...I've lingered long in fields of toppled idols, searching for a grain of desire in the rubble, even at your whisper of "beyond."
Before You now, the summation of all I could want, is my honest grief for the years, hours, minutes I wasted in those fields, waiting for the idols to resurrect. Their broken pieces did not assemble. I cursed even the dust.
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Still, You will redeem what the locust has eaten, the desolation and foolishness. Grant me this white dress to wear, and I'll say yes again and again. I'll cast aside my wandering rags for the banquet-wear of the Bridegroom...
Was the next lyric that came to mind: Let the rhythm take you over? If so, be not ashamed. I too harbor some loyalty to the pop sensation, Ricky Martin: my early introduction to Latin music.
And where does Latin music intuitively lead next? To dancing.
Allow me to preface by saying that in all my 23 years, I have never maintained a desire so fervently than to learn the art of salsa. Zumba, much like Ricky, was just a tease, until at last I recieved a proper invitation to a Cuban dance club. As J-Lo so brilliantly quips in Shall We Dance, the rules of engagement are as follows:
1. Don't think.
2. Don't speak.
3. Don't move, unless you feel it.
Allow me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bibtqDxXv1o&feature=BF&playnext=1&list=QL&index=1
As with any form of dance, without complete and total surrender to the art, it is neither enjoyable to watch or participate. In my head, I knew this, but in my limbs, there were nerves. A staccato stride masked my anxieties as I departed the Woodley Park Metro in my red t-strap heels. Once again, I was lost and semi-agitated, due to the regularity in which I find myself in this scenario. Being a nomad occasionally has its petty frusterations.
I strained ahead for the inconspicuous Habana Village sign that hovered just enough above street level, allowing me to miss it the first time around. The detour led me to the entrance of one particularly dark alley and a choice unfolded before me. The clock read 15 minutes late. Forced to consider this questionably reputable bi-way to arrive at my destination, I didn't spend too much time deliberating. For the sake of convenience, I took off into the shadows, cursing Mapquest as I went. As stupid as I am thankful, I did not die.
The clanging salsa tunes filled my ears, and I spotted my friends at the corner of the bar. A full scan of the room located the usual suspects, ethnic couples in effortless rhythmic passion and non-ethnic singles, admirably trying. I was such a one that fell into that aspiring category, though friends assure me that based upon my preference in music and culture, my being born white was some kind of cosmic mistake.
I began loosening my shoulders just enough to find the beat and frankly tried hard not to look too much like I wanted to engage any dance partners in the immediate area. I had stranger danger, revisiting in my mind those swift but effective maneuvers to momentarily incapacitate any male. Thanks to my tactically skilled brother-in-law, I mostly expect physical closeness with strangers to involve the some form of lethal force. With shock and awe, you must be wondering how in the world I am still single.
Should you dare to guess what happened next? Someone asked me to dance.
He was far enough along in his basic salsa step that I obliged, with the small crowd of my friends smirking in our direction. It was fun even, aside from the frequency with which he began stepping on my already work week weary feet, a kind of pain more irritating with each time he tried to lead when clearly, my foot was still there.
I feigned thirsty to rescue my unfortunate toes, when I spotted my friend being spun around by a man who was to salsa, as white is to rice. Luis is the exact representation of all things one can appreciate about a region of the world that produces miracles: men who like to dance.
I watched from a distance with appropriate awe, when at last the their lesson ended and I all but fell off my chair to be next in line. He first asked me if I spoke Spanish, as he clearly did, so I did not attempt any fabricatations. He moved with a kind of ease that was characteristic of a native and I asked how he learned. With an unmistakable accent, he explained that in the Dominican Republic, "dancing is what we do."
I liked that.
His feet were much kinder than my last partner's and quite frankly, I was planning to hold onto this arrangement for a greater portion of the night. He spun me as if I knew it was coming the whole time and his movements commanded that I follow. "Smaller steps, more hips" were the corrections he made to my frame, a very direct statement made less suggestively than you would imagine. That is just what I love about salsa: that for a single moment, two people could not be more in agreement about their bodies, for the sake of the dance.
But soon, he too needed a rest, probably from trying to losen my catcus-like attempt at certain unfamiliar movements. He kissed the top of my hand to acknowledge the dance, and walked away.
But the merengue would change all of that. My friends had retreated to the third floor to sit a few songs out when I saw my chance to really learn what salsa was all about.
Otra Vez!
As I settled into the side-to-side tempo shift, I was again following the confident lead of Luis. This was more a dance of passion than had reached my comfort level, but again, it was surrender to the movement that allowed the style to come forth.
I realized, in being pulled up two inches off the floor from extravagant sweeping dip, that I was beginning to learn something. I know my form needed much more work, but there is just something about "doing it right" that I could feel. Then after aligning in a face-to-face hold, he locked arms for a lift. I was unprepared for my feet to leave the floor, but they did anyway. What were we doing? I didn't have time to figure out what was coming, but knew only in that moment, complete and careless freedom.
At just the opportune moment, my friend cut in to say that they were headed home. I was breathless and had no notions of taking the walk back solo to the metro as I had come. As I quickly obliged, I told Luis, "I'll see you next Saturday!" half assured that it would be a lie. Though coming to think of it, I may be ready for round two. My introduction to salsa demanded that I leave all premeditation behind, to simply breathe the air of the moment. That may even be the best part....
