Yesterday, I gave salsa a second chance. No luck.

A friend from undergrad invited me to the city. I wandered in the dark for a few blocks before finding his apartment. Along with his friends, we ate Korean bbq covering our hands with grease. When 8:30 pm, I rushed out with 3 others in my black flats and black swishy skirt to the club across the street – Roccapulco.

Inside, it was how every club should be. Organized like a restaurant, with ample sit-down areas. And a dance floor. A stage where a live band sang and danced on thier own accord.

I did not like the lesson. Fast paced, everything I learned in 6 weeks was taught in 60 minutes. I dreaded the rotations of partners. Some were nice, some were not. Some were too tall. Others were too short. At first, I enthuastically introduced myself to each new partner, but halfway through, I lost my own personal energy and started stepping on feet. The instructors corrected me several times.

I enjoyed watching. The spins. The looks that partners had. Some couples showed off when they realized they were being watched. But at the stroke of midnight, the music changed. No more coordination necessary. No 6-step. No awkward hand holding. And that’s when I felt better, rather than sitting and wasting the $10 cover.