haired girl with purple highlights and dimples behind a big smile. She was about 35.

She: I had to talk to you. You have a good energy. Where are you from?

me: Austin.

She: I’m from Austin too!

me: What?!

She: Yeah, I live off South Lamar.

me: How nice, I’m off Slaughter Lane.

She: What’s your name?

me: Roberto. What’s yours?

She: mumble, mumble, mumble.

me: What?! I’ve never heard a name like that. Where are you from?

She: Turkey. It’s Turkish for dimples.

me: How nice. What are you doing in Jaco?

Dimples: I’m here with my husband. We’re breaking up.

me: What?! Your husband brought you here to Jaco, party central, to break up?

Dimples: Yeah. We've been married for fifteen years, we have two kids, and he cheated on me last fall. What do you think I should do?

me: Dump him. As a friend of mine says, make the bastard pay.

Dimples: I will. We spent last night together, deleting photos of us on both our phones. Then we had break-up sex. Do you want to meet my husband?

me: What?! Your husband is here?

Dimples: Yeah, he’s downstairs. Let me go get him.

She returned in a few minutes with a thirty-something American in tow.

Dimples: This is my husband Tom.

We shook hands, chatted for a few minutes, and they disappeared into the crowd.

We all just shrugged, and had another beer.

All about the women.

Salsa is all about the women. If women didn’t love salsa, no guy in the world would ever go through the Hell of salsa training. During several recent salsa scholastic episodes, my instructors have encouraged me to keep my feet moving. I plead guilty. When I’m dancing, I have a whirling dervish right in front of me. If I’m not careful, I’m going to eat an elbow, or worse.

I’ve watched numerous world-class salsa performances at Gonzo’s SalsaMania. While the woman executes some fabulous move, the guy doesn’t dance around; he just stands there and supports her, with his feet flat on the floor and his knees bent. Like a matador.

So, yeah, my feet stop moving occasionally, but it’s because I want to protect my partner.

Because salsa is all about the women.

Time to go.

 She: You're leaving already?

me: Yeah. Nothing good happens after midnight. That's when the credit card vampires come out.

She: Well, they say priests go home at midnight...

I'm ruined!

    She: You’ve ruined me!

me: How so?

She: You told me cha cha cha should only be danced on 2, and you taught me how.

me: And?

She: And now, if someone asks me to dance cha cha cha, and they’re not on 2, I can’t do it.

You’ve ruined me!

Me: Waah.

You

 I've got several bad habits, and the second one is you.

Hey, It's me.

 At Echale Salsita Saturday night:

She: Hey, it's me. I want four spins on that cross body lead.

me: Yes ma'am.

Life is short

Personal update: I have now danced my way across fifteen summers in a row. I have met some wonderful, positive self-actualizers, people who have shared their lives with me.

Yesterday is gone, tomorrow doesn't exist. All there is, is today. Enjoy it.

Bust a move

 Setting: Favian Busto's "Latin Fusion Night" at Go Dance South.

me: I saw you dancing bachata with Beth, and at one point you led a salsa move and then went back to bachata. I don't do that. When I accidentally bust a salsa move while dancing bachata, I stop and apologize, and then resume bachata.

Gerard: No. Let it happen. If it feels right, do it. Just come back to the bachata beat when you're finished.