I sat at a little round table the other night and watched a crowd of about 50 people salsa dance. I was at the Rumba Room at University City Walk, the club just upstairs from that fountain that all the kids like to play in.
It's the club with the bright neon lights--I think they're pink and blue--tracing two dancers in flickering movement that catch your eye as you walk past it.
It's free salsa dancing every Sunday night.
The whole crowd in front of me was moving, but my eyes settled on one couple. The two danced in a dimly-lit, plush-red room to the sound of lively brass horns, congas and a steady clave beat. Actually, it looked more like they were gliding.
No, they were not gliding the way ice skaters or waltz dancers glide. These dancers’ bodies moved to a fast rhythm. Their hips shook, their shoulders rolled and swayed, their feet made quick patterns on the ground and occasionally tapped out a few musical accents.
But like I said, their bodies were also gliding. They were gliding the way a weak magnet does when you slide across a refrigerator door. They glided forward and backwards. They glided toward, away from and across each other and their feet slid over the hardwood floor. Their steps never coming too high off the ground. Each move seemed smooth, subtle, an afterthought.
The dancers looked like they were in their early 20-somethings, and they were dressed in subtly trendy salsa fashion. The guy wore a plain white T-shirt, loose blue-jeans—slightly sagged—with a silver, metal-studded belt and black-and-white sneakers.
Doesn’t sound very salsa-like, I know, but it was the black, felt fedora hat with a dark red ribbon that marked him a visible salsero.
(I tried wearing a light grayish-green fedora hat of my own while dancing once, but it’s a lot harder for women. My hat kept flying off whenever I’d do a double or triple turn.)
The guy’s tall, slender female partner wore all black—a snug black tank, straight-leg black jeans, black high heels. Her straight, dark hair was just past shoulder-length. It fanned out when she turned—one, two, three times in row in just a couple of seconds.
The rest of the dance floor was filled with other dancers. They couples on the floor moved around each other like clockwork. They made all their ins and outs and flashy spins and still avoided collision with those around them.
The room had a Spanish feel to it. The red walls were lightly sponge-painted over with black paint. They glowed with an occasional lamp here and there. Long red drapes took up the corner and the area around the stage. The floor and dancers were sprinkled with specks of light that rotated over them from a disco ball.
Beyond the couples and on the stage, a full salsa band played—keyboard, congas, base, trumpet and shakers. One of the main singers was a short, heavy-set man who looked hike he was in his 50s. His black hair was combed back.
Later on, the girl in black danced with someone else, another young woman. She led her new partner, taking the role of the male dancer. Her lead was perfect. She turned the other female in a series of quick spins, and pulled her across her own body to the other side of her. There was that glide again. This was when I became a little bit jealous. The girl was amazing.
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