That’s what Cuban salsa dance teacher Osbanis Tejedo said at breakfast on Sunday morning to the DJ. He was asking him to stir up the music a bit, some bachata, some merengue, some reggaeton.
Well, despite those words, I remember last night being mostly salsa…and the night before and the night before. I think I may in fact be dying from too much salsa. I feel as though I’ve been out on a drinking bender, absolutely shattered. And in the past three days I’ve had no more than one glass of wine.
It must be dehydration. Let me weigh myself…nope, no change there.
Salsa is definitely like a drug. It makes you feel amazing, you forget all your troubles while it lasts. Then you come back down to earth and realise that your problems haven’t gone away, for goodness sakes. They’re right there waiting to be dealt with, how dare they! And what do you turn to for a solution…?
More salsa.
It was great to be with a hundred or so like-minded addicts. How we sweated to get our rumba moves right, to move like the African spirits, the Orishas, how we strove to follow the tiny-but-fiery Damarys in her energetic and outrageously sexy reggaeton routine, how we concentrated on Kerry Ribchester’s wonderful body-movement techniques to move ribcages for Cuban son, and laughed at Leo and Osbanis’s flirty rueda moves.
Last night, you saw it all pouring out on the dance floor. Salsa with rumba, orishas, reggaeton, son, all mixed up. Okay, most people there were Northern European (and I was raised here, so I too started off stiff-as-a-board), but we were beginning to get there.
But man, am I exhausted.
Now, when’s the next salsa thing…?
