I insert my earplugs and put on my ridiculous, but trendy, indoor sunglasses. A humongous Arab man attentively follows every move I make. I nod at him, and he opens the door for me. I take a deep breath, and I walk into my personal torture chamber: a room filled with salsa dancers and their reckless music.
As I walk into the hall, the singer screams on the top of his lungs: "Salsa! Salsa!" I exhale and try to relax, for the next three hours, there will be more of those horrendous outcries. Occasionally the Cuban vocalist will mix it up with: "Baila! Baila!" I can already feel the inevitable headache building up.
I scan the surroundings to find a suitable hiding place. I count my blessing as I see the elevated and secluded bar with a perfect view over the entire dance floor. I order a drink and sit down at a corner table, the Arab takes his position between the other guests and me. I have sacrificed my weekend in the mountains to support my wife's love for Salsa. I gaze over the dancefloor trying to find her, but I'm soon distracted by Gloria.
Gloria is not my wife, and to this day, I have no idea what her real name is; but she certainly looks like a Gloria, and I will never forget her. She is standing at the edge of the dance floor with her long black hair swaying as she moves her head to the rhythm of the beat. Her fake eyelashes almost touch her forehead, she has a sharp pointing nose and Lucky Luke like lips. Her strong make-up attempts to cover her damaged skin, but I can see that her teenage years have not been kind. As she moves with the music, she smiles and looks suggestively at any man passing by.
My wife defines herself as a "Salsera." God knows what that actually implies, but in practical terms, it means that wherever she goes, she walks to the rhythm of 1,2,3, pause, 5,6,7, pause, followed up by an unusual hand movement that resembles a submarine-periscope that pops up turns left and right and then retracts with a twist.
The Salsa community has taken her by storm, she trains relentlessly and travels the world chasing that one perfect dance. She feels the same excitement for dancing as I feel for skydiving. It feeds her soul and makes her happy, which in turn makes me happy even though it has pushed me into 4th place on her priority list after her career and our dog. Fortunately for me in today's society, everyone is a winner, so 4th place is nothing to be ashamed of.
Once every year, usually around the time when I've bulked up, I dress up like an Albanian mafioso and attend one of her Salsa events. Officially to show support but the real reason, of course, is to scare off those hip tweaking alpha males.
The Salsa community has a lot of similarities with the Skydiving world. Authority and social status are mostly based on ability. To the annoyance of some, the beauty of a female can open up a Pandora's box of opportunities. One of the notable differences is that the gender distribution is inverted. There is a screaming deficit of talented men in the Salsa world. This is what I call: "the Salsa-Skydive inversion." In skydiving, men gather skill to be able to do crazy shit to make themselves look cool. In Salsa dancing, men gather skill to make the woman look cool on the dance floor. Ask yourself: which world would you go to as a woman?
Due to the lack of men, the typical scene during a salsa event is to have the dance floor surrounded by women eagerly waiting to be picked up for a dance. The competition is fierce: you got to look the part and radiate positive energy. Your skills certainly play a role but based on my research, it is evident that the more you resemble Kim Kardashian, the more likely you are to get a dance. Not surprisingly, the women who find their life partners within the community will follow the familiar golden rule of mating: the female's beauty is in direct correlation with the skill level of the male. Men with some Salsa skills are like salesmen selling free booze to the Finns.
This is what keeps me awake at night. What if I would have put all the time, money, and effort that I have put into skydiving into Salsa dancing instead? I'm pretty sure I would not have to cry myself to sleep as often as I do now.
To all men who are ready to plunge themselves over that vertical cliff with a selfie stick ready, I recommend to really contemplate what the fundamental reason is for you to risk everything? Then ask yourself: would Salsa dancing be a safer and easier way to reach that goal?
Even though I'm out of my comfort zone, I do enjoy to observe the social, and often brutal, game that is being played on the dance floor. This is why Gloria caught my eye. She is an underdog, but she has gone all in and is ready and willing to play.
Female curves are often welcome in the world of Salsa, especially if it strengthens the feminine appearance on the dance floor. Unfortunately, the God who created Gloria must have felt the need to compensate for what he gave to Kim Kardashian. Gloria is front heavy with a narrow hip. She does not carry her extra weight according to the unrealistic beauty standards of modern society. Her Instagram pictures will not break the internet, no matter how many filters are being used. Gloria would not list high on Trump's scorecard, he would probably use her low rating as an alibi if accused of sexual assault.
Gloria has probably just spent the whole day in a lady-style workshop desperately trying to make her hand movements look more like a petite periscope and not like a drunk windmill blade. She has spent hours getting comfortable dancing "on two" according to the New York-style, instead of the technically less sophisticated "on-one" Cuban-style. In skydiving terms: she has sold her belly-flying suit and decided to become a free flyer.
Some years ago, at a Salsa event, a friend of my wive's must have noticed my distress. She assured me that Salsa dancing, even though it sometimes can look like sexual foreplay, has nothing to do with sex. It is a communication between two people expressed in dance. The more skilled you are, the more enjoyable your "conversation" is. Sometimes you can dance multiple dances with someone without ever uttering a single word. But of course never more than two dances in a row, that would be considered inappropriate.
Ironically only some weeks after this assuring talk, several instructors of a local Salsa school were arrested, imprisoned, and convicted for sexually assaulting and raping their students. Perhaps only the exceptions that confirm the rule? I immediately understood that my Albanian mafioso outfit was not going to cut it. I quickly got acquainted and eventually hired an Egyptian bodybuilder. Muhammed always accompanies me into the torture chamber, he follows me around, occasionally talking into his sleeve, and wears one of those cool looking earpieces. Sometimes you just have to step up your game.
I'm two drinks down at this stage. I have given my wife a couple of thumbs up and even recorded a video, apparently from too far away and from an unacceptable angle, but I get a C- for effort. Gloria has not been successful. She has slowly started to move clockwise around the dance floor edge, hoping to find more fruitful hunting grounds. Her smile has begun to fade. She is struggling to hide her frustration and disappointment. She takes rests to drink some water but always quickly returns to the dancefloor. I'm impressed by her resilience.
As an experienced non-dancing Salsa husband, I certainly have some essential advice to give to my brethren. If your wife is into Cuban Salsa, she is a beginner and just getting into it; you might want to bulk up a bit but don't stress too much about it. If she dances New York -style, you can expect your romantic weekends to include at least one salsa event; I always have a good book and earplugs with me on any romantic date. However, if your wife is into Kizomba; you are screwed! Cut your losses and download Tinder. I once made the mistake of opening the door to the dungeon-like room where they danced Kizomba. My trendy shades fogged up as the musky steam hit my face. Muhammed and I never even dared to step inside.
As I finish my last drink and indicate to Muhammed that it is time to leave, I take one final peek at Gloria. She has now completed a full circle around the tennis court-sized dance floor. All her attempts to find a dance partner have been in vain. But I notice a transformation in her.
Gone are the fake smiles and disappointed looks when men pass by without noticing her. She has stopped trying, she has lost one of her eyelashes but doesn't seem to care. She is ignoring everyone else on the dance floor and has totally lost herself to the music. Her euphoric bliss comes out in bursts of complicated step combinations, and snappy submarine-periscope moves left and right. You can clearly see that the joy of Salsa has overpowered any earlier feelings of discouragement. She looks happy.
I wish the music would not sound like 30 kindergarten kids playing every instrument imaginable at the same time. I wish my clumsy feet could cope with the rhythm and not get all messed up with that weird "pause" between the counts. I wish I had the most basic skills of Salsa; then I would take Gloria for a well-deserved spin on the dance floor.
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