Dad’s House

I’ve salsa’d all night in Lima with a Peruvian woman, and in the Caribbean with a Cuban, so you’d think I’d be a natural on the local salsa scene. You’d be wrong. While I enjoy the sounds and rhythms, I’m not a gifted dancer. And for a single man, that’s a terrible thing. When my buddies and I sailed our boat into San Francisco’s The Ramp for Sunday salsa, the crowded dance floor jumped with people completely out of my league. I never stood a chance.

The thing is, I’m attracted to latina women with dark hair, tan skin, big smiles, and sexy hips that know how to move to salsa music. Not all latinas are like that, and it’s not just about shaking booty. I appreciate cultures that passionately embrace family, food, music, and sex, i.e. polar opposites to my Scandinavian-laced American roots. For me, a woman who packs it all is lethal.

With so many latina women in San Jose and the south bay, and with The Ramp nearby, it was time for me to get proper training. Alberto’s, a popular dance club in Mountain View, offered salsa lessons for early arrivers. I went on a Wednesday, hump day, a warm summer night that seemed ready-made for love.

But the club was nearly empty. Did I have the wrong date? Alberto’s was known for its Hot Latin Nights. “Is there dancing tonight?” I asked the bartender.
“Yes, it will heat up,” she said.
“And lessons?”
“They’ll start soon.”

A few dozen men trickled in, but only six women. Typical Silicon Valley ratio. At eight o’clock the female instructor had us form a circle around her. “Don’t worry, men,” she said. “The women will come. You just learn your moves.”

She showed us the basics, and we were all so focused on doing the steps and moving our hips, a partner would have been a distraction. After half an hour, though, it was time to pair up. We looked around for someone to dance with, but with four men to every woman, it was a joke.

“We’ll take turns,” the instructor said. She put the men in a tightly packed outer circle, with women loosely spaced on the inside. A quarter of the men danced with a partner for thirty seconds at a time, then the outer circle rotated so the next in line had a turn. The non-partnered men practiced their steps. It actually kind-sorta worked.

As nine o’clock approached, the club started to fill. Women in summer dresses came onto the dance floor to help us practice more complicated steps. Things were heating up. With Bay Area diversity there were women of all ethnicities, but I managed to partner myself with a latina beauty. The woman of my dreams.

We danced hand in hand, arm in arm, body to body, and I was entranced by her bright eyes and the sexy Cuban motion of her rolling, swaying hips. I fast-forwarded the night through my mind. We would dance till we tired, flirt over drinks, chat and get to know each other, then dance some more. I’d pull her close and telegraph desire, my fiery eyes penetrating her smoldering gaze. We’d kiss, exchange numbers, meet for romantic dinner dates, begin a sizzling fling that stretched through summer to eternity.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said.
I broke from my reverie. “How about another?” I asked.
She smiled. “That’s sweet, but my usual partner is here now.” She pointed to a man drinking bottled water at the bar. He flashed a goofy smile and waved.

So much for my Hot Latin Night. By 9:30, Alberto’s was pulsing with its usual crowd. And the beginners were left to practice our moves on the edge of the dance floor, alone.

Ah, but practice does make perfect; someday I’ll get back to The Ramp. In the meantime, perhaps another vacation is in order. After all, Peru and the Caribbean didn’t have mismatched dance floor ratios of men and women. And for a single man, that’s a very good thing.

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