posted 11/03/08The plan for tonight: Take a salsa class at Havana Club.
Last night, walking near our hotel, we hear music. That sounds Cuban, I say. Then I see the sign: Havana Club. Explains it all. I have been trying to get SH to take salsa lessons with me for a long time. Now’s my chance: no football game on, no business travel, no karaoke.
We walk into the club. The music is great. I try to teach SH the basic steps, but I am a very bad dance teacher. He is accommodating, but it’s not as much fun dancing when neither party knows what’s going on. We leave. I have a conversation with the bouncer that sounds like this:
Me: Are there classes how to dance here?
Bouncer: Yes, tomorrow night there are.
Me: How much are they worth?
Bouncer: Six euros.
Me: Is it that the teacher speak English? My husband says that he cannot learn to dance in Spanish.
Bouncer: It is not necessary to speak Spanish for to dance!
Me: I am of accord.
Bouncer: The teacher of to dance is here. You could talk to him. He is the young man without hair.
Me: You mean Little Baldy?
Bouncer: Yes.
Me: I lived in Chile for two years. I know of the custom of naming people Baldy, Fatty, Blackie, Beer-belly.
Bouncer: That it is.
We go inside and find Baldy.
Me: Do you speak English? My husband has worry that he cannot learn how to dance in Spanish.
Teacher: Is not necessary to speak Spanish for to learn to dance! I have taught to many foreigners how to dance.
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