LA Bucket List #4: Salsa dancing at Zabumba

So Zabumba. Terrible food and the drinks were almost as bad. Actually, they have the dubious distinction of having served me the worst Kibe I’ve ever had.

But I REALLY wanted to get at least one night of Salsa dancing in before we leave LA, and I had heard that this place was much more chill and laid back than a lot of the more showoffy, pretentious salsa spots in Los Angeles. Plus, I wanted to be able to show the non-dancers of the crew a few steps without having them feel too uncomfortable. For these purposes, this spot proved kind of perfect. There were very few people on Thursday night and the floor was pretty much wide open. The groups who were there could dance really well, but no one seemed to be trying to show off, and they didn’t seem to care that a bunch of newbies had taken over their floor.

A couple of guys even took a couple of us girls out for a spin. I must say Miss Heather held her own very well when escorted to the dance floor by one of the regulars. Mostly, I gave our guys mini lessons (I think Kevin was doing quite well. Definitely on his way to getting it. I’m not convinced Marc is really trying.), and I danced with Johanna while constantly fighting over which of us was leading. Me damn it!

I did squeeze a few dances out Mr. G. This is an ongoing struggle between us. Many, many years ago I forced a drunken promise that he would someday take salsa lessons with me. I reminded him about it for years. When we ultimately decided that we were going to get married in Medellin, he finally gave in. We ended up taking lesson at a place called La Granda in Alhambra. Their lessons are really good and very effective, however, their style might be described as militaristic. I think this drill sergeant style may have permanently killed the joy of dancing salsa for G. He now tolerates it from time to time for my sake. The fact that he doesn’t like it is all the more heartbreaking to me because he’s actually really good! The white boy has rhythm. He actually passed the first dance level much more quickly than I did. (Yeah, there were tests.) This is much more painful to me than if he really sucked, then I might be able to understand a little better. I still contend, however, that sometimes when he forgets that he’s supposed to hate it, he actually kind of likes it. I catch a glimmer in eye from to time that suggest he is actually having a good time.

Or that’s what I have to believe, because I LOVE TO DANCE. Really and truly, I LOVE IT – all kinds. The styles I don’t know, I wish I could learn. I have no shame on the dance floor. I can think of no other place where, as a general rule, I feel less self-conscious than on the dance floor. I don’t know why this is. While I’m a decent dancer, I’m not particularly good, but I am usually completely comfortable in this setting. I rarely need liquid courage to help me get out, I’m often very happy to be the first on the dance floor, I am pretty ok with making a spectacle of myself, and I don’t really care that after dancing for a little while I generally look like a sweaty tomato with frizzy hair. I am also totally aware that I am a queen of the subconscious goofy dancing facial expressions. So be it. Dancing just makes me feel really good. I completely understand why maenads, nymphs, and witches are all so often depicted as dancing. I get a complete lightening of the spirit and a feeling of revelry. I feel this most with the latin dances.

(Somehow, although I'm a Latina woman, I manage a pretty consistent White-man's over bite)

I felt so good after going out dancing that night that the feeling easily carried me through the minor hangover I had the next day. After a few minutes of grogginess I got up popped two Advil and went for a run. The memory of the good feeling even carries me through the pain of seeing my protruding gut in these pictures Heather took. All worth it. I had a great time!

And so I think it was across the board, to some extent. I think the girls all had a blast. (Full disclosure, I guilt tripped Johanna into going when she tried to cancel because she’s a very good dancer. Even so I think she had good time once she was there.) The guys were good sports and tolerated us (and by us, I mean me), the bad drinks, and the food. They went along for the ride, and they certainly get credit for that.

Here’s to hoping that someday they’ll love it almost as much as we do!

(I think there might be a reason that images of dancing revelries more often than not consist of women, even going back to antiquity.)