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.